Valknut: The Binding (10 page)

She tried to sound casual. Even so, he
frowned and took so long to answer that she feared he had gone back
into his paranoid vagrant mode. “It stands for ‘Brotherhood of Rail
Riders,’” he finally said. “You’d do best to stay away from
them.”

He looked away and didn’t seem interested in
elaborating. Lennie was beginning to think sucking strawberry
gelatin through a straw would be easier than trying to get Junkyard
to talk. She didn’t have that kind of patience. “Look, it’s not
like I was planning to ask the Ragman on a date. I just want some
information. If I’m going to find my father, I need to know what
I’m facing.”

Junkyard stopped abruptly. “They’re
criminals—that’s what you’re facing,” he said with unexpected
force. Lennie flinched and stepped back, but he wasn’t finished.
“Haven’t you been paying attention? Catching on to freight trains
has never been safe, and it’s getting worse all the time. Drifters
aren’t exactly known for self-discipline. You might be dead
or...let’s just say, it’s no place for a woman.”

His eyes traveled to Jim, who was hiding
behind a tree to spy on the festival. Junkyard’s face softened.
“It’s no place for any decent person.”

Justified or not, his attitude rankled. “So
then what makes you a hobo? Are you saying you’re not decent?”

“You’re damn lucky it was me. I could have
been a jack roller, a drug addict...hell, the rails are littered
with scum and criminals who just haven’t been caught yet.”

“And my father is out there!”

A woman passing by looked at Lennie sharply
and she realized she was shouting again. She didn’t care. She
glared, daring Junkyard to say something—anything at all. The blood
throbbed in her temples, and she was dimly aware of an answering
tingle in her tattooed hand.

Then Jim trotted between them, hopping from
foot to foot with excitement. “She’s here! Ashley’s here!”

A huge smile lifted his fleshy cheeks. He
dropped his bag and ripped the zipper open. “Your pardon, Missy,
but I gotta finish gettin’ ready before we get too close. Can’t be
lettin’ the kids see me like this.”

It was impossible to stay angry before this
onslaught of happiness.

An odd assortment of junk piled up on the
sidewalk as Jim ransacked his belongings. Some items didn’t
surprise Lennie—rumpled boxers, a matted cardigan, a toothbrush,
and other items he might need on the road. But plastic flowers? And
bright red canvas high tops? At least size 12, by the look of them.
And what did he need with pristine white evening gloves?

Frantic, Jim rummaged through the pile,
muttering to himself. At last, he found what he wanted. “Hot dog! I
knew I had one to match!”

He took off his hat and pulled an elastic
band over his head, letting it snap around his neck. A purple bow
tie with yellow spots dangled from it, slightly off-center. He
didn’t bother to tuck the elastic under his shirt collar. She
wasn’t sure how he thought it would improve his appearance.

Junkyard nodded. “I like that one, Jim. It
really stands out.”

And that’s a good thing?

Feeling like the sane minority, Lennie didn’t
comment. Jim rooted around and fished out the white gloves. He
slapped them together a few times, picked off invisible lint, and
pulled them on. Recognition set in when he fitted a red super-ball
on his nose. Lennie burst out laughing.

“You’re a clown!”

Both men looked at her as
if she were the one whose caboose had derailed.
Embarrassed, she laughed a little too hard. “I thought...I
thought...”

Jim looked hurt. “Ya didn’t think I dressed
like this all the time, did ya?”

Still laughing, Lennie shook her head
helplessly. Jim shrugged and gave his nose an experimental toot. It
made a sound like a squeaky duck. He took the ball off, spread a
thin layer of adhesive inside, and replaced it. Settling the
checkered hat on his head, he climbed over the barrier and trotted
toward the tent village. Lennie watched him through tear-filled
eyes and decided Junkyard was right. The yellow pompom bouncing on
the hat did match the spray-painted shoes. Not to mention the polka
dots on the bow tie. Laughter gripped her like a bad case of
hiccups. It felt good after the last twelve hours of craziness.

Junkyard gave her a quizzical smile. Still
giggling, she wiped her eyes and tried to explain. “He always acted
so...um.”

Junkyard waited for her to finish. She tried
again, looking for the most polite phrasing. “I didn’t know he was
a clown. I thought he was, uh,” she tapped her head,
“mentally...”

“Handicapped?”

She nodded, feeling stupid. Somehow, she
always ended up feeling stupid around Junkyard.

Jim bounced to the middle of the tent
village, tooting his nose and yelling, “Halloo, halloo,
halloo!”

He didn’t have to wait long. A blond girl
around eight years old burst from an exhibit tent, yelling, “Jim’s
here! Jim’s here!”

She threw herself at Jim. He caught her under
the arms and swung her high in the air. A boy about the same age
flew out of another tent and Jim bent low to let him crawl onto his
back. The boy hugged Jim’s neck and reached over his shoulder to
search the handkerchief pocket of his jacket.

“I can see why they call him Jungle Jim,”
Lennie said.

Junkyard smiled. “That’s Tyler Carpenter—he’s
looking for candy.”

The girl grabbed Jim’s hand and pulled him
toward the tent. “And that’s Ashley Sutter. She’s probably got a
bag of cookies stashed in her father’s tent. He’s a bull from the
University yards. Collects railroad detective badges and has an
exhibit every year. He and Jim are old friends—known each other
since before Ashley was born.”

Lennie considered Jim’s belongings at her
feet. Holes in the bottom of an old shoe watched her like beggar’s
eyes. He might be a clown, but that didn’t explain his mood swings
or weird personality shifts.

A burst of childish laughter rose over the
thrum of machinery. More children had joined Ashley and Tyler. Jim
took off the checkered tam and his hair frizzed up like tufts of
brown cotton candy. He waved the hat through the air, knocked it
against his hand, and dropped it on Tyler’s head. Peppermints
showered around Tyler’s ears and bounced on the ground. As a unit,
the children dove for the candy. Jim’s grin was so large Lennie
could almost count his teeth from a block away. She couldn’t help
but grin back.

Whatever else he was, Jungle Jim was a good
clown.

She knelt and began putting his belongings
back in the duffle bag. She had begun to think of them as props
rather than junk. Junkyard squatted beside her to help.

“Nothing makes Jim happier than a swarm of
children. We can leave him here while we show that picture of your
dad to some friends of mine.”

He pulled the zipper closed and stared after
Jim, his hand still on the bag. He smiled at the boisterous scene,
but his eyes were somber. “Jim’s been clowning at railroad
festivals around the Midwest for maybe twenty-five years. Every
year, he does his hobo bit in Boone, Britt, Topeka, and sometimes
even at the Pullman Historical Reenactment. He used to work for the
FRC Railroad, repairing trains at the University yard.”

He tucked Jim’s bag under his arm and stood
up. “About five years ago, Bill Sutter—Ashley’s dad—was inspecting
a train that had just rolled into the receiving yard. He swung up
onto the platform of a hopper to have a look in the cubbyhole. A
jack-roller dove out and knocked Bill onto the track between cars.
Control tower didn’t see him and signaled the unit to move. Jim was
an air monkey at the time, doing brake repair. He saw it all and
pulled Bill out of the way, but a snag hanging off the side of the
train caught him in the head before he could get clear. Laid him
flat. Bill says Jim hasn’t been right, since. Couldn’t do his job
any more, so he went to live with his sister in Illinois.”

Jungle Jim’s act ended and the kids started
playing freeze tag between the tents. Ashley was “it.” She had
frozen three of the kids and was after Tyler. Jim danced out of
reach whenever she came close. Lennie watched him with an odd mix
of sadness and amusement. He had lost so much—but he hadn’t lost
everything.

Junkyard touched her arm and she turned to
him. The worry in his eyes surprised her.

“Listen to me, Lennie,” he said softly. “You
really shouldn’t be riding the rails. Not now. It’s just too
dangerous—”

“Not that, again. I told you—”

Closing his eyes with a pained expression, he
raised his hand to cut her off. “I know—you’re going to do it
anyway. Just wanted to be clear so you don’t get confused and think
I’ve accepted the idea.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket. “As
long as you insist on going through with this, you’d better get one
of these.”

He flipped the wallet open and showed her a
white, laminated card. It bore his name, a date, and the letters
BRR watermarked in red, laid out in a triangle. Like the Ragman’s
graffiti. Like her tattoo. Lennie stared at the card, aghast.

“You’re a 
member
?”

“No, but I’m not a fool, either. The real
members don’t pay dues. They collect them. And if you don’t carry a
card, they’ll collect everything you own, including your life.”

“Then why didn’t you show it to that punk
instead of fighting?”

Junkyard shrugged and put the card away.
“Would have ended the same way. You don’t have a card. I doubt Jim
has one, either. At least this way, the punk didn’t get my
name.”

Lennie didn’t know what to say. How many
times should she thank him for saving her life?

Fortunately, she was saved from saying
anything by a shriek of childish laughter. She and Junkyard turned
to watch Ashley chase Jim, her shoulder-length, white-blond hair
whipping around her face. Everyone else was frozen, but Jim ran
with high-stepping strides just out of her reach, racing in tighter
and tighter circles until Ashley finally reached out and touched
him. He made a great show of freezing on one wobbly leg and fell to
the ground.

Lennie laughed. “If I were him, I wouldn’t
get back up. He’s a little old for playing tag.”

Chuckling, Junkyard waved at Jim and dropped
the clown’s duffle bag over the rope barrier where he could get to
it easily. “That’s Jim for you. Shouldn’t be riding trains any
more, either, but he can’t seem to stay away. Rail workers up and
down the line all know him and look after him. The ’bos look after
him, too. He helped more than one of them before the accident.”

“Is that why you take care of him?”

She winced as soon as she said it. Hobos
don’t like prying questions. He watched Jim without answering,
frowning at some inner thought. Then tension drew his mouth in a
hard line. He rubbed his closed fist as if his knuckles hurt. “I
need no reason to look after someone like Jungle Jim.”

He stalked away, leaving her alone on the
sidewalk.

Chapter 6

Detective Harcourt Briggeman climbed rusty
metal stairs and stepped into the retired caboose that served as
his office. He threaded his way through an obstacle course of
stacked files and cleared a space in the center of his desk.
Normally the clutter gave him a jaw-clenching headache, but he
didn’t notice it today. He tossed a fresh, new file folder onto his
desk.

There had been another murder. Number
fourteen. And all of them on 
his 
line. Exhausted,
he dropped into his chair. The seat listed hard to the left. He
gasped and clutched the armrests, fighting to stay upright.
“Damn!”

He shifted his weight and his seat leveled
tentatively. It had been so long since he sat down that he’d
forgotten the chair was broken. He had also forgotten to file a
requisition for a new one. He eyed the stacks of paperwork rising
like tenements from his desk and office floor. The requisition form
lived in one of them. No point in digging it out; the Company would
undoubtedly turn down the request. FRC Railroad was a bankruptcy
waiting to happen.

He sighed, flipped open the file folder, and
paged through its contents. The Hobo Spider’s latest victim,
another transient, had been found during the night. The coroner
estimated that he’d been dead at least three days. Fingerprints
identified him as Peter Olson, a.k.a. Tin Can Petey. He was
fifty-seven years old, had no known relatives, a long list of
vagrancy charges, and one count of shoplifting, later dropped by
the store owner. Harmless, according to the few hobos willing to
talk to Briggs.

The photos were gruesomely similar to the
other thirteen sets. Briggs hardly needed to look at them. After
the first three or four murders, the images all started to run
together. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he saw them all at once
in some sort of sick collage. He forced himself to examine the
pictures carefully. The killer was bound to screw up sooner or
later and Briggs wasn’t going to be the one to miss it.

The phone rang. Briggs picked it up absently,
still studying the photos. The nasal voice of Henry Willowbe, the
Company’s Director of Safety, filled his ear.

“Briggeman, about time you showed up. Where
have you been hiding? There’s been another murder.”

Oh, really? Briggs wanted to say. I’m always
the last to know.

But Willowbe was the man who signed his
paycheck; Briggs kept his voice level. “Sorry, sir. I was at the
crime scene until dawn and just got back from interviewing the
victim’s acquaintances.”

Willowbe didn’t even pause. “And why didn’t
you call me when the body was found?”

“It was called in at 2:00 a.m., sir. I
figured you—”

“Never mind. There’ve been, what, nine
murders on my line, now, and I want to know what you’re going to do
about it.”

“Fourteen. And I—”