Valknut: The Binding (3 page)

“He does that sometimes. You get used to
it.”

“Oh, sure I will.” She snorted. “Just like
I’ll get used to this earthquake on wheels and having Twinkies for
dinner. Not that I’m not grateful,” she added hastily when Junkyard
raised an eyebrow. “It’s only that, well, I’m not supposed to be
here. I’m supposed to be at home, getting ready for classes. And
the guy that lured me here isn’t even on board. Almost makes me
believe Jim’s story. I get tricked by some interfering ghost and he
doesn’t even stick around to keep his promises.”

She kicked at the pile of packing paper that
was still bunched up against her. “It’s all a big waste of
time.”

The end of the paper slid into the open
doorway, flapping noisily. Jungle Jim shrieked and fumbled after
it, too late. Before anyone could catch it, the entire length was
sucked out the door like yarn caught in a vacuum cleaner. Jungle
Jim stuck his head out to watch it twist and tumble away in the
fading sunlight. He clung to the doorframe and began to sob.
Junkyard crawled over and pulled him a safer distance inside.
“What’s the matter, Jim? It’s only a bit of packing paper.”

“Yeah, but now how’m I
gonna 
hide
? I’m dead for certain, like Tin Can Petey.
Dead, dead, dead.” He wrapped his arms around himself and moaned,
then added wistfully, “I tell ya, ol’ Petey could cook better’n
Julia Child, and him using nothin’ but an old tin can and a little
bitty fire. I haven’t had nothin’ but pork ’n’ beans since he
died.”

To illustrate, he leaned to one side and
passed a loud explosion of gas. Settling back, he started rocking
again, chanting, “Pork ’n’ beans for breakfast, pork ’n’ beans for
dinner, pork ’n’ beans, pork ’n’ beans—”

Junkyard gripped his shoulder. “Hold on, Jim.
You saying Petey’s dead? What happened?”

Jungle Jim stopped rocking. He blinked
vacantly, mouthing Junkyard’s last question. Then his eyes came
alive and his face twisted in anguish. “Petey’s dead,” he wailed.
“Someone killed him, that’s what happened, and him not ever hurting
anything, not even the flies that landed in his stew. He’d just
fish ’em out and set ’em on a branch so they could dry their
wings.”

He started bawling like a three-year-old,
gulping air between words. “No, sir,” he snuffled, “Petey never
deserved what happened to him, and neither do I.”

He shrank down into his baggy suit coat and
resumed rocking, moaning and sobbing in rhythm with the movement.
Junkyard patted his back and made soothing noises.

Lennie watched them anxiously. She knew there
was violence on the rails, but she had never been this close to it
before. She admired Junkyard’s patience. She wanted to grab Jungle
Jim by the lapels and shake the story out of him, and she didn’t
even know this Tin Can Petey. Perhaps, she thought wryly, it would
be better to let Junkyard handle it.

It wasn’t until Junkyard promised a package
of Ho-Ho’s that Jungle Jim stopped his rocking and opened his eyes.
He straightened up and blew his nose on a dirty handkerchief. His
voice shook as he began to speak.

“Me an’ Petey, we caught out of Topeka about
three days ago. About halfway to Ames, our ride went into the hole
for some repairs. We sat there on that side track for maybe five
hours and still no sign of movin’ on. It was getting to be dark, so
I chanced a little look-see. Petey stayed with our stuff. I
couldn’t of been gone more than twenty minutes—honest! But when I
got back, there he was...”

He tried to go on, working his jaw up and
down, but only strained whimpers came out. Junkyard waited silently
until Jungle Jim continued. “It was terrible. He was all tied up
with some kinda string. Yards and yards of the stuff, like a bug
wrapped up by a spider or somethin’. And he was dead, a knife poked
right up through the roof of his mouth, clean up to the handle, his
eyes starin’ an’ starin’, like they were beggin’ me to take it
out. 
Take the knife out, Jimmy
, they said, so I
tried. I really, really tried. But the knife was stuck in there
good, an’ there was blood all around, an’ ol’ Petey—he just lay
there, his pack sittin’ right next to him, and mine was still
there, too.”

Jungle Jim began to wail. “Oh, why’d they do
it? They didn’t take nothin’! Not even the roll of money Petey
taped to his ankle. An’ the train kept sittin’ there, with me in
the dark and ol’ Petey starin’, an’ I couldn’t stand it no more. I
jumped off and hitched my way to Ames. I had to leave him, you
know. Aw, but I shouldn’t of left him. “

As Junkyard listened, his face grew hard and
his eyes darkened. He started to speak, then swore instead and
slammed his fist on the floor.

Jungle Jim cried out, covering his head.
Lennie jumped, gasping, and remembered how little she knew about
Junkyard. He shot to his feet and glared down at her as if she had
done something wrong. Without speaking, he turned away and leaned,
hunch-shouldered, against the doorframe, his back a solid wall.

Jungle Jim settled back into his rhythm of
rocking and sobbing. Lennie looked uncertainly between him and
Junkyard. Someone should comfort Jungle Jim, but it didn’t look
like Junkyard was going to move from the doorway. She sidled closer
to Jungle Jim, hesitating to speak. For ten years, she never found
words to comfort her despairing mother. What could she say to a
total stranger?

“It’s okay, Jim,” she tried.

He didn’t respond, and why should he? It was
a moronic thing to say. Frustrated, she touched his shoulder and
tried again.

“You had to leave him there, Jim. It wasn’t
safe to stay. I’m sure your friend would understand that.”

“I kn-know.” Jungle Jim hiccupped and wiped
his nose on his sleeve. “It’s just that, where’m I g-gonna
hide?”

“Don’t worry, you don’t need to hide,” Lennie
said. “There’s no one else here. We’ll be fine.” As long as the
train keeps moving, anyway.

Jungle Jim didn’t seem reassured. He curled
on his side and began whimpering. Lennie could think of nothing
else to say. More than anything, she wanted to go home. The house
might be empty, and so was her life, but at least she would be
safe.

She left her hand on Jungle Jim’s shoulder
and watched the setting sun flash between evergreens in a
windbreak. Eventually the whimpering faded. His rocking slowed and
finally stopped. Certain he was asleep, Lennie got up and joined
Junkyard at the door.

She didn’t say anything at first. She was
still afraid of the change in him. Tension poured off him like
sweat. It was clear he knew something about Tin Can Petey’s murder
that wasn’t included in Jungle Jim’s story.

The sun was a pink ball bleeding into the
horizon. A cool wind whistled into the boxcar. It would get cooler.
Rubbing her arms, she said, “I don’t suppose we can close this
door.”

Junkyard grunted. “Not unless you want to
risk getting locked inside for a few days. Or weeks.” He pointed to
a railroad spike jammed into the bottom runner of the door.
“Whatever you do, don’t take that out.”

Stuck in a smelly boxcar with two strange men
and no food or water—not a pleasant prospect. “Uh, I guess I can
stand a little wind.”

She settled to the floor inside the door and
watched the sun sink out of sight. Junkyard hadn’t moved or spoken
by the time the first stars appeared. She wondered if he planned to
stay there with a scowl cemented on his face all night.

“Did you know Tin Can Petey well?” she
finally asked. “Or is something else bugging you?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. His gaze
flicked along a grey-cloaked stretch of farmland, but, judging from
his harsh expression, his thoughts were somewhere far less
pleasant. When the response came, she barely heard his voice over
the wheels and wind. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen...heard
of this sort of murder.”

Before she could say anything, Junkyard
turned back into the train, leaving her at the door. He dragged a
piece of cardboard next to Jim and sat down on it.

”First thing tomorrow,” he said, “I’m calling
Jim’s sister. She’ll reserve a ticket, and I’ll put him on a bus
and send him home.”

Awake after all, Jungle Jim yelped and sat
up. Tears had left muddy trails through the dirt on his face, but
now his eyes were dry and wide with alarm. “Oh, don’t do that!” He
crushed his felt hat to his chest. “Please don’t make me go back! I
haven’t missed the Festival in twenty years, an’ I’m not about to
start now. The kids’d be too disappointed.”

Junkyard shook his head. “You shouldn’t be on
the road after a thing like that happens, Jim.”

“Aw, but them kids are all I got left! I
can’t hold a job, an’ my buddy is gone—heck, there’s nothin’ else
that matters.” Jungle Jim folded his arms over the hat, his face
set in a stubborn sulk. “If you put me on that bus, I’ll just hop
right off at the first stop and hitch back.” Junkyard held up his
hands. “Okay, okay. We’ll wait until after the festival. And then
I’ll put you on a bus. And you better plan to stay close to me at
night.”

Jungle Jim frowned and muttered to himself,
but didn’t protest. Junkyard turned to Lennie. “As for you, as soon
as Jim is on that bus, you and I are catchin’ out for Ames. You’re
going home. This is no time for some cherry woman to be riding the
rails.”

Lennie stared at him, too astonished to be
angry. It didn’t matter that she had already been thinking of going
home. She wasn’t about to let him order her around. She left the
doorway to stand over him. “Listen, guy, I’ve been taking care of
myself since I was eleven years old. I don’t need you or anyone
else to tell me what to do.”

He scowled up at her. “Oh, and I suppose you
face down jack-rollers and gangbangers every day. How are you in a
knife fight? Are you bullet-proof?”

He was right, but she resented the sarcasm in
his voice. She glared at him and wished she could think of some
sharp reply.

“I didn’t think so,” he said when she didn’t
answer. “You’ll have to find your father some other way.”

The boxcar floor jumped as the wheels hit a
bump. She sat down hard, sending a painful jolt through her
strained shoulder. Her temper flared. “Then how the hell do you
suggest I find him! I can’t leave him out there. I don’t desert
people just because things get a little rough.”

She stopped, realizing she was shouting at
him. None of this was Junkyard’s fault. He wasn’t her father. She
rubbed her shoulder and tried to control her voice. “Look, I have
no other way to find him. I have no money for detectives. I live on
student loans and part time waitressing—”

She stopped, wide-eyed, and smacked her hand
to her head, “Damn—my job! I’m supposed to work lunch
tomorrow!”

Disaster piled on disaster, all because of
this compulsion to find her father. She grimaced. “Scratch that, I
now live solely on student loans. My grandparents are dead, my
mother is dead, and there is no one else. So if anyone is going to
find my dad, it’s me.”

Lennie glared defiantly at Junkyard. His gaze
was equally fierce, his expression as stubborn as she felt. The
wheels rattled over track joints with the steady rhythm of a clock.
The wind swept through the open door, pushing Lennie’s hair into
her face, but she refused to blink.

Then she felt a nudge on her arm and found
Jungle Jim looking at her, his face sad and serious, and his eyes
had gone clear again. “Like Dougie said, ten years is sure a long
time. Long enough for a man to do a lot of changin’. Now don’t be
takin’ this wrong, Missy, but are you really sure you want to find
your dad?”

“What? Of course I do!”

But those gentle eyes waited, not letting her
hide behind glib words. She knew what he meant. Her father could
have turned into one of those human derelicts, like those she had
seen while searching the hobo jungles along Iowa railroad tracks.
Vacant eyed, smelling of urine and ancient sweat, they hardly moved
and barely responded to anything. She shied from the thought of
bringing something like that home and calling it father.

If only Ramblin’ Red hadn’t shown her the
pocket watch. She remembered its cool, metallic weight in her hand.
It had made her father seem more real, like he could still be
alive.

“I can’t just give up on him,” she said, as
much to herself as to Jungle Jim.

Junkyard groaned and sandwiched his head in
his hands as though trying to keep it from exploding. “You have no
idea what’s out there. I do. Petey is only one of a dozen murders
on the trains over the last year, and they all happened the same
way. There’ve been three in the last two weeks—all of ’em on the
FRC Railroad. And those are only the ones I’ve heard about!”

Her insides ran cold, but this time the fear
wasn’t just for herself. “All the more reason to get my father off
the rails.”

Junkyard lifted his head and studied her, his
lips pressed together in a tight frown. Finally he sighed. “Okay.
It’s your skin. But you’ve at least got to go home and get some
gear. The hobo life doesn’t take much, but it does take
something.”

He lay back on the cardboard and, rolling so
his back was to her, said nothing more. Jungle Jim settled down
beside him and began snoring immediately. Lennie watched them for a
moment, feeling alone and frightened.

Her original plan had been to visit hobo
jungles and rail yards on weekends to show her father’s picture
around. But now she realized this would never work. The rail system
was too vast. It swallowed people without leaving a trace. If she
truly wished to find her father, she would have to track him from
the inside. The prospect terrified her.

Both men lay as though sleeping on feather
beds rather than cardboard on a hard floor. Time to learn from the
masters, she figured.

The boxcar had grown dark. Too dark. She
tried to remember where she had seen a piece of cardboard big
enough to sleep on, but instead her imagination supplied an image
of a spider-like serial killer lurking in a corner, ready to pounce
and wind her up in a mile of silk.