Valknut: The Binding (21 page)

He had always liked “Ave Maria.”

The girl’s crescendo stretched impossibly
long, her face darkening with exertion. The color washed down her
cleavage, covering her arms, deepening her skin to an even brown. A
wave of thick, black hair overwhelmed the blond curls. That lovely,
round note rose to a piercing shriek, and then cut off with the
sounds of choking. Her eyes bulged, their whites flushed red. Her
gold-tipped fingers tore at her throat. A false fingernail snapped
off and landed at his feet, gleaming like a gold coin. A shadow
fell across Briggs from behind. He spun around—

—and rammed his face into the iron bulkhead
of the diesel unit. The shriek of braking wheels made his ears
ring. The floor rumbled under him as the diesel unit rolled to a
stop on uneven track. Briggs rubbed his face and tried to focus his
eyes. Hell of a dream.

Squibb worked the controls, powering the
locomotive down. “That’ll do,” he said. “Welcome to Minni,
boy.”

“Thanks,” Briggs mumbled blearily. Why was he
in Minneapolis? He forced his sluggish brain to work. James Tuttle.
Right. There was a festival and Tuttle might be at it.

He stood and gathered his grip and jacket. He
could smell Squibb’s breath from across the cab. Or maybe it was
his own breath. He brushed passed the old man and started down the
steps.

“Better grab yerself a shave before you go
see that girlfriend of yours, heh heh. And maybe a breath mint,
too.”

Squibb’s cackling rang too loudly in Briggs’s
stressed ears. Briggs turned back, ready with a retort, but the
face grinning down at him from the doorway didn’t belong to Squibb.
The hair was too thick, and faded-red rather than grey. A single,
blue eye glowed in the shadow of a floppy-brimmed hat.

The spot between Briggs’s shoulder blades
prickled. He had seen that face before, though he couldn’t remember
where. The apparition spoke, its gruff voice echoing in Briggs’s
mind.

“You’d best hurry, boy, or you’ll be too
late.”

The eye flashed like a camera bulb. Briggs
flinched and fell backward, dropping his grip. The bag bounced down
the steps and hit the gravel below. He blindly flung out an arm and
caught the rail, or he might have bounced down after it. Shaken, he
eased himself to the ground and rescued the bag. When he looked up
into the cab, the strange face was gone and Squibb’s big teeth
glinted down at him.

“Here, boy.” The old man tossed him a small,
square packet. “You better take this.”

Feeling numb, Briggs caught it automatically
and started across the train yard in a daze. The after-image of the
blue flash hung in his vision, casting an otherworldly pall over
the tracks. What had just happened?

The ring of his cell phone gave his nerves a
good kick. He swore and pulled it out of its holster.

“Briggeman, here.”

“Hey, Briggs. This is Campbell at Minneapolis
security. We’ve got another murder.”

Briggs’s hand tightened on the
phone. 
You’d best hurry, boy...

“Briggs? You there, Briggeman?”

Briggs swallowed dryly. He really didn’t want
to hear any more. “Yeah. Go on.”

“They found a woman’s body in the dumpster
behind the control tower at the University yard. It looks
nasty.”

Not Tuttle, then. Briggs bowed his head,
allowing himself a moment of relief. Not likely a Hobo Spider
victim, either. Those bodies were always male and were left on a
train car or near the tracks.

“We have a problem.” Campbell’s voice sounded
stressed. “Willowbe’s having kittens over another murder in his
territory. He says he’ll come up and handle this one himself. You
know what that means.”

“Yeah. Might as well hand the case over to
Daffy Duck. Look, tell Willowbe I’m already in Minneapolis. Maybe
that’ll satisfy him and he’ll stay home.”

“Thank God. We owe you one, Briggs. The crime
scene is still intact, if you want to check it out.”

Briggs got what information he could and
ended the call quickly. He was completely awake now. Adrenaline
worked so much better than coffee. As he put the cell phone away,
he remembered the packet Squibb had tossed to him. He opened his
hand and read the label. Trojan, it said. The ribbed kind. He
laughed. Same old Squibb.

By the time he reached the control tower, the
last of the retinal burn had faded from his vision, along with all
memory of the one-eyed stranger.

***

January 2, 1942

Atchison, KS

Little Herbie Squibb shivered on the steps of
the St. Francis Episcopal Church and folded his arms over his
mittened hands. He thought about following his pa inside, but those
union meetings were long, boring, and sometimes scary when the men
turned red-faced and started yelling. No, he’d rather stay outside,
even in winter. It wasn’t much below freezing and there was enough
moonlight that he could see just fine. He reached into his pocket
and pulled out his new yo-yo, a Big “G” Genuine. He got it for
Christmas and had to learn at least one trick before school started
up again.

Two more of his pa’s friends from the rail
yard arrived, their coat collars pulled up almost to their hat
brims. They were so busy talking that they didn’t notice him
standing right there.

“…still don’t know. Them wildcat strikes are
dangerous,” one of them was saying. Herbie perked up. Had someone
gotten himself bitten by a wildcat? Now that would be news.

The other man was new at the yard. He was
big, dark, and mean looking and Pa said he had funny yellow eyes.
Herbie didn’t like him, but his pa said he was important. The man
growled and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. “It’s settled. Nothing
will stop the strike, now.”

The cigarette bobbed when he talked. It
should have been funny, but somehow it only made the mean-looking
man creepier.

Herbie wanted to hear more about the wildcat,
but the men went into the church and the door closed with a puff of
warm air. He was left alone with a wildcat on the loose. Heart
beating fast, he looked up and down the deserted street, staring
especially hard at the shadows around the trashcans. There, did
something move in that alley?

Moving as little as possible, he slipped one
hand free of its mitten and threaded the yo-yo string onto his
middle finger. He thought about what his pa said on Christmas
morning. A yo-yo was more than a toy. Philippine natives used them
to hunt. Herbie wrapped his fingers tight around smooth, hard wood.
If that wildcat came anywhere near him, he’d bean it on the noggin
a few hundred times. That ought to do it.

He crouched by the church wall and watched,
still as Father Paul in silent prayer. At least a full minute
ticked away. Nothing moved. His neck started to itch under his wool
scarf. Then his leg started to itch, right behind the knee. Cold
snot ran down his upper lip, but he didn’t dare wipe it away.

Then he remembered: Pa said wildcats were
afraid of people and wouldn’t come into town. Those men must have
been talking about somewhere else.

Disappointed, he scratched his neck and leg,
then wiped his nose on his scarf. Oh, well. He still needed to
learn a trick. He’d start with “Around the World.” He stuck his icy
hand, yo-yo and all, inside his coat to warm it up in his
armpit.

A shiny, new Packard pulled up in front of
the church, its spotless chrome glinting under the streetlight. A
big truck coasted to a stop behind it. Some men got out and milled
around, talking their grown-up talk.

“...wouldn’t come to this if they’d just
follow union rules,” one of the men said. “Damn wildcat strike.
Don’t they know the country’s at war?”

The others grumbled in agreement. They
sounded angry, but Herbie had more important things to think about
than wildcats. Ignoring the angry men, he got the yo-yo going good,
up and down and up and down and LOOP. The yo-yo sailed around in a
big circle, but the line went slack and the yo-yo came down dead.
Herbie sighed and wound it back up.

“Here, pile some more under this window,”
someone called in a loud whisper.

Up and down and up and down and...

“...screw them boards in tight. No one gets
in or out...”

...LOOP.

Herbie wrinkled his nose. Someone’s car was
sure leaking gas bad. Pa said that could be real dangerous.

Zing. The yo-yo sailed over his head. The
string was tight. It was going to work, this time.

“...really soak it...”

SNAP!

The string whipped back, yo-yo-less, and hit
him in the face. The stringless yo-yo shot through the air, hit the
cobblestone with a sharp, sickening crack, and bounced down the
street.

“No!” The beautiful, perfect, green paint
would be chipped for sure. Herbie’s whole world seemed to shrink
down to that small, bouncing wonder, his only present that wasn’t
socks or long underwear or hand-me-down books. He followed it down
the street.

Somewhere behind him, beyond the edge of his
world, a man’s voice bellowed, “Now! Run!”

There was a great 
whomp 
and
something walloped Herbie in the back. He flew through the air,
passed over the wobbling yo-yo, and hit the cobblestone with a dull
crunch. Stunned, he lay on his back, listening to the ringing in
his ears and watching his steamy breath waft into a glowing orange
sky. Slowly, his hearing came back, and with it came the sounds of
shouts and booted feet, and a crackling roar that sounded like a
fire popping in the fireplace. Only much, much bigger.

Suddenly scared, even scareder than when he
thought a wildcat was after him, he sat up. Smoky, too-warm air hit
him in the face. He blinked his eyes clear. All the horrifying
details came to him at once: the burning kindling stacked all
around the church, piled highest at the exits, the boards nailed
across the door, and windows too high, oh, much too high for
anything but a bird to escape. Greedy fingers of flame clawed at
the stone and wood building. Stained glass figures danced, lit up
by fire inside.

Wooden pews, Herbie thought. It’s all wood
and cloth and candles inside.

“Pa!”

Shrieking, he ran for the church. A bucket
line had already begun throwing water on the inferno. That would do
as much good as spitting on a forest fire. Doors opened on
neighboring houses and more people rushed out. Some pulled the
burning kindling away from the building as if that could somehow
take the fire back. Herbie dodged through them, trying to reach the
door. Stained glass shattered outward, raining down in colored bits
of scorched Apostles. Herbie’s heavy boots crunched on them as he
took the steps two at a time.

“Pa!” He reached out to tear the flaming
boards away with his bare hands, but he was yanked backward. An arm
wrapped around him, lifting him off the steps.

“No! My pa’s in there.”

He kicked his feet helplessly and beat at the
wiry arm, but it heedlessly carried him away from the church.
Frantic, he sunk his teeth into the flesh.

A man’s voice snarled in his ear. “Sheee-it,
boy! I’m jus’ tryin’ to save you from yerself.”

“But my pa! He’s in there and I gotta let him
out!”

“Boy, whoever is in there ain’t comin’ out
alive.”

“Yes, he will. I just have to—”

The man spun Herbie around and fixed him with
one blue eye set in a wrinkly face. He held a roughly carved spear
decorated with black feathers and his cloak billowed around him
like a sheet drying in the wind. He looked so strange that Herbie
forgot to struggle and stared.

“Your pa’s dead, boy. Now, you might never
understand, but this fire had to happen and it had to happen
tonight.”

All at once, Herbie knew this man had done
it. Those other men had set the fire, but this man had told them to
do it. Maybe he was going to kill Herbie, too, but Herbie was too
mad to care.

“I hate you. You’re evil!” he screamed, and
he pulled his arm back and threw his small fist into that wrinkly
nose as hard as he could. It crunched nicely under his
knuckles.

“Shee-it!”

Herbie kicked the man’s shin and threw
himself backward. The man dropped the spear and grabbed Herbie’s
collar with both hands, pulling him up until they were nose to
nose. Herbie glowered into that single eye and the eye glared back,
fierce, almost glowing. And then it 
was 
glowing,
brighter and brighter, staining Herbie’s thoughts forever. The
man’s grip slipped from Herbie’s collar and he fell, lost in an
endless sea of blue.

***

Down the street from the fire, the sleeping
owners of a Queen Anne mansion would have been astonished to find
three weird women watching the church burn from their upper
balcony. The oldest, a grandmotherly woman in a big-buttoned coat
with molting fur trim, leaned over the rail. “I’m disappointed in
young One-Eye. Couldn’t he have found a less destructive way to
stop the strike?”

The youngest, a little girl with Shirley
Temple curls, looked up from her spool knitting. “Don’t worry,
Urdie. He’ll pay for being so bad.”

The third figure joined the old lady at the
rail. A cold wind tossed her frizzy black hair around her dark
face. “How do you mean, dear?” She adjusted her silver-rimmed
spectacles and peered at the blaze across the street. “What happens
next?”

“Yes, tell us, child,” said Urdie. Her hat,
overburdened with faded silk flowers and a wooden partridge,
started to slide. She clamped it onto her head and stepped back
from the rail. “Does he succeed in stopping the wolf’s plans, at
least?”

The girl knitted three more stitches. “Won’t
tell. It would ruin the surprise.”

Nearing its end, her ball of yarn
disintegrated into a tangled knot. The girl frowned and yanked at
the yarn. Her knitting slipped off the nails and pulled halfway out
of the spool.