Valknut: The Binding (12 page)

Doug’s mouth dropped open. The odd hobo
should be flat on his back, all right, but beaten bloody, with Doug
stretched out beside him. Instead, the violence had gone out of the
pack. Doug reached down to help Jungle Jim up. “That was amazing.
I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Jungle Jim flashed a big, happy smile. His
eyes held no guile, no hint of relief. “So ya think they liked my
show?”

Blackie waved his arms, demonstrating a
particularly wild stunt, and a burst of laughter swept through the
men.

“Yes, Jungle Jim,” Doug said. “I’m sure they
liked your show. And so did I.”

“Hot dog!” Jungle Jim whooped and did a happy
dance. Doug shook his head, wondering how the simple fellow had
survived so long.

“Come on.” He took Jungle Jim by the arm.
“Let’s get out of here before those beet pickers remember they
wanted to turn me into fertilizer. I know a place where we can
jungle up.”

They sheltered near the river in a pocket
carved from the steep embankment by a past flood. Doug started a
small fire and nestled a can of beans at its edge to warm.
Sheltered from the wind, wrapped in his bedroll, he felt almost
comfortable. He shared out some jerky to Jungle Jim and settled
back to stare into the night.

The clash with the beet pickers had shaken
him. Since Austin’s death, he had wandered the rails in a red haze.
With a shock, he realized that he hadn’t thought about his
brother’s killer in weeks. Not in exact terms, at any rate. He
rubbed his face with his hands. Tangled strings of uncut, greasy
hair flopped over his fingers and oily dirt flaked from his ragged
beard.

The familiar, futile rage welled up in him.
He had become his disguise, a purposeless vagabond shaking his fist
at life’s injustice and doing nothing at all to stop it.

He dropped his hands and looked across the
fire at Jungle Jim. The bozo held two spoons back-to-back in one
hand and began clapping them between his knee and the palm of the
other hand. The clackity-clack drummed on Doug’s nerves. “What the
hell are you doing!”

Jungle Jim paused the spoons. “Oh, hey! Glad
ya woke up!” He pointed at the fire. “Your beans is boilin’.”

Juice bubbled over the lip of the can and
sizzled in the embers. Doug ground his teeth and snarled something
unintelligible, but the moment of uncontrolled fury had passed.
Leaning forward, he wrapped a gloved hand around the can and found
himself looking across the flames, straight into Jungle Jim’s
face.

“You’re doin’ it all wrong, Douglas
Harding.”

Confused, Doug looked at the can and back at
Jungle Jim, wondering where he could go wrong in warming beans.

“Listen, Doug. Jus’ listen.” The simpleton
was gone from Jungle Jim’s eyes and a new gaze, sharp and wise,
reached deep into Doug to touch his soul. A shiver spread down
Doug’s back.

“Ya gotta stop what you’re doin’. You’re not
gonna catch the killer by beatin’ up every ham-handed hobo on the
road.”

Hot bean juice soaked through Doug’s glove,
unnoticed. He felt cold—colder than the snow that had begun to
fall. Somehow this guy knew his name, though Doug had never
mentioned it. Knew about his brother…his quest.

An ember popped in the fire. Light and shadow
danced over Jungle Jim’s face. Doug felt dislocated, lost in the
surreal. Maybe the beet pickers had knocked him on the head, after
all.

“The bait don’t go after the fish, son.”
Jungle Jim sat back on his blanket. “An’ you, Dougie, are the
bait.”

Doug’s head rang with the obviousness of
Jungle Jim’s statement. A serial killer wouldn’t go after a badass
punk with plenty of fight in him. He’d wait for an easier target.
The clackity-clack resumed. Jungle Jim grinned crookedly and met
his gaze across the fire. His eyes were as vague and guileless as
before. Doug wondered if the exchange had happened at all. But it
didn’t matter. He had his answer. The focus for his rage. He was
not the hunter. He was the bait. He had only to lay himself open
and wait.

And when the fish finally came, it would find
that this bait had teeth.

Months rolled by. More hobos died. Doug
changed his name and perfected his disguise, wearing dirt and sweat
like other men wore aftershave. Sometimes he splashed Thunderbird
on his clothes, though he never drank the stuff. He learned to draw
into himself, to stand with slumped shoulders and avoid eye
contact, one hand out for loose change. Over time, his disguise
became automatic, until he came to think of himself as Junkyard
Doug—Junkyard to his friends. He went for days without a thought
for Captain Douglas Harding. All the while, the rage never left him
and he never forgot his mission.

But the killer sure as hell wasn’t going to
target him in the middle of a university campus. Especially not
with Lennie and Jim sticking to him like burrs. Junkyard growled in
frustration, and a plump girl in a too-short skirt veered wide
around him on the sidewalk. Disgust flashed across her face as she
passed by.

Screw her.

A group of frat boys filled the sidewalk
ahead, laughing and giving each other friendly shoves. They didn’t
seem to notice Junkyard. He stiffened and slowed to a shuffle,
finding it harder to breathe as they approached. Then they were on
him. He lowered his head to avoid their eyes. One of them
shouldered him off the sidewalk. He stumbled and leaned against a
tree to catch his breath. A film of sweat coated his face. He
shoved cold, clammy fists into his pockets and squinted at his worn
jump boots, struggling to find the line between himself and his
disguise.

If he didn’t find his brother’s killer soon,
he might lose Douglas Harding altogether.

***

Lennie watched Junkyard stride away,
uncertain whether she should follow. He obviously wanted to be
alone, but what was she supposed to do? Hang out with Jungle Jim
and the kids all day?

She hesitated, then started after him. He
could at least point her to the nearest hobo jungle so she could
show her father’s picture around.

A crowd of young men blocked the sidewalk
ahead. They carried backpacks and wore jeans and hoodies. One wore
a sweatshirt sporting a fierce-looking gopher. College boys.

Junkyard saw them, too, slouching and ducking
his head between hunched shoulders as they approached. It was like
he became a different person. Lennie might have walked past without
recognizing him if she hadn’t seen him change. The group engulfed
him. His orange bandana bobbed in the sea of heads for a moment,
and then disappeared.

“Hey, Junkyard—wait up!” She picked up speed,
not wanting to lose him.

The students continued toward her, pushing
and jostling each other as they laughed at some joke. Unable to
find an opening, Lennie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and
crossed her arms. She wasn’t about to lose Junkyard because of a
bunch of frat boys.

“Ex
cuse
 me!”

Startled, they nodded amiably and crowded
aside, filing around her. She snorted softly. Dopey puppies.

She found Junkyard off the sidewalk, leaning
on a tree with his head down. His face was gray and damp. He didn’t
notice her until she touched his arm. “Hey, are you all right?”

His head jerked up, exposing raw panic in his
eyes. With visible effort, he straightened and put on the calm,
more confident version of Junkyard, as if pulling on a shirt.

“I’m fine,” he said shortly. “Just needed to
get away to think.”

About what? she wanted to ask. She knew so
little about him. Instead, she said, “If I said something to offend
you, I’m really sorry.”

His gaze brushed her face and he looked away.
“No, no. It’s just...no.”

There was an awkward pause, then he said, “I
was thinking…some of the more sociable hobos hang around the jungle
exhibit during the festival. A couple of them are already
here.”

He pointed across the parking lot. A cluster
of large cardboard boxes and tarps huddled under a maple tree at
the edge of the pavement. Among the boxes, a tall, thin figure
stirred a pot suspended over a portable fire ring. “I was thinking
you could show them your father’s picture. But first, I’d like to
talk with Bill Sutter, Ashley’s dad. I expect he’s setting up his
badge exhibit.”

He started walking toward the tent village.
Lennie followed, relieved that he was talking again.

“You could show Bill the picture, too,” he
added. “He’s been a bull with the FRC railroad for almost twenty
years. Probably met every hobo to pass through Minneapolis.”

The festival wasn’t open, yet. Hobbyists and
vendors bustled with last-minute activity, unpacking boxes and
setting up exhibits. As Lennie and Junkyard threaded between rows
of tents and tables loaded with memorabilia, they caught a glimpse
of Jungle Jim through a gap between exhibits. He saw them and
waved, then pounced on a bouncy ball as if it were an elusive frog.
Ashley and her friends mobbed him, jumping for the ball in his
upraised hand. Lennie smiled, wishing she were that
uninhibited.

Junkyard headed for the middle of the village
and stopped in front of a tent sporting a sign with a railroad
detective shield painted on it. The door flaps were tied back.
Inside, a man in a blue work shirt and jeans was setting up a
display case. Its glass top was propped open and it contained a
number of shiny, metal badges.

Lennie knew instantly that the man was Bill
Sutter. He had the same white-blond hair as Ashley, though his had
gone thin and limp, with a comb-over that couldn’t hide the pink
scalp underneath. There was nothing thin or limp about the rest of
him, though. He was built solid and square, with a hint of pudge
around the middle.

Bill squatted to dig through a box at his
feet. When he saw Junkyard approaching, he stood up holding a
double handful of detective badges. “Doug! Glad you could make
it!”

Junkyard smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it. How’ve
you been?”

“Great, great. Just let me put these down.”
He dumped the badges into the display and shook Junkyard’s hand. He
let his gaze turn pointedly to Lennie. “I see you brought a date to
the festival this year, eh?”

Junkyard’s face turned a red that clashed
horribly with his orange bandana. “No—I—she—”

“Good, good.” A smirk twitched at the corner
of Bill’s mouth. He offered his hand to Lennie. “Let me introduce
myself while the lad unties his tongue. Name’s Bill Sutter.”

Lennie tried not to wince when he ground her
finger bones together.

“So have you two been over to the jungle,
yet? They got the stew bubbling away, already. I had my first bowl
an hour ago.” He threw a wink at Lennie. “Nothing’s as good as a
mug of mulligan stew first thing in the morning, eh?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Lennie. “I’ve never
had it.”

“Oh, well, you’re in luck. Bones O’Riley’s
the chef this year. He’ll put a burn in your ears, but his stew is
balm on your tongue. Tell you what, I’ll get someone to watch my
collection for a minute and go with you. I can always use another
bowl.”

With an anticipatory grin, Bill closed the
lid of the display case. Junkyard laid a hand on his arm. “Wait a
minute, Bill. I want to talk to you first. I assume you know Tin
Can Petey is dead.”

Bill’s smile vanished and he nodded, his eyes
growing hard. For the first time, Lennie could picture him as a
train yard bull. “Word is, the Hobo Spider got him.”

“That’s right. Well, here’s something you
might not know,” Junkyard said somberly. “Jungle Jim was
there.”

The pink drained from Bill’s face. “My God. I
thought there were never witnesses. Did Jim actually see the
killer?”

“No. He’d left Petey alone for a few minutes.
When he came back, Petey was—well, you know how this killer
operates. Jim’s pretty upset about it. I thought you should
know.”

Bill nodded, but it seemed to Lennie that he
hadn’t really heard. His eyes glazed oddly, as if he no longer saw
them or the display case, or even the tent village. Then he blinked
and his hands clenched into thick-fingered fists.

“That’s fourteen, Doug. And we’re no closer
to catching the guy. Unless…”

Sweat glistened on his large, amiable face.
He glanced at Lennie, then back to Junkyard, lowering his voice.
“Did you learn anything new?”

“No. But I’m sure as hell not going to let
Jungle Jim be number fifteen. Look, Lennie and I have some things
to do. Can you watch over Jim, make sure he gets to the poetry
reading if we don’t get back before then?”

“Sure. Yeah. I can do that. He can stay at my
house tonight, too. That’s the least I can do.” He dragged a sleeve
across his forehead. “Jeez, he might have been killed! Maybe I
should go check on him.”

“Wait—Mr. Sutter?” Lennie hated to interrupt,
but she didn’t want her father to be number fifteen, either.
“Junkyard tells me you’re with the railroad police. You’ve probably
met a lot of hobos, right?”

Bill looked at her with mild surprise. “Yeah,
quite a few over the years. Not all of them were glad to meet me,
though—eh, Doug?”

Junkyard’s face went deadpan. “Whatever you
say, Mr. Sutter, sir.”

A hint of Bill’s earlier smile returned. “Why
do you ask?”

“My dad disappeared ten years ago. When my
mother—”

Damn, would she ever be able to talk about
her mother without her throat closing up? She swallowed hard. “I
recently found out that my father might have become a hobo. Maybe
you’ve seen him?”

She handed Bill the photograph. He studied it
a long time, until he didn’t seem to be seeing the photo anymore.
The odd, glazed look returned. Finally, he blinked and she could
see fear in his eyes, but he said nothing, just let his gaze roam
nervously over her face. Then he seemed to reach a decision.

“That’s—” He paused and took a breath. “I
think he’s—”