Valknut: The Binding (17 page)

Chapter 10

Junkyard played pinball as if he were
wrestling a steer. He yanked the machine back and forth, bumping
and straining against it. The pinball table shook and two of its
legs jumped from the floor. Lennie leaned on the bar behind him,
wondering if he intended to flip it on its back. She sipped her
beer and grinned. She wasn’t sure what effect he was having on the
ball, but she sure enjoyed the show.

“You’re lucky that machine’s got a high tilt
threshold—if it has one at all.”

She had to shout to be heard, even though she
stood less than five feet behind him. A group of college students
had gathered around a nearby table to play some kind of drinking
game involving dice, a cup, and lots of laughter. Junkyard ignored
the noise and slammed his hip against the machine.

“Don’t bother me. I’m playing multiball.”

He had brought Lennie to the Dinkytown bar to
kill time until the poetry reading, though she suspected he had
chosen this particular place to avoid the Ragman and the BRR.
Gangbangers would stand out like sharks in a goldfish pond in a
college bar. After a night in a boxcar and a morning spent in the
company of hobos, entering the bar felt like crossing into another
world. Feeling safe for the first time in twenty-four hours, she
let herself relax, though she couldn’t stop herself from glancing
back at the door whenever it opened.

Junkyard’s head bobbed as he tried to follow
several balls at once. The balls flew wildly around the table,
pinging off bumpers and each other so quickly that he could do
little more than keep them in play. A drop of sweat rolled down his
cheek. He hunched a shoulder against his face to wipe it away. In
that instant, four balls shot dead-center for the exit. Expletives
peppered the air over the tabletop. The last of the balls drained
despite the heroic wrench he delivered to the machine.

“Damn!” He slammed a flat hand down on the
glass top. “I really hate it when that happens. I was only fifty
thousand points from a high score, too.”

Lennie chuckled. Good thing he didn’t panic
like that around gangbangers. “Not much glory there, anyway. I bet
they unplug the machine every night and wipe out the top scores.
Some drunk freshman probably posted high score half an hour
ago.”

He glared and waved her toward the machine.
“Okay, bigshot. If that’s such a crummy score, let’s see if you can
beat it.”

She brushed past him and planted her hands on
the front corners of the table. She made a great show of studying
the score. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, “I’ll have to score
more than twice my first two balls put together to beat you.
Still—” she shot a glance over her shoulder, “–would you care to
make a little wager?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Breakfast tomorrow.” Her stomach gurgled
pathetically and curled in on itself at the thought of the fruit
pies and snack cakes waiting in his duffle bag. “Something healthy.
Grapefruit, maybe. Some cereal—or better yet, some eggs.”

Junkyard made a sour face. “Okay, whatever
you want. But if I win, you have to sit in the Laundromat and watch
my clothes spin while I go take care of a few things.”

“Deal!”

She turned back to the machine. Lights
blinked all over the table. Another strike in a number of places
would send her score climbing. She put her hand on the plunger.
Junkyard crowded behind her, looking over her shoulder. She
fidgeted, uncomfortably aware of his presence. “Do you mind? A
little room please?”

“Oh. Sorry, Maestro.”

He moved to the side of the machine and
watched her expectantly. That wasn’t much better. She frowned. She
wasn’t usually so easily distracted. Out of practice, I guess.

Sticking a pinky out like a lady drinking
tea, she pulled the plunger back a measured distance. Junkyard’s
snickers penetrated the din. Then she let go and the ball raced up
a chute that had eluded him throughout the game. The ball dropped
into a pit and rattled off points. His snickers died with a
grunt.

“Hey, how’d you do that!”

Lennie smirked. She wiped her hands on her
jeans, rested her palms on the edge of the machine, and waited,
feeling the familiar buttons under her fingers. The ball popped
back into play, rebounded off the walls, lost speed, and rolled
toward the exit. She caught it neatly on a flipper.

“Maybe I should have mentioned,” she said,
letting the ball ease down the flipper, “the girls from my track
club liked to hang out at malls between events at out-of-town
meets. I spent all my time in the arcade instead of shopping with
everyone else.”

After her father had gone, there had been no
money for extras. She could play for a long time on fifty cents and
no one expected her to buy anything.

With a snap of the wrist, she flicked the
ball through a lighted gate. A knock sounded from inside the table.
Extra ball. A few well-placed shots sent the ball circling around
the track. The multiball light flashed on. She nailed it first try
and smiled. Multiball was good.

Balls streamed onto the table in a mercurial
flood. Junkyard hovered over the glass top watching the score climb
by large increments, his moans of dismay almost lost in the noise
of a boisterous pack of university students pouring into the bar.
Lennie shut out the noise and worked the controls with the
precision of a racecar driver. She had never tilted a machine in
her life. When it was over, the display boasted high score and
the 
free game
 indicator blinked an invitation at
her.

The bar erupted with cheers—a guy in a
Minnesota Gophers hoody had won the drinking game. Lennie turned
and bowed as though the applause were for her. When she
straightened, Junkyard glowered at her with his arms crossed.

“You were sandbagging.”

She pointed at herself, wide-eyed. “Me? Oh,
no. It just takes me a while to warm up.”

He scowled. “Come off it. I never would have
agreed to that bet if you’d played like that the first two
balls.”

“I know. So it’s eggs for breakfast tomorrow,
right? And maybe a bran muffin. Fresh.”

“Yeah, yeah. And would you like it served on
a silver platter, with a rose in a bud vase? Maybe a little
espresso?”

“You’re cute when you sulk, you know
that?”

Someone bumped her from behind, knocking her
into the pinball machine. The bar had become uncomfortably crowded
while her back was turned. She watched, irritated, as the last
table was taken. The after-dinner crowd was starting to arrive.

“This place is getting packed,” she said. “Is
there someplace else we can go?”

Junkyard didn’t answer. His face had become a
mask of barely controlled panic, worse than his reaction on the
crowded sidewalk earlier in the day. Dismayed, she picked up his
duffle bag and tugged his arm gently.

“Come on, Junkyard. Time to go.”

His arm felt rigid through his jean jacket,
but he began to move. She forced a path through the throng, pulling
him behind her. When they reached the door, he stumbled into the
open air and leaned against the side of the building, blinking
against the daylight.

“Sorry about that,” he said after a few deep
breaths.

He didn’t offer an explanation. Looking at
his pale, sweating face, Lennie didn’t push. Maybe this explained
why he lived in boxcars. Feeling exposed, she kept nervous watch on
sidewalk traffic while his breathing slowed and the panic faded
from his eyes.

“What now?” Lennie said before the silence
could get awkward. “Go back and talk to Hotshot Bob?”

He glanced at the sun sinking toward the
horizon and shook his head. “Nah, we can catch him at the poetry
reading tonight. I want to find someplace to grab a shower. But
first,” he took his duffle bag from her hand, “well, I’ve still got
laundry to do. The Laundromat is just down the street.”

Lennie winced. The bet was more unfair than
she had intended, given he must have been fighting a panic attack
through the whole game. She thought of volunteering to watch his
laundry, after all. Then a large, black bird flapped on the
sidewalk behind him. Too large to be a crow. A raven, maybe? It
uttered a low, long croak that Junkyard didn’t seem to hear and
fluttered up to a neon sign a couple of doors away. The sign
said 
Ozzie’s Tattoos
. Below it hung a smaller plaque of
painted plywood: 
Welcome to Hell’s Parlor
.

The raven cocked its head and looked at
Lennie with a shiny, black eye. She ran a thumb over the design on
the back of her hand and felt a sudden urge to visit the shop.
Maybe the resident artist could tell her something about the
tattoo—like, how to remove it.

“I’ll meet you at the Laundromat in a few
minutes,” she told Junkyard. “There’s something I want to do
first.”

***

Hotshot Bob huddled in his box, shaking and
muttering to himself under his blanket. Bones’s comment about him
peeing his pants had reached him through the cardboard walls. It
hadn’t come to that, but it wasn’t far from the truth.

El Lobo was back. He was back and his shadow
ate at Hotshot’s brain like cheap wine. I shoulda lit outta here
the minute that girl flashed that damn picture.

Instead, he had crawled back into his box,
thinking he would hide until dark and then catch out. After all, no
one knew where he was except Too Long Soo, Bones O’Riley, Junkyard,
and that blasted girl.

El Lobo found him anyway.

A familiar yellow haze filled Hotshot’s mind
full of shadow. He crouched, wanting to tear through the cardboard
walls and run away, but the shadow in his mind grew fangs, biting
and gnawing until he writhed in head-splitting agony.

“No—stop! I won’t tell. I’m yours—yours ‘til
the end…I swear it.”

Bones O’Riley’s voice bellowed back at him
through the cardboard. “Hey, I never said I wanted ya, Now shut the
hell up, you festering pustule. You’ll scare the customers
away.”

Hotshot whimpered and rocked back and forth,
banging his head on his knees as though that might relieve the
pressure.

I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m–

The jaws of shadow inside his head clamped
down and his eyes shot wide, unseeing. His back arched, arms
drumming the sides of the box, and a new fear was born, that he
would not die after all, not ever, and the torment would go on and
on.

Just kill me
, he tried to beg, but his
teeth only clacked madly around wordless whimpers. Then suddenly
the pain was gone. The shadow withdrew.

The aftershock hit and Hotshot wet himself,
after all. He curled tightly around the stain, as though the smell
could drive the fouler stench from his soul. He huddled that way,
panting, a rabbit hiding from dripping teeth. At last he slept, and
the jaws followed him into his dreams.

Hours later, sunlight cut across his face
through a tear in a cardboard wall. He blinked and turned his head
away from the light, but the rancid air of the sun-warmed box
wouldn’t let him escape back into sleep. He wormed his way outside,
the still-damp fabric of his pants pulling stiffly at his
thighs.

The sun hung low in the west. Oncoming storm
clouds blotted out much of the sky. The sunlight reflected off
them, casting an eerie yellow glow over the festival grounds. Like
seeing through El Lobo’s eyes.

Gotta get me outta here.

A shadow flickered across him. He flinched
and lifted a protective arm, but it was only a hawk soaring high
overhead.

“Lucky bastard.” The rail yards would be a
short flight for a bird, but Hotshot would have to reach the trains
the human way. If he got there at all. He rubbed both hands across
his face, pulling his sagging cheeks tight. For a moment, his
younger self peered between his fingers. Then he dropped his hands
and his flesh fell back into bloodhound folds.

The parking lot swarmed with people crossing
between the tent village and the carnival rides. Some gathered in
the jungle, slurping hot stew and laughing at the shenanigans of
Too Long Soo and Bones O’Riley. No one was looking at Hotshot Bob.
No one he could see, at least. He draped the red wool blanket over
his shoulders, slung his pack, and began walking.

Regular people usually didn’t see Hotshot. He
was just another invisible, grate-sitting obstacle that must be
skirted on the way to work. But they saw him today and a path
opened before him. He was too grateful to wonder why, but if he had
thought about it, he’d have figured it was because he stank like an
outhouse. He couldn’t see the unsettling stain of horror on his
face.

At last he eased through a break in the train
yard fence. Sweat coated his bald head despite the cool,
rain-scented breeze. He leaned back against the chain-link,
breathing hard, and scanned the nearest string of cars for a
ride.

This part of his escape was the easiest and
most dangerous. He had only to cross a hundred yards of open gravel
and he could lose himself in the trains. But if anyone from the BRR
saw him, he’d be dead before nightfall. He needed to find a ticket
to ride, and quick.

Then he spotted a boxcar on the main line
with one door open. He could roll up in some thousand-mile paper
and hide until departure. Then he would ride a bit, maybe jump out
when the train slowed for a hill. Lose himself in farm country. Use
the last of his cash to catch a Greyhound for Santa Fe. He had a
nephew there.

And he’d stay away from the trains for a
while. Maybe forever.

First, he needed a drop of courage. He tucked
himself among the spindly shrubs that grew along the fence and
pulled a flask from his pocket. His face twisted reflexively as he
took a swig. It had to be the worst hooch he had ever tasted. It
was wonderful. He took another drink to keep the first from getting
lonely.