Valknut: The Binding (8 page)

But that wasn’t right, either. Yesterday, she
had been covered with cuts and bruises. She inspected herself
again, fighting a growing panic. There was a bloody tear in the
knee of her jeans, but no scrape underneath. Yesterday, her palms
had been torn and bloody, almost too stiff to move. Today, they
were covered in smooth, unbroken skin. And, now that she thought
about it, her strained shoulder didn’t hurt at all.

A chill settled over her. Had she only
imagined her injuries? Was she going mad?

Hysterically, she attacked the tattoo,
scratching at it, hoping it would peel away along with the skin, as
if removing it would set everything back to normal. A
thick-fingered, callused hand stopped her. Breathing hard, she met
Jim’s gentle gaze. Once again, his eyes were infused with a clarity
that was normally absent. Her panic faded away.

“I’m thinkin’ you should see Urdie,” he
said.

He nodded twice, firmly, then his eyes let go
of hers and he started swinging his legs. One shoelace had come
untied and the aglet ticked rhythmically against the boxcar.

Confused, Lennie stared at him. “What’s an
Urdie?”

“Urdie is Urdie. She’s a person. She always
comes to the festival.” He experimented with swinging his legs one
at a time, his head bobbing up and down as the shoelace flapped.
“She can tell you ’bout Ramblin’ Red, and maybe ’bout your new
tattoo.”

“Really? And what makes her so wise?”

“Oh, she knows,” Jim said with certainty.
“She knows everything. She’ll come ’round for the Poetry,
tonight.”

His feet stopped and he looked up, eyes
childlike once more. “You’re comin’ to the Poetry, aren’t ya? I’m
makin’ one up to sing.”

Lennie hesitated while Jim waited with
wide-eyed earnestness. Despite her brave words to Junkyard the
night before, all she wanted to do now was go home. Before she
could think of an answer, she heard feet crunching on gravel,
getting closer. She ducked inside the boxcar, irrationally certain
the tattoo bandit had returned. Jim’s newspaper blanket lay on the
floor beside her and she pictured herself hiding under it. How
brave. She drew a breath and leaned out to see who was coming.

Junkyard strode down the narrow alley between
their train and a long string of cars parked alongside on parallel
track. He carried a plastic grocery bag and a cardboard beverage
holder. She sighed with a sense of relief that surprised her.
Possibly, he had been playing tricks on her, but she couldn’t make
herself believe he meant her any harm. And she sure felt safer with
him around.

He raised the bag when he saw her. “Thought
you might like something to eat.”

Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had anything
but that Twinkie since lunch the day before, and that could hardly
be called food. She longed for something more substantial, like
bagels, fruit, maybe an egg sandwich. And coffee, definitely
coffee.

“You bet. Thanks!” She took the tray of
drinks from him, hoping he didn’t notice her still-shaking hands.
“I’m starving. I could eat a—”

He tossed the bag into the boxcar and an
assortment of snack cakes spilled out. Breakfast. Her stomach
sagged. She eyed the paper cups with fading hope. “That wouldn’t
happen to be coffee, would it?”

Junkyard grimaced and shook his head.
“Nope—that stuff’ll kill you.” He hauled himself on board and sat
next to her. “Orange juice.”

At least it wasn’t Kool-Aid. Lennie picked up
a so-called cherry pie, but couldn’t bring herself to open it. She
wondered how long it took for a person to starve to death. Then she
spotted a Banana Flip in the pile. “Whoa!” She grabbed it, tossing
the pie aside. “I didn’t think they made these anymore!”

Junkyard shrugged. “Always seem to have them
at the Day Old Bakery here.”

Lennie decided not to check the expiration
date. The things contained enough preservatives to keep them fresh
through a glacial winter. She tore the package open and took a
bite. The cake was wonderfully soft and the filling had that
artificial banana flavor she remembered so well.

“My dad used to buy me one of these every
time I placed in a track meet,” she said around a mouthful. She
swallowed and grinned. “Good incentive. I got a lot of medals.”

Junkyard raised an eyebrow. “Track, eh?”

“Yeah. I started when I was eight. Dad went
to every meet.”

She used to find him in the stands before she
ran, looking out of place in his too-tight Ames Track Club t-shirt.
He always gave her a thumbs-up. Her smile faded. Where would she
find him now? In a hobo jungle, or maybe a homeless shelter. If she
found him at all.

If he was even still alive.

A dull ache settled in her chest. She
preferred the sharper, physical pain of her vanished cuts and
bruises. Those, at least, would heal with time.

Junkyard rummaged in the grocery bag, coming
up with some Ho-Hos for Jim and a package of hair bands for Lennie.
She took them gratefully, forgiving him for the lack of coffee. She
finished the snack cake and began finger-combing her hair,
pondering her next move.

She had no reason to trust Ramblin’ Red, but
she could search for a dozen years and never find such a strong
lead again. She had to follow through on it now, before the trail
went cold. If she didn’t find her father in Minneapolis, well,
maybe then she’d go back to Ames for some gear.

Sighing, she gave up on her hair and tied it
back, tangles and all, ignoring the few stubborn curls that refused
to be contained. The problem was, she had no idea where in
Minneapolis to look.

Or did she?

Ridiculously happy, Jungle Jim unwound his Ho
Ho and licked at the white frosting inside. Lennie watched him
speculatively. “So, what’s this festival I keep hearing about?”

“It’s the Greater Midwest Railroad Days—”
Junkyard began.

Jungle Jim interrupted with a flood of
enthusiasm. “It’s the best, is what it is! They got a carnival, an’
a flea market, an’ art shows, an’ a parade—but that’s just the
tourist stuff. The real fun is seein’ my friends. Langford Leftie
always comes, an’ the Kentucky Kid. Bones O’Riley is a hoot an’ a
half, an’ Too Long Soo sure can bang on her guitar. And of course
there’s Tin Can Petey...”

Jungle Jim stopped as though he had hit a
wall. His mouth dropped open and his eyes emptied. Then, as though
the necessary connection had been made, his mouth twisted downward
and he blinked tears onto his cheeks. Lennie shot a concerned
glance at Junkyard, whose face remained rigidly calm.

“Jim,” he said.

No response. Junkyard laid a hand on his
arm.

“Tell Lennie about the kids, Jim.”

Jungle Jim lifted his head and looked at
Junkyard with puffy, red eyes. “Kids?”

He sniffed wetly, and then a smile lit up his
face. Lennie was amazed, not only by Jim’s lightning mood swings,
but by Junkyard’s ability to counter them. Jim started babbling
like a happy child.

“The kids! They’re the very best part of the
festival.” He jumped to his feet and started pacing. “There’s
Tyler. He’s always lookin’ for candy in my pockets. An’ Jeffy likes
to toot my nose. Little Nick is terrible shy an’ I like to make him
smile. But best of all is Ashley Sutter.” He hugged himself. “Last
year, she brought me cookies! Can we go see ’em, now? Please,
Dougie?”

Junkyard laughed. “It’s a little early, but I
don’t see why we can’t take a look around.” He dug into the grocery
bag again and handed Jim a bag of peppermints. “You better take
these. You don’t want to disappoint Tyler.”

While Jungle Jim hid the candy in the many
pockets of his suit coat, Junkyard gathered their gear and jumped
from the boxcar. Lennie slid down next to him. She resisted the
urge to wipe her grimy hands on her jeans, though her clothes were
already dusty and a streak of black grease ran across her white
t-shirt. She needed a bath, or at least a public restroom where she
could wash in the sink. Maybe that tattoo would wash off with a
little soap, too.

They started down the alley between the two
trains, Junkyard with a pack on his back and Jim carrying a duffle
bag held together with duct tape. The thick smell of diesel and
rust hung in the air, taking the shine off the morning sun. Lennie
shivered and wished she had kept the jean jacket a while
longer.

They followed a long line of maroon boxcars
just like the one had they traveled in. When Lennie looked back,
she could only find their car because the doors were closed on all
the rest. Jim wandered a crooked path behind them, bending to
examine every bit of trash with a hopeful look on his face.

As they reached the tail end of the train,
they came to a half dozen decrepit gray hoppers. Amoeboid patches
of rust had eaten through much of the paint on their sides and
graffiti covered the rest—obscenities, tags, and faded hobo
signatures. A sporadic hiss drifted toward them as they approached
the last car. The sound was familiar, but Lennie couldn’t place it
among the usual train yard noises. Junkyard slowed and glanced back
at Jim, who had found an old sweatshirt two cars back and was
shoving it into his bag. Without speaking, Junkyard signaled Lennie
to stay behind him and rounded the back end of the train. Lennie
turned the corner after him and almost plowed into his back.

“Hey, what—” she began. Junkyard waved her to
silence, but it was too late. A young man turned from the hopper, a
can of spray paint in one hand and a rag smudged red and yellow in
the other. Lean and taut, like a whip ready to crack, he watched
them through slitted eyes.

Junkyard eased his pack to the ground and
held a hand out, palm down. “
Ése
, man. Wazzup?” He spoke in
a relaxed voice, but Lennie felt heat pour off his back.

The “man” was just a kid in his late teens,
though anger had already chiseled hard lines into his face. He wore
a white tank shirt that glowed against his cinnamon skin and showed
off a tattoo of happy-sad theater masks on his upper arm.
Blood-crusted stitches closed a four-inch gash on the other arm. He
tossed the paint can to the ground and tucked the rag into his back
pocket, where it hung like a mottled tail.

“
De dónde eres, gabacho?
” he said,
openly hostile. “You gotta show me your card.”

Junkyard shook his head slowly and let his
hands drop to his sides. Metal glinted from his palm, hidden from
the gangbanger. Lennie realized with a chill that he held a
switchblade knife.

The kid stepped closer. “You walk the
Brotherhood’s 
barrio
, man. You and
the 
güerita
—” Lennie flinched as his gaze scraped
across her face, “—you want to ride the trains, you got to pay the
dues.”

“Sorry, 
amigo
. We’re tapped out,”
Junkyard said in an amiable voice. “Can’t you let it go, this
once?”

Lennie was close enough to feel an almost
indiscernible shift in Junkyard’s balance. His thumb rubbed the
handle of the knife. Eyes wide, she fumbled at the pepper spray
hanging from her belt loop, trying to release it without attracting
the kid’s attention. She didn’t like where this was going. Not at
all.

Especially when the kid pulled a gun from the
pocket of his baggy jeans and leveled it at Junkyard’s chest.

“You sorry?” he said in a low, tense voice.
“Too bad. I’m sorry, too.”

Lennie’s head swam and the gun seemed to
swell to cannon size. The gangbanger saw her fear. His lips curled
in a half-smile. He raised the weapon and looked down its barrel at
her face. “How ’bout I do the 
chica
,
first. 
Si
?”

Junkyard flicked the knife open. Lennie’s
breath caught, certain he was about to get himself shot. And her,
too. She gave the pepper spray another tug and it came loose in her
hand. Before anyone could act, Jungle Jim rounded the corner and
plowed into Lennie’s back, knocking her into Junkyard.

“Sorry, Missy,” he said, “Didn’t know you’d
be standin’ there.” Then he saw the gangbanger and his eyes got
big. “Hey, Dougie! That guy’s got a gun!”

The kid sneered at him and opened his mouth
for some snide remark. Junkyard blurred into action, kicking the
weapon from the kid’s hand. It flew onto the tracks, took an odd
bounce and clattered to rest under the end car.

But the gangbanger was quick. Before Junkyard
could recover his balance, the kid swung a foot through his planted
leg. Junkyard fell awkwardly and rang his head on the iron rail.
His knife dropped from his hand and rattled across the gravel.
Lennie gaped at it, frozen by the sudden violence. The kid scooped
up the knife before she thought to move. Dismayed, she found her
voice. “Dammit! Junkyard, he’s got your knife!”

The kid rushed at Junkyard. Fresh blood
seeped through the stitches on his arm. “I’ll teach you to mess
with the Ragman.”

Junkyard rolled to his back and blinked up at
him, eyes unfocused. The kid grinned and fingered the blade.
“This’ll be easy, no?”

“No!” Lennie lunged forward, stretching the
pepper spray toward the gangbanger. Her hand shook so badly she was
afraid she’d drop it. “Back off. Just-just back off, Ragman—or
whatever you call yourself.”

The Ragman turned toward her. His eyes
narrowed on the canister. He spread his hands and let the knife
dangle, as if surrendering. What now? Tell him to leave? Then he
exploded toward her, snarling. She screamed and back-pedaled.
Aiming wildly, she triggered the spray.

Nothing happened.

Aghast, she shook the canister and banged it
on her leg. He was on her before she could fire again and caught
her forearm with fingers like steel cable. He held the knife
casually in his other hand, as if she posed no threat.

“Too bad, 
chica
.” His mouth
twisted in a vicious grin. “Now maybe we can have a party, just you
and me.”