Valknut: The Binding, page 9
“Got a problem, Blackie?”
Three men lined up next to the first. They might all have come from the same litter—broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, neck circumferences matching their hat sizes. The one who spoke smacked a crowbar into his palm and sneered at Doug. Most of his teeth were missing. He growled an order and the others spread out to surround their prey. Doug figured he could take two, maybe three, before the fourth caught him from behind. He swallowed. For the first time since starting hobo life, he felt something besides rage.
He backed away, hoping to escape into the dark. The skin between his shoulder blades tingled a warning. A hairy hand slapped down on his shoulder and shoved him back into the circle. A deep, coarse voice above his head said, “Not leaving before the dance, are you?”
Doug looked up at the speaker. If grizzly bears could talk...
The circle closed behind Doug. Sweat prickled under his arms and his flesh twitched in anticipation of pain. He didn’t try to apologize to Blackie. The mood had shifted. His attackers sensed sport. Any sign of fear would only add to their fun. Ignoring the icy wind, he shrugged off his jacket so he could move better.
The toothless man poked at Doug with the crowbar and laughed when Doug jumped away. “Hey, Blackie, looks like we got us a chicken to pluck.”
The others chortled as if it were a good joke. Their jeers echoed across the river. Doug’s insides churned with fear and self-disgust. After they’d finished with him, whatever remained would probably wash away in the next rain. His brother’s killer would go on killing.
Grinning, Toothless hefted the crowbar. “Let’s see how well this chicken can dance!”
He swung the crowbar like a baseball bat. Doug ducked and it whistled over his head, ruffling his hair. Dodging the backswing, he swept a leg through Toothless’s ankles. Toothless crashed down and the crowbar flew out of his hand. Doug pulled his knife and turned on the others before the crowbar hit the ground.
The pack closed ranks. They weren’t smiling any more.
Then a weird apparition bounded from the shadows, landing between Junkyard and the beet pickers. “A dance, didjya say?” it yelled, sounding ludicrously cheerful. “Jungle Jim can dance, yes siree. Jus’ watch me!”
It was a crazy thing to do. A Jungle Jim sort of thing to do. In the weeks that followed, Doug saw him do the same thing in half a dozen similar situations. The simple hobo did it on impulse, without a clue that he was stepping into a pack of rabid dogs. But intentional or not, if Jim hadn’t been there, Doug might have died that night.
Jim hopped into the circle next to Doug and stuck his arms up in the air like an arthritic ballerina. He attempted a pirouette, stumbled, caught himself, and leapt with bent knees and cocked feet. Distracted, the men seemed to forget about Doug. He should have been edging toward the woods, but he could only watch, as bemused as the rest of them, as Jim pranced with the grace of a three-legged goat, yodeling The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.
I gotta get out of here, Doug thought. But he couldn’t leave this goofy simpleton to be pulverized in his place.
After one particularly energetic display of elbows and knees, Jungle Jim tumbled spectacularly and landed on his back, legs stuck rigidly in the air. One of the men began to grin. Another laughed and said, “Di’n’t he say he’s Jungle Jim? I heard of him. Arizona Stu said he saw ’im pull a whole wrench from his nose, one time.”
The men started telling Jungle Jim stories, each more outrageous than the last. They hardly seemed to notice that the man himself was lying at their feet.
Doug’s mouth dropped open. The odd hobo should be flat on his back, all right, but beaten bloody, with Doug stretched out beside him. Instead, the violence had gone out of the pack. Doug reached down to help Jungle Jim up. “That was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Jungle Jim flashed a big, happy smile. His eyes held no guile, no hint of relief. “So ya think they liked my show?”
Blackie waved his arms, demonstrating a particularly wild stunt, and a burst of laughter swept through the men.
“Yes, Jungle Jim,” Doug said. “I’m sure they liked your show. And so did I.”
“Hot dog!” Jungle Jim whooped and did a happy dance. Doug shook his head, wondering how the simple fellow had survived so long.
“Come on.” He took Jungle Jim by the arm. “Let’s get out of here before those beet pickers remember they wanted to turn me into fertilizer. I know a place where we can jungle up.”
They sheltered near the river in a pocket carved from the steep embankment by a past flood. Doug started a small fire and nestled a can of beans at its edge to warm. Sheltered from the wind, wrapped in his bedroll, he felt almost comfortable. He shared out some jerky to Jungle Jim and settled back to stare into the night.
The clash with the beet pickers had shaken him. Since Austin’s death, he had wandered the rails in a red haze. With a shock, he realized that he hadn’t thought about his brother’s killer in weeks. Not in exact terms, at any rate. He rubbed his face with his hands. Tangled strings of uncut, greasy hair flopped over his fingers and oily dirt flaked from his ragged beard.
The familiar, futile rage welled up in him. He had become his disguise, a purposeless vagabond shaking his fist at life’s injustice and doing nothing at all to stop it.
He dropped his hands and looked across the fire at Jungle Jim. The bozo held two spoons back-to-back in one hand and began clapping them between his knee and the palm of the other hand. The clackity-clack drummed on Doug’s nerves. “What the hell are you doing!”
Jungle Jim paused the spoons. “Oh, hey! Glad ya woke up!” He pointed at the fire. “Your beans is boilin’.”
Juice bubbled over the lip of the can and sizzled in the embers. Doug ground his teeth and snarled something unintelligible, but the moment of uncontrolled fury had passed. Leaning forward, he wrapped a gloved hand around the can and found himself looking across the flames, straight into Jungle Jim’s face.
“You’re doin’ it all wrong, Douglas Harding.”
Confused, Doug looked at the can and back at Jungle Jim, wondering where he could go wrong in warming beans.
“Listen, Doug. Jus’ listen.” The simpleton was gone from Jungle Jim’s eyes and a new gaze, sharp and wise, reached deep into Doug to touch his soul. A shiver spread down Doug’s back.
“Ya gotta stop what you’re doin’. You’re not gonna catch the killer by beatin’ up every ham-handed hobo on the road.”
Hot bean juice soaked through Doug’s glove, unnoticed. He felt cold—colder than the snow that had begun to fall. Somehow this guy knew his name, though Doug had never mentioned it. Knew about his brother…his quest.
An ember popped in the fire. Light and shadow danced over Jungle Jim’s face. Doug felt dislocated, lost in the surreal. Maybe the beet pickers had knocked him on the head, after all.
“The bait don’t go after the fish, son.” Jungle Jim sat back on his blanket. “An’ you, Dougie, are the bait.”
Doug’s head rang with the obviousness of Jungle Jim’s statement. A serial killer wouldn’t go after a badass punk with plenty of fight in him. He’d wait for an easier target. The clackity-clack resumed. Jungle Jim grinned crookedly and met his gaze across the fire. His eyes were as vague and guileless as before. Doug wondered if the exchange had happened at all. But it didn’t matter. He had his answer. The focus for his rage. He was not the hunter. He was the bait. He had only to lay himself open and wait.
And when the fish finally came, it would find that this bait had teeth.
Months rolled by. More hobos died. Doug changed his name and perfected his disguise, wearing dirt and sweat like other men wore aftershave. Sometimes he splashed Thunderbird on his clothes, though he never drank the stuff. He learned to draw into himself, to stand with slumped shoulders and avoid eye contact, one hand out for loose change. Over time, his disguise became automatic, until he came to think of himself as Junkyard Doug—Junkyard to his friends. He went for days without a thought for Captain Douglas Harding. All the while, the rage never left him and he never forgot his mission.
But the killer sure as hell wasn’t going to target him in the middle of a university campus. Especially not with Lennie and Jim sticking to him like burrs. Junkyard growled in frustration, and a plump girl in a too-short skirt veered wide around him on the sidewalk. Disgust flashed across her face as she passed by.
Screw her.
A group of frat boys filled the sidewalk ahead, laughing and giving each other friendly shoves. They didn’t seem to notice Junkyard. He stiffened and slowed to a shuffle, finding it harder to breathe as they approached. Then they were on him. He lowered his head to avoid their eyes. One of them shouldered him off the sidewalk. He stumbled and leaned against a tree to catch his breath. A film of sweat coated his face. He shoved cold, clammy fists into his pockets and squinted at his worn jump boots, struggling to find the line between himself and his disguise.
If he didn’t find his brother’s killer soon, he might lose Douglas Harding altogether.
***
Lennie watched Junkyard stride away, uncertain whether she should follow. He obviously wanted to be alone, but what was she supposed to do? Hang out with Jungle Jim and the kids all day?
She hesitated, then started after him. He could at least point her to the nearest hobo jungle so she could show her father’s picture around.
A crowd of young men blocked the sidewalk ahead. They carried backpacks and wore jeans and hoodies. One wore a sweatshirt sporting a fierce-looking gopher. College boys.
Junkyard saw them, too, slouching and ducking his head between hunched shoulders as they approached. It was like he became a different person. Lennie might have walked past without recognizing him if she hadn’t seen him change. The group engulfed him. His orange bandana bobbed in the sea of heads for a moment, and then disappeared.
“Hey, Junkyard—wait up!” She picked up speed, not wanting to lose him.
The students continued toward her, pushing and jostling each other as they laughed at some joke. Unable to find an opening, Lennie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and crossed her arms. She wasn’t about to lose Junkyard because of a bunch of frat boys.
“Excuse me!”
Startled, they nodded amiably and crowded aside, filing around her. She snorted softly. Dopey puppies.
She found Junkyard off the sidewalk, leaning on a tree with his head down. His face was gray and damp. He didn’t notice her until she touched his arm. “Hey, are you all right?”
His head jerked up, exposing raw panic in his eyes. With visible effort, he straightened and put on the calm, more confident version of Junkyard, as if pulling on a shirt.
“I’m fine,” he said shortly. “Just needed to get away to think.”
About what? she wanted to ask. She knew so little about him. Instead, she said, “If I said something to offend you, I’m really sorry.”
His gaze brushed her face and he looked away. “No, no. It’s just...no.”
There was an awkward pause, then he said, “I was thinking…some of the more sociable hobos hang around the jungle exhibit during the festival. A couple of them are already here.”
He pointed across the parking lot. A cluster of large cardboard boxes and tarps huddled under a maple tree at the edge of the pavement. Among the boxes, a tall, thin figure stirred a pot suspended over a portable fire ring. “I was thinking you could show them your father’s picture. But first, I’d like to talk with Bill Sutter, Ashley’s dad. I expect he’s setting up his badge exhibit.”
He started walking toward the tent village. Lennie followed, relieved that he was talking again.
“You could show Bill the picture, too,” he added. “He’s been a bull with the FRC railroad for almost twenty years. Probably met every hobo to pass through Minneapolis.”
The festival wasn’t open, yet. Hobbyists and vendors bustled with last-minute activity, unpacking boxes and setting up exhibits. As Lennie and Junkyard threaded between rows of tents and tables loaded with memorabilia, they caught a glimpse of Jungle Jim through a gap between exhibits. He saw them and waved, then pounced on a bouncy ball as if it were an elusive frog. Ashley and her friends mobbed him, jumping for the ball in his upraised hand. Lennie smiled, wishing she were that uninhibited.
Junkyard headed for the middle of the village and stopped in front of a tent sporting a sign with a railroad detective shield painted on it. The door flaps were tied back. Inside, a man in a blue work shirt and jeans was setting up a display case. Its glass top was propped open and it contained a number of shiny, metal badges.
Lennie knew instantly that the man was Bill Sutter. He had the same white-blond hair as Ashley, though his had gone thin and limp, with a comb-over that couldn’t hide the pink scalp underneath. There was nothing thin or limp about the rest of him, though. He was built solid and square, with a hint of pudge around the middle.
Bill squatted to dig through a box at his feet. When he saw Junkyard approaching, he stood up holding a double handful of detective badges. “Doug! Glad you could make it!”
Junkyard smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it. How’ve you been?”
“Great, great. Just let me put these down.” He dumped the badges into the display and shook Junkyard’s hand. He let his gaze turn pointedly to Lennie. “I see you brought a date to the festival this year, eh?”
Junkyard’s face turned a red that clashed horribly with his orange bandana. “No—I—she—”
“Good, good.” A smirk twitched at the corner of Bill’s mouth. He offered his hand to Lennie. “Let me introduce myself while the lad unties his tongue. Name’s Bill Sutter.”
Lennie tried not to wince when he ground her finger bones together.
“So have you two been over to the jungle, yet? They got the stew bubbling away, already. I had my first bowl an hour ago.” He threw a wink at Lennie. “Nothing’s as good as a mug of mulligan stew first thing in the morning, eh?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Lennie. “I’ve never had it.”
“Oh, well, you’re in luck. Bones O’Riley’s the chef this year. He’ll put a burn in your ears, but his stew is balm on your tongue. Tell you what, I’ll get someone to watch my collection for a minute and go with you. I can always use another bowl.”
With an anticipatory grin, Bill closed the lid of the display case. Junkyard laid a hand on his arm. “Wait a minute, Bill. I want to talk to you first. I assume you know Tin Can Petey is dead.”
Bill’s smile vanished and he nodded, his eyes growing hard. For the first time, Lennie could picture him as a train yard bull. “Word is, the Hobo Spider got him.”
“That’s right. Well, here’s something you might not know,” Junkyard said somberly. “Jungle Jim was there.”
The pink drained from Bill’s face. “My God. I thought there were never witnesses. Did Jim actually see the killer?”
“No. He’d left Petey alone for a few minutes. When he came back, Petey was—well, you know how this killer operates. Jim’s pretty upset about it. I thought you should know.”
Bill nodded, but it seemed to Lennie that he hadn’t really heard. His eyes glazed oddly, as if he no longer saw them or the display case, or even the tent village. Then he blinked and his hands clenched into thick-fingered fists.
“That’s fourteen, Doug. And we’re no closer to catching the guy. Unless…”
Sweat glistened on his large, amiable face. He glanced at Lennie, then back to Junkyard, lowering his voice. “Did you learn anything new?”
“No. But I’m sure as hell not going to let Jungle Jim be number fifteen. Look, Lennie and I have some things to do. Can you watch over Jim, make sure he gets to the poetry reading if we don’t get back before then?”
“Sure. Yeah. I can do that. He can stay at my house tonight, too. That’s the least I can do.” He dragged a sleeve across his forehead. “Jeez, he might have been killed! Maybe I should go check on him.”
“Wait—Mr. Sutter?” Lennie hated to interrupt, but she didn’t want her father to be number fifteen, either. “Junkyard tells me you’re with the railroad police. You’ve probably met a lot of hobos, right?”
Bill looked at her with mild surprise. “Yeah, quite a few over the years. Not all of them were glad to meet me, though—eh, Doug?”
Junkyard’s face went deadpan. “Whatever you say, Mr. Sutter, sir.”
A hint of Bill’s earlier smile returned. “Why do you ask?”
“My dad disappeared ten years ago. When my mother—”
Damn, would she ever be able to talk about her mother without her throat closing up? She swallowed hard. “I recently found out that my father might have become a hobo. Maybe you’ve seen him?”
She handed Bill the photograph. He studied it a long time, until he didn’t seem to be seeing the photo anymore. The odd, glazed look returned. Finally, he blinked and she could see fear in his eyes, but he said nothing, just let his gaze roam nervously over her face. Then he seemed to reach a decision.
“That’s—” He paused and took a breath. “I think he’s—”
The wails of an injured child cut him off. He froze, listening, but the crying stopped. “That sounded like Ashley!”
He looked so alarmed that Lennie felt a stab of sympathetic fear. He brushed past her and rushed around the side of the tent. “Where did she go?”
He took a couple of steps and hesitated, looking frantically around. Tents blocked the view in every direction. A hint of panic entered his voice. “She could be anywhere.”
“We saw her just a couple of minutes ago, back the way we came. I doubt she went far.” Junkyard cut through a row of exhibits and looked down the next lane over. “In fact, here she comes now,” he called. “Jim’s giving her a piggy back ride.”
“Thank God.” Blinking rapidly, Bill ran a hand over his balding scalp. An odd mixture of relief and pain crossed his face. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead, then wiped his nose. Jungle Jim arrived a moment later with Ashley on his back. He let her slide down to the ground and she clung to his hand, her face red and scrunched up to hold back her tears. At the sight of her father, she began to cry again.
