Valknut: The Binding, page 6
She tried to picture it, but couldn’t make it work. He’d been inside the roll of paper when she boarded the train. Maybe Ramblin’ Red had given the watch to Junkyard. But how had the older hobo gotten off the train without Lennie seeing him? And why wouldn’t Junkyard have given the watch to her right away? None of it made any sense.
In any case, she was determined not to lose the watch again. She forced her numb fingers to wedge it into the front pocket of her jeans and noticed a dark smudge on the back of her hand.
“Oh, hey!” Jim said, finally seeing her. He trotted over, frowning in concern. “Did I wake ya? I should of waited until you were up, but I gotta get my song ready for the Poetry tonight.”
Lennie didn’t answer. She was staring at her left hand as though some alien thing had fastened to it while she slept. The smudge was actually a stark, precisely-drawn design of three interlocking triangles. Together, they formed a fourth, larger triangle.
Really the opposite of smudge, she thought dazedly, her mouth hanging open.
Ugly possibilities of how it got there crawled through her mind, but only the disjointed image of a stick scratching across her hand persisted like a true memory. She traced the design with her finger. Something held the stick, she knew. And that something was a...was a...squirrel?
The dream exploded on her with all its bizarre detail. She had been tethered like a balloon to an enormous tree with animals all around, including a one-eyed, talking squirrel. And at the end of the dream, there had been fire, and she had fallen...
Her hand went to her neck, feeling for rope burns, but her skin felt undamaged. The dream couldn’t have been real. How could a dream squirrel draw a real design on her skin?
The creeping gooseflesh reserved for ghosts and bogeymen prickled down her arms. She spit on the design and rubbed furiously.
Jungle Jim said, “You’re never gonna get it off like that, Missy.
Startled, Lennie nearly fell out the door. She had forgotten he was there. “It’s just a—um—an ink stamp.” She faltered, unsure where the lie was heading.
Jungle Jim shrugged and hopped up to sit in the doorway beside her. He had changed his suit. This one looked cleaner, though it was as patched as the other and even baggier. He smelled better, too, and had combed his hair.
He leaned over the design. “Looks more like a tattoo, to me. An’ they don’t come off with spit.”
A tattoo. Great. What was it that squirrel had said? With this...thingamajig...I bind you to me. Wonderful. Now I’m bound to a one-eyed rodent who wants me to do battle with some wolf.
Somehow she didn’t think this was one of the dangers Junkyard was trying to warn her about. But then, maybe Junkyard was the one who had put the design on her hand. Maybe he had drugged that Twinkie and...and...
“Would you happen to know where Junkyard is?” She tried to sound casual, but her voice came out higher than usual. “I-I’d like to return his jacket.”
“He went to get us some grub a while ago. But don’t you worry, Missy. He left me to watch over you. Jim, he said, don’t you leave her ’til I get back. And I didn’t go nowhere, not even for a second. Even though you just laid there the whole time. You sure do sleep good.”
“Not usually.” She usually woke up three or four times a night, disturbed by her mother’s moans when she was still alive, disturbed by the silence after she had died. “I guess I was tired out from all the excitement.”
It seemed odd that she had slept through the night in such a noisy place with nothing but cardboard for a bed. She thought of the Twinkie again, but the package had been unopened. Besides, Junkyard didn’t seem the type to drug total strangers just to decorate them with tattoos. She checked herself over for other unwanted marks that might have sprouted overnight. There was nothing. Just smooth, pale, unmarked skin everywhere she looked.
But that wasn’t right, either. Yesterday, she had been covered with cuts and bruises. She inspected herself again, fighting a growing panic. There was a bloody tear in the knee of her jeans, but no scrape underneath. Yesterday, her palms had been torn and bloody, almost too stiff to move. Today, they were covered in smooth, unbroken skin. And, now that she thought about it, her strained shoulder didn’t hurt at all.
A chill settled over her. Had she only imagined her injuries? Was she going mad?
Hysterically, she attacked the tattoo, scratching at it, hoping it would peel away along with the skin, as if removing it would set everything back to normal. A thick-fingered, callused hand stopped her. Breathing hard, she met Jim’s gentle gaze. Once again, his eyes were infused with a clarity that was normally absent. Her panic faded away.
“I’m thinkin’ you should see Urdie,” he said.
He nodded twice, firmly, then his eyes let go of hers and he started swinging his legs. One shoelace had come untied and the aglet ticked rhythmically against the boxcar.
Confused, Lennie stared at him. “What’s an Urdie?”
“Urdie is Urdie. She’s a person. She always comes to the festival.” He experimented with swinging his legs one at a time, his head bobbing up and down as the shoelace flapped. “She can tell you ’bout Ramblin’ Red, and maybe ’bout your new tattoo.”
“Really? And what makes her so wise?”
“Oh, she knows,” Jim said with certainty. “She knows everything. She’ll come ’round for the Poetry, tonight.”
His feet stopped and he looked up, eyes childlike once more. “You’re comin’ to the Poetry, aren’t ya? I’m makin’ one up to sing.”
Lennie hesitated while Jim waited with wide-eyed earnestness. Despite her brave words to Junkyard the night before, all she wanted to do now was go home. Before she could think of an answer, she heard feet crunching on gravel, getting closer. She ducked inside the boxcar, irrationally certain the tattoo bandit had returned. Jim’s newspaper blanket lay on the floor beside her and she pictured herself hiding under it. How brave. She drew a breath and leaned out to see who was coming.
Junkyard strode down the narrow alley between their train and a long string of cars parked alongside on parallel track. He carried a plastic grocery bag and a cardboard beverage holder. She sighed with a sense of relief that surprised her. Possibly, he had been playing tricks on her, but she couldn’t make herself believe he meant her any harm. And she sure felt safer with him around.
He raised the bag when he saw her. “Thought you might like something to eat.”
Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had anything but that Twinkie since lunch the day before, and that could hardly be called food. She longed for something more substantial, like bagels, fruit, maybe an egg sandwich. And coffee, definitely coffee.
“You bet. Thanks!” She took the tray of drinks from him, hoping he didn’t notice her still-shaking hands. “I’m starving. I could eat a—”
He tossed the bag into the boxcar and an assortment of snack cakes spilled out. Breakfast. Her stomach sagged. She eyed the paper cups with fading hope. “That wouldn’t happen to be coffee, would it?”
Junkyard grimaced and shook his head. “Nope—that stuff’ll kill you.” He hauled himself on board and sat next to her. “Orange juice.”
At least it wasn’t Kool-Aid. Lennie picked up a so-called cherry pie, but couldn’t bring herself to open it. She wondered how long it took for a person to starve to death. Then she spotted a Banana Flip in the pile. “Whoa!” She grabbed it, tossing the pie aside. “I didn’t think they made these anymore!”
Junkyard shrugged. “Always seem to have them at the Day Old Bakery here.”
Lennie decided not to check the expiration date. The things contained enough preservatives to keep them fresh through a glacial winter. She tore the package open and took a bite. The cake was wonderfully soft and the filling had that artificial banana flavor she remembered so well.
“My dad used to buy me one of these every time I placed in a track meet,” she said around a mouthful. She swallowed and grinned. “Good incentive. I got a lot of medals.”
Junkyard raised an eyebrow. “Track, eh?”
“Yeah. I started when I was eight. Dad went to every meet.”
She used to find him in the stands before she ran, looking out of place in his too-tight Ames Track Club t-shirt. He always gave her a thumbs-up. Her smile faded. Where would she find him now? In a hobo jungle, or maybe a homeless shelter. If she found him at all.
If he was even still alive.
A dull ache settled in her chest. She preferred the sharper, physical pain of her vanished cuts and bruises. Those, at least, would heal with time.
Junkyard rummaged in the grocery bag, coming up with some Ho-Hos for Jim and a package of hair bands for Lennie. She took them gratefully, forgiving him for the lack of coffee. She finished the snack cake and began finger-combing her hair, pondering her next move.
She had no reason to trust Ramblin’ Red, but she could search for a dozen years and never find such a strong lead again. She had to follow through on it now, before the trail went cold. If she didn’t find her father in Minneapolis, well, maybe then she’d go back to Ames for some gear.
Sighing, she gave up on her hair and tied it back, tangles and all, ignoring the few stubborn curls that refused to be contained. The problem was, she had no idea where in Minneapolis to look.
Or did she?
Ridiculously happy, Jungle Jim unwound his Ho Ho and licked at the white frosting inside. Lennie watched him speculatively. “So, what’s this festival I keep hearing about?”
“It’s the Greater Midwest Railroad Days—” Junkyard began.
Jungle Jim interrupted with a flood of enthusiasm. “It’s the best, is what it is! They got a carnival, an’ a flea market, an’ art shows, an’ a parade—but that’s just the tourist stuff. The real fun is seein’ my friends. Langford Leftie always comes, an’ the Kentucky Kid. Bones O’Riley is a hoot an’ a half, an’ Too Long Soo sure can bang on her guitar. And of course there’s Tin Can Petey...”
Jungle Jim stopped as though he had hit a wall. His mouth dropped open and his eyes emptied. Then, as though the necessary connection had been made, his mouth twisted downward and he blinked tears onto his cheeks. Lennie shot a concerned glance at Junkyard, whose face remained rigidly calm.
“Jim,” he said.
No response. Junkyard laid a hand on his arm.
“Tell Lennie about the kids, Jim.”
Jungle Jim lifted his head and looked at Junkyard with puffy, red eyes. “Kids?”
He sniffed wetly, and then a smile lit up his face. Lennie was amazed, not only by Jim’s lightning mood swings, but by Junkyard’s ability to counter them. Jim started babbling like a happy child.
“The kids! They’re the very best part of the festival.” He jumped to his feet and started pacing. “There’s Tyler. He’s always lookin’ for candy in my pockets. An’ Jeffy likes to toot my nose. Little Nick is terrible shy an’ I like to make him smile. But best of all is Ashley Sutter.” He hugged himself. “Last year, she brought me cookies! Can we go see ’em, now? Please, Dougie?”
Junkyard laughed. “It’s a little early, but I don’t see why we can’t take a look around.” He dug into the grocery bag again and handed Jim a bag of peppermints. “You better take these. You don’t want to disappoint Tyler.”
While Jungle Jim hid the candy in the many pockets of his suit coat, Junkyard gathered their gear and jumped from the boxcar. Lennie slid down next to him. She resisted the urge to wipe her grimy hands on her jeans, though her clothes were already dusty and a streak of black grease ran across her white t-shirt. She needed a bath, or at least a public restroom where she could wash in the sink. Maybe that tattoo would wash off with a little soap, too.
They started down the alley between the two trains, Junkyard with a pack on his back and Jim carrying a duffle bag held together with duct tape. The thick smell of diesel and rust hung in the air, taking the shine off the morning sun. Lennie shivered and wished she had kept the jean jacket a while longer.
They followed a long line of maroon boxcars just like the one had they traveled in. When Lennie looked back, she could only find their car because the doors were closed on all the rest. Jim wandered a crooked path behind them, bending to examine every bit of trash with a hopeful look on his face.
As they reached the tail end of the train, they came to a half dozen decrepit gray hoppers. Amoeboid patches of rust had eaten through much of the paint on their sides and graffiti covered the rest—obscenities, tags, and faded hobo signatures. A sporadic hiss drifted toward them as they approached the last car. The sound was familiar, but Lennie couldn’t place it among the usual train yard noises. Junkyard slowed and glanced back at Jim, who had found an old sweatshirt two cars back and was shoving it into his bag. Without speaking, Junkyard signaled Lennie to stay behind him and rounded the back end of the train. Lennie turned the corner after him and almost plowed into his back.
“Hey, what—” she began. Junkyard waved her to silence, but it was too late. A young man turned from the hopper, a can of spray paint in one hand and a rag smudged red and yellow in the other. Lean and taut, like a whip ready to crack, he watched them through slitted eyes.
Junkyard eased his pack to the ground and held a hand out, palm down. “Ése, man. Wazzup?” He spoke in a relaxed voice, but Lennie felt heat pour off his back.
The “man” was just a kid in his late teens, though anger had already chiseled hard lines into his face. He wore a white tank shirt that glowed against his cinnamon skin and showed off a tattoo of happy-sad theater masks on his upper arm. Blood-crusted stitches closed a four-inch gash on the other arm. He tossed the paint can to the ground and tucked the rag into his back pocket, where it hung like a mottled tail.
“De dónde eres, gabacho?” he said, openly hostile. “You gotta show me your card.”
Junkyard shook his head slowly and let his hands drop to his sides. Metal glinted from his palm, hidden from the gangbanger. Lennie realized with a chill that he held a switchblade knife.
The kid stepped closer. “You walk the Brotherhood’s barrio, man. You and the güerita—” Lennie flinched as his gaze scraped across her face, “—you want to ride the trains, you got to pay the dues.”
“Sorry, amigo. We’re tapped out,” Junkyard said in an amiable voice. “Can’t you let it go, this once?”
Lennie was close enough to feel an almost indiscernible shift in Junkyard’s balance. His thumb rubbed the handle of the knife. Eyes wide, she fumbled at the pepper spray hanging from her belt loop, trying to release it without attracting the kid’s attention. She didn’t like where this was going. Not at all.
Especially when the kid pulled a gun from the pocket of his baggy jeans and leveled it at Junkyard’s chest.
“You sorry?” he said in a low, tense voice. “Too bad. I’m sorry, too.”
Lennie’s head swam and the gun seemed to swell to cannon size. The gangbanger saw her fear. His lips curled in a half-smile. He raised the weapon and looked down its barrel at her face. “How ’bout I do the chica, first. Si?”
Junkyard flicked the knife open. Lennie’s breath caught, certain he was about to get himself shot. And her, too. She gave the pepper spray another tug and it came loose in her hand. Before anyone could act, Jungle Jim rounded the corner and plowed into Lennie’s back, knocking her into Junkyard.
“Sorry, Missy,” he said, “Didn’t know you’d be standin’ there.” Then he saw the gangbanger and his eyes got big. “Hey, Dougie! That guy’s got a gun!”
The kid sneered at him and opened his mouth for some snide remark. Junkyard blurred into action, kicking the weapon from the kid’s hand. It flew onto the tracks, took an odd bounce and clattered to rest under the end car.
But the gangbanger was quick. Before Junkyard could recover his balance, the kid swung a foot through his planted leg. Junkyard fell awkwardly and rang his head on the iron rail. His knife dropped from his hand and rattled across the gravel. Lennie gaped at it, frozen by the sudden violence. The kid scooped up the knife before she thought to move. Dismayed, she found her voice. “Dammit! Junkyard, he’s got your knife!”
The kid rushed at Junkyard. Fresh blood seeped through the stitches on his arm. “I’ll teach you to mess with the Ragman.”
Junkyard rolled to his back and blinked up at him, eyes unfocused. The kid grinned and fingered the blade. “This’ll be easy, no?”
“No!” Lennie lunged forward, stretching the pepper spray toward the gangbanger. Her hand shook so badly she was afraid she’d drop it. “Back off. Just-just back off, Ragman—or whatever you call yourself.”
The Ragman turned toward her. His eyes narrowed on the canister. He spread his hands and let the knife dangle, as if surrendering. What now? Tell him to leave? Then he exploded toward her, snarling. She screamed and back-pedaled. Aiming wildly, she triggered the spray.
Nothing happened.
Aghast, she shook the canister and banged it on her leg. He was on her before she could fire again and caught her forearm with fingers like steel cable. He held the knife casually in his other hand, as if she posed no threat.
“Too bad, chica.” His mouth twisted in a vicious grin. “Now maybe we can have a party, just you and me.”
She struggled against his grip, panting, every nerve on fire. Over his shoulder, she saw Jim tug at Junkyard, who sat up groggily. She needed to stall and give him time to recover. The Ragman yanked her close, trapping the pepper spray between them. Her finger found the nozzle. It had to work this time. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Please, please, please.”
“Hey, I like it!” The Ragman tickled her ear with his knife. “Beg some more, little chica.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” She triggered the pepper spray, not caring if she caught herself in the blast as well. The canister sputtered pathetically, barely making her eyes water. “Chingao!” The Ragman coughed and wiped at tearing eyes, his face contorted with fury. “Fuck, bitch—you gonna pay for that.”
Red-faced, he twisted her arm so hard that cords stood out on his neck and she thought her bones would break. She resisted, refusing to let go of that useless spray.
