Valknut: The Binding (23 page)

“Just a little longer. The best is yet to
come. I promise.”

“That wouldn’t take much,” she muttered.
Junkyard didn’t seem to hear.

The next performer was introduced as a hobo
poet, though his poems sounded more like bad song lyrics than
actual poetry. Some were supposed to be funny, others romanticized
portrayals of adventure. All were loaded with clichés and
self-justifying crap about life on the open road. Finally, the
performer tucked his bindle under an arm and sauntered toward the
stage’s side exit.

“
I’m catchin’ out / On liberty’s
trail
,” he intoned, giving a wave which Lennie desperately
hoped meant his act was drawing to a close.

“
Happy and free

Is my life on the rail.

Don’t try to tie me,

No strings can bind me,

‘
Less’n I end up in jail.”

A weak chuckle rippled around the audience.
Lennie’s hands curled into fists inside her jacket sleeves. “Try
writing a poem telling how happy and free the ones who were left
behind feel.”

Junkyard leaned closer. “Did you say
something?”

She shook her head. If she opened her mouth
again, she might heave boiling outrage directly onto the stage.

The poet bowed to scattered applause and
several people got up to leave. Lennie envied them. The MC came on
stage and the worry on his face was visible from the bleachers. His
voice cracked as he began the next introduction. “Right, yes,
uh...hang on, folks, I have a special treat for you. Here, all the
way from Little Yellow Banks, Kentucky, is Too-Long Soo and Woody,
her bangin’ guitar. Give ’em a chance, folks. You won’t be
sorry.”

Surprised, Lennie forgot her anger and
applauded as Soo strode onto the stage. She wore the same purple
shirt and fedora as that morning, but had swapped her maroon down
vest for one of black leather. Her battered guitar hung from her
shoulder, string ends sticking out from the pegs like cactus
spines. She perched on a stool that was almost tall enough for her
and settled the guitar on her knee. Winking at Lennie and Junkyard,
she started to play.

The MC wasn’t exaggerating—Soo really did
bang on her guitar, on the strings and on the wood. The result was
energetic and percussive. She hunched over the guitar like a human
question mark, head down, isolated in a circle of light, as if she
played privately in her living room while uninvited listeners
pressed their noses to the picture window.

As she thumped and stomped her way through a
lively, bluesy-sounding tune, the bleachers began to fill and a
crowd gathered in the periphery. Eventually her hands slowed on the
guitar. She leaned toward the microphone. “I’m gonna play a Woody
Guthrie song for y’all that’ll make ye want to either write to
Congress or go on vacation. Me, well, I play this song a lot, so my
Congressman asked me not to write ’im anymore.”

Her fingers climbed the fingerboard like a
spider. “He asked me real polite-like, too. Sent out a man in a
nice black suit and some kinda radio stuck in his ear.” She banged
out a single chord and let it ring. “Made me feel special.”

The audience laughed and Soo launched into
the song. Recognizing it, Lennie hooted in delight. Her father used
to sing the same song every time they had gone fishing together,
even before she could bait her own hook. The verses were a little
different than Lennie remembered. Thinking back, she realized the
words had been a little different every time her father sang it.
Likely, he made them up to fit the moment. That was how she needed
to remember him. Gentle, jovial, fun. The time for anger was
gone.

The song ended and Soo launched directly into
another. By Billy Bragg, she said. Lennie had never heard of him,
but it didn’t matter. Soo’s rusty contralto could make the alphabet
song sound good. A little star-struck, Lennie leaned close to
Junkyard. “She’s amazing. Who’d have thought it? Next you’re going
to tell me that Bones O’Riley has his own show on the Food Network,
and Hotshot Bob is a NASCAR driver. Where are all
the real hobos?”

He looked at her sharply, frowning. “What’s a
real hobo? It’s not like you have to pass a test and wear a uniform
to be a—”

He glanced past her and stiffened, his eyes
widening in recognition. She started to turn.

“Don’t look,” he said. He returned his own
gaze to the stage. “It’s the Ragman. Along with a couple of his
homies. Just act normal and watch the show. It’s dark—maybe they
won’t spot us.”

Lennie caught her breath, remembering the
Ragman’s creepy eyes, his breath...his iron grip on her wrist. She
tried to keep her gaze fixed on the stage, but couldn’t stop
herself. She glanced back.

The Ragman’s eyes were waiting for her. Not
human brown, as they should have been, but animal yellow, shining
bright in the shadows at stage left. The sting of a thousand
electric mosquitoes answered in her tattooed hand and she slapped
her other hand over the triangles.

“Um, he spotted us, all right.”

The Ragman’s mouth twisted in a slow, ugly
sneer. He nudged his companions and pointed. Lennie was suddenly
glad they were front and center on the bleachers, surrounded by at
least a hundred people. But the show wouldn’t last forever.

Oblivious, Soo was telling a story to the
audience. “—and Charlie had the winning numbers, but he couldn’t
hear too good. He threw that lottery ticket down the port-a-potty.
When his buddies found out, they crammed into that john like they’s
goin’ for some kind of record. Well, it started to shake, then it
started to wobble—”

“What are we going to do?” Lennie whispered.
She braced her hands on the bench, every muscle tensed and ready to
run. But Junkyard stayed where he was. He gave a loud cough. Still
talking to the audience, Soo glanced his way and Junkyard jerked
his head toward the Ragman. Soo’s gaze slid from Junkyard to the
gangbangers. She gave a little nod and continued her story.

“—that john tumbled down the hill, them boys
hollerin’ and carryin’ on inside like a bunch o’ fifth grade girls
in a Tilt-O-Whirl. It finally came to rest upside down in the
middle of the road. Y’all don’t want to know what was leakin’ out
the air vents.”

Soo paused to let her listeners wince
appreciatively. The gangbangers mounted the bleachers and began
working their way through the audience. Lennie elbowed Junkyard
frantically and leaned forward, ready to shoot off the bench, but
he held her back.

“Wait,” he mouthed.

“Are you crazy?” She glanced at the
gangbangers. Her heart pounded as if she had already sprinted a
mile. “We can’t stay here!”

“Everyone gathered ‘round that port-a-potty,”
Soo continued, “waitin’ fer that door to open. That’s when my Uncle
Charlie yelled, ‘Why, here it is. It was in my pocket the whole
dang time!’ ”

She banged a riff out on the guitar while the
audience laughed and clapped. The gangbangers were nearly behind
Lennie and Junkyard, two rows back. Lennie’s legs twitched with an
hysterical desire to run.

“And now, folks,” Soo said over the applause,
“I’d like to direct yer attention to the center of the bleachers.
Hank, can y’all give us a spotlight on them three boys?”

There was an awkward pause. Then a small halo
of light swung around to the audience, exposing naked surprise on
the hard faces of the gangbangers.

“
Now 
run,” said Junkyard.

Lennie launched from the bench before he’d
finished speaking, with Junkyard close behind. Soo’s amplified
voice followed them as they plunged into the darkness behind the
stage.

“I know these here boys don’t look like much,
but they have an act y’all wouldn’t believe. Come on up, boys, and
do your thang.”

There was silence, then the Ragman swore.
“You dead, bitch. Walkin’ dead.”

Lennie and Junkyard dashed toward the parking
lot. Most of the festival had shut down for the night, but the neon
glow of the carnival shone like a beacon at the far end. Shouts of
surprise and anger erupted behind them. Lennie pictured the bangers
scrambling from the bleachers, trampling anyone who got in their
way. She ran harder, but the pavement between them and the carnival
seemed to stretch into a great asphalt ocean. They’d never make
it.

Then the white display tents mushroomed out
of the darkness just ahead. Junkyard veered sharply and dodged
behind the nearest tent. Surprised by the unexpected move, Lennie
overran the turn. Catching herself, she turned back on time to see
the gangbangers stride from the bleachers, into the darkness behind
the stage. She willed herself invisible and sprinted the last few
steps to the tents.

“There she is!”

Lennie swore and darted out of sight. The
Ragman’s harsh shouts followed her into the canvas maze. The tent
village was dark, deserted, with door flaps tied closed for the
night. Lennie and Junkyard wove between tents, dashing through
patches of stark light painted by streetlights on the white canvas
walls. The gangbangers’ curses grew louder. Fear tightened Lennie’s
throat and she began to wheeze. Junkyard bumped her arm and pointed
at a sign over a doorway. It was painted with a railroad detective
shield.

Bill’s tent.

They ran for the door. Its flaps were tied
back, but there was no light inside. Surely Bill had gone home.
Then something dark moved inside, like a figure made of solid
shadow. Lennie stopped.

“Someone’s in there,” she whispered.

“It’s just Bill. Get inside before they find
us.”

The dense shadow seemed to evaporate as he
spoke, revealing the dim, ordinary form of a man. She blinked. What
had she seen?

The slap of running feet rang like gunshot
behind them. Junkyard yanked her into the tent and dropped the door
flaps over the opening. Trying to quiet her breathing, Lennie bent
to help tie the door shut. Wind shook the canvas, yanking the
strings from her fumbling fingers. The sounds of pursuit stopped
abruptly. She could hear the gangbangers’ voices clearly.

“Shit, man, we lost them. Not good. Not good
at all. El Lobo wants the 
chica 
real bad.”

“Maybe they went into a tent.”

“
Si
, I thought I saw something move
over there.”

Lennie froze, her fingers still on the
strings. Slowly, silently, Junkyard moved to the side of the door,
his knife already in his hand. He motioned Lennie to do the same,
so she dug into her pocket for the Ragman’s knife. Then the voices
moved off, growing faint. Junkyard held one hand up, waiting for
what seemed like an hour before he relaxed and put his knife away.
He bent to finish tying the door flaps closed.

Lennie nearly screamed when a camping lantern
flickered on behind her. A man straightened from the lamp and
stared at her bleakly. He hardly looked like the Bill Sutter who
had pointed her toward Bones O’Riley’s mulligan stew that morning.
His fleshy cheeks sagged, pale and glistening with sweat, and a
dark clot of blood showed through his thin, blond hair. Lennie
nudged Junkyard.

“Hang on,” he grunted. He finished fastening
the last tie without looking up. “That’ll hold ’em. For about five
seconds.” He let his head droop and braced his hands on his knees
like a winded basketball player. “I feel like I’m breathing
fire.”

Bill leaned on the display case unsteadily. A
duffle bag dangled from one hand and he clutched a railroad police
badge in the other. His disheveled, blood-streaked face had a look
of desperation that Lennie didn’t like. She thumped Junkyard’s back
harder.

“Ouch!” Junkyard straightened and rubbed his
back. He looked at the man and frowned. “Jeez, Bill, you look
terrible. What happened?”

Bill’s shadow-haunted eyes flicked between
Junkyard and Lennie. He seemed to have forgotten the duffle bag in
his half-raised hand. Then he shook his head as though to clear it
and breath exploded from him.

“Holy crap, Doug.” He dropped the police
badge into the duffle bag and swept a hand through his hair, laying
some of the longer strands over the bloody spot. “I thought you
were—” he hesitated, swallowing, “well, someone else.”

“Who—” Junkyard began, then shook his head.
“No, tell us later. Right now, better turn off that damn light
before—”

“
Vatos
! Look, a light in that
tent.”

“Shit.” Junkyard met Lennie’s eyes. They were
trapped.

“That’s gotta be them,” another voice said.
It sounded like the Ragman. “Save the 
chica 
for El
Lobo, but leave the man for me. 
Lo chingaré
!”

“Dammit, Doug.” Color washed into Bill’s
face. He frowned, looking more like the bull Lennie had met that
morning. “I thought you stopped picking fights. I can’t keep
bailing you out.”

“Hey, he started it.”

The scuff of running feet reached through the
tent walls. Bill grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and
pulled a gun from its pocket. “Never mind, tell me about it later.
Pull up the canvas and run. This, I can handle.”

Junkyard shook his head. “You can’t face them
alone, Bill,” he said in a low whisper. “Between the three of us,
we’ll scare them off.”

Lennie backed away from the door until she
bumped into the rear wall. “It’s nice of you to include me, but I
doubt any gangbangers would be scared of me.”

“She’s right. Just keep quiet and get her out
of here,” Bill whispered. He stuck the gun in the back waistband of
his pants. “As far as they need to know, you were never here.”

The sounds of running stopped outside the
tent. Bill, Junkyard, and Lennie fell silent, listening to the
harsh breathing at the door. The tent flap shook violently.

“Shit, man,” a voice said. “Double
knots.”

“Cut it. Just cut it.”

Something snicked. A knife poked between the
flaps and sawed into a tie at head-level. Junkyard pulled his own
knife and started toward the door, but Bill caught his arm.