Valknut: The Binding (43 page)

His eyes looked normal.

“Thank you,” he said, and though she was no
longer a child and her father had wasted down to skin and bone, his
hands remained large enough to cover hers in a warm, reassuring
grip. Lennie trembled all over, unable to say anything.

“Uh, hello? A little help, do you think?”

Lennie and Junkyard turned, startled by the
sound of Briggs’s voice. He blinked at them blearily and strained
against his bindings. Junkyard’s arm tightened around Lennie’s
shoulders. “Stay with your father. I’ll take care of Briggs.”

He hesitated, touching her bloodied cheek.
His eyes were full of concern. “Will you be all right?”

She nodded and watched him stride over to
Briggs’s chair. Her shoulders felt cold where the warmth of his arm
had been.

After a moment’s search, Junkyard scooped up
a blood-crusted knife that had been dropped during the fight. He
used it to saw through the ropes holding Briggs to the chair.

“Shit,” Briggs said, eyeing the stained
knife. “What did I miss?”

Junkyard glanced back at Lennie. “It’s
complicated. But right now, we need an ambulance.”

The ropes fell away. Briggs rubbed his arms
and flexed his hands, then pulled out his cell phone. As he made
the call, his gaze traveled around the warehouse, first resting on
the bleeding body that had once held Fenrir, then lingering on the
one-eyed, redheaded man and the cocooned form beside him. Behind
them lay the Ragman, who moaned but didn’t move. Briggs looked
almost relieved to see him.

“Well, I know what I can arrest him for, at
least. He’s the one who put me in that chair. As for the rest—” He
shook his head. “I hate to sound cliché, but how the hell am I
going to write this one up? You’re gonna have to tell me what
happened. Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to like it.”

Junkyard shrugged. “Not sure what happened,
myself, and I was awake through it all.”

The man who had been Ramblin’ Red sat up and
rubbed his neck. “Did I git hit by a train or somethin’?”

Lennie sucked in a breath and checked to make
sure the cocoon was still intact. She gave the redheaded man a hard
look. “What are you? I mean, who...”

Her voice dwindled. He grinned sheepishly.
“Nah, dontcha worry.” He tapped his forehead. “Ain’t nobody in here
but me. Name’s Walter Galloway, but you can call me Red.”

He stood up, shook out his legs, and patted
himself down. “No harm done, neither. If you call bein’ locked
inside yer own head for a hunnerd years no harm. But my friend
Angus, over there, he ain’t doin’ so good. Might be he could use
some help.”

He gestured at the body vacated by Fenrir.
Blood soaked his back. Lennie had assumed he was dead. Briggs
approached the body carefully and felt for a pulse.

“He’s right. This guy’s still alive. But, to
be honest,” he fingered his bruised temple where Fenrir had struck
him, “I’m not sure how much I want to help him. Know what I
mean?”

Jarvis Cook squeezed Lennie’s hand. “It’s
okay, the monster is gone. All that’s left is another victim. Go
help him.” He grinned. “After all, he is your—”

“I know. He’s my
great-great-whatever-grandfather.”

But Junkyard stopped her before she could
kneel beside the injured man. He frowned at her, doubt clear in his
face. “Are you sure about him? I mean...”

“I’m sure,” she said firmly. “That’s not
Fenrir.”

He gave her a long, hard look, then his
expression relaxed. “Okay. I’ll trust you. I should have trusted
you all along. I just wanted so badly to find Austin’s killer—”

“Sshhh.” She laid a finger over his lips. “It
wasn’t your fault.”

He caught her hand and held it tight. Horror
haunted his fatigue-stained eyes. “All this time, a year on the
rails...all those murders. And it was Bill Sutter all along.” He
grimaced and shook his head. “How can you be the bait when the fish
knows you’re there?”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“But I should have.”

He let go of her hand and stuffed his fists
in his pockets. His face twisted in self-torture. Lennie knew that
expression. She had worn it for years as her mother committed
suicide by inches. “Hey, you didn’t kill those people. I don’t
think Bill Sutter was really responsible, either.”

She looked down at Angus Cook, who had begun
to stir. “The evil that killed your brother—probably hurt more
people than we’ll ever know—that evil is gone. It’s over. It’s time
to live your life again.”

His shoulders hunched inside his brother’s
jean jacket. So many of the buttons were now missing. Lines of pain
having nothing to do with his bruises etched deeply into his face.
He was silent for a long time, unable to meet her eyes.

“I don’t think I know how.”

Lennie looked around the warehouse at the odd
mix of strangers who stared anxiously back. The lost, the
homeless...the lonely. “Then we’ll figure out how together.”

She knelt beside Angus Cook, laid her
tattooed hand over his wound, and the sparks began to fly.

###

For more about Marie Loughin, please visit
marieloughin.com
.

Acknowledgements

Several people have provided consistent
support throughout the journey this book has become. First and
foremost of these, I’d like to thank Juliana, Hannah, my parents,
and especially my husband, Tom, who got me started by saying, “Good
ideas. You should write that novel.” (Granted, he was referring to
an idea I had involving Nostradamus and time travel, but I took it
as a blanket endorsement.)

I would also like to thank Cathy Hedge, Mark
Rogers, Glenn Sixbury, and Dave Phalen for sharing their writing
expertise with me throughout the process. You guys are the best on
several levels. Thanks also go to beta readers Merry Simmons, Lee
Killough, Char Simser, Juliana Loughin, and Tammy Mack, who
provided valuable comments on the “final” draft, and to Hannah
Loughin, whose unbridled enthusiasm for the story kept me going
when I wondered if it was all worth it.

I’ve been working on this book intermittently
for many years. During this time, I participated in two writers
groups. Thanks for feedback go to Pat, Kim, Stacy and Jean of the
unofficially named Mighty Mighty Duct Tape Writers Group of
Manhattan. There’s no way I can remember and thank every individual
who has seen some portion of my novel through Leonard Bishop’s
Manhattan group, so I will say a collective “Thank You” to them
all.

Finally, I’d like to thank Ryan Runyan for
his help with the police procedural and military details. I’d also
like to thank a railroad detective named “Chip” and Professor
Clifford (Oats) Williams, both of whom gave me invaluable details
about life on the iron road. And I'd like to thank Jaye Manus for
her careful proofreading of the "final" draft and enlightening
discussions about grammar. Any errors of fact or prose are due to
my own “poetic license.”