Valknut: The Binding (18 page)

When the festival people had hired him to
play the part of a hobo at their little fake jungle, they’d said,
“no drunks.” What a joke. But the money was too good, so he hadn’t
touched a drop in a full twelve hours. Not his longest stretch, but
it seemed an eternity when the dry spell was supposed to last three
days.

As he raised the flask again, a ragged black
ghost dropped into the branches above his head. Startled, he threw
his arms over his face, sloshing whiskey everywhere. The ghost
cawed and folded itself into a large, black bird. Hotshot sputtered
in irritation. Nothing but a damn crow. The thing had made him
spill half of his drink. He swung at it, missing. It cocked its
head and looked at him with one bright, beady eye as if to
say, 
Sorry, man, I didn’t know you were there
.
Mollified, Hotshot muttered to himself and nestled back to finish
getting drunk under the bird’s commiserating gaze.

Sober hobos in a jungle. Ha. Those festival
people would have a conniption if he showed up at their jungle with
some real ’bos. Too Long Soo and Jungle Jim were about as hobo-like
as Bozo the Clown.

“Yeah, get some real ’bos in there, suckin’
down the sterno, pissin’ themselves,” he told the bird, forgetting
the state of his own pants. “Maybe a coupla derelicts passed out on
that nice, clean festival pavement, choking on their own puke.
Yeah, Bob, that’d bring the tourists running.”

He took another hit from the flask. The stuff
was going down much smoother now, and that stretch of gravel
between him and his ride was looking wider with every drink. He was
just thinking it might be better to wait in the bushes until dark,
snooze a bit, maybe even go back to that so-called job, when a
shriek tore the air above him. The hawk was back, circling
overhead. He squinted at it blearily. Might be a falcon.

Then the raven exploded out of the bushes
like a tattered cannonball.

The falcon wheeled and screamed a challenge.
Bending its wings, it dove at the raven. The two collided in a
tangled ball of black and brown feathers and plummeted toward the
ground. The ball split open just before it hit. Four wings beat the
air; four claws scrabbled for purchase in flesh. The raven slipped
loose, but the falcon rolled and slashed. Black feathers fluttered
down. Hotshot winced in sympathy and watched the raven fly off,
bobbing through the air on its injured wing. The falcon resumed
circling over Hotshot’s head.

Hotshot belched and tried to relax, but he
felt edgy without the raven’s companionable presence. The falcon
overhead made him feel exposed. Sooner or later, Junkyard or one of
El Lobo’s lackeys—or worse, El Lobo himself—would root him out of
the bushes. Any way he thought about it, staying here would end
badly, and he sure as hell couldn’t go back to the festival.

If only that damn girl hadn’t come along.
Jeez. He hadn’t minded looking at her, not a bit, until she pulled
out that wrinkled picture of Jarvis Cook. Hotshot shuddered. The
last time he had seen that sorry bastard, El Lobo had carried him
kicking and screaming into his lair. Had him under one arm, like a
little kid. Hotshot had never seen El Lobo so mad. He was like an
animal about to bust out of that three-piece suit he always wore.
Cook must’ve stuck it to him good, to rile him up so much. Too bad
for Cook.

It had happened a long time ago, when Hotshot
was still in the inner circle of the BRR. His memory of the events
was eroded by alcohol and fear, but he remembered one part clear as
yesterday. He had followed El Lobo and Cook into the lair and taken
his usual place just inside the door, ready to be of service. To
his surprise, El Lobo ordered him out. Uncertain what else to do,
Hotshot stood guard outside the door.

Then the noise began.

Hotshot could take the screams. He had heard
these things often enough to feel boredom. But then the screams
changed, as if drawn from some deep, dark well...cries of horror
torn from the very roots of a man’s soul. The hair rose all over
Hotshot’s body and the horror seeped through his pores to take
anchor in his own soul.

That was the day he began to drink. He fell
from El Lobo’s inner circle soon after, becoming nothing more than
an errand boy.

When that girl started waving Cook’s picture
around, that was enough for Hotshot. He didn’t want to know what
happened to Jarvis Cook, and he did not want to live
through it again with this girl. He sure as hell didn’t want to
come up against Junkyard Doug, either. Now that was one scary
sonofabitch. Not as bad as El Lobo, but he’d seen Junkyard take out
a brace of the BRR with his bare hands, a few months back. And them
with chains, knives, and all. No, Bob, not gonna get crunched
between El Lobo and that crazy bastard.

He drained the flask. “Just one thing to do.
Get my sorry, boney, old ass out of here.”

He peered through the branches at the open
gravel. Nothing moved. He popped his head out and took a more
careful look. Still no one. He crawled out of the bushes, panicking
a moment when their woody fingers caught at his shirt. Sweating and
trembling, he clambered to his feet. The ground seemed to heave
beneath him and he lurched drunkenly into the fence. He clutched at
the chain link, his head swimming so wildly he thought it might
spin on its axis.

Come on, Bob, nothin’ but an ethanol
earthquake. Can’t expect to drink this shit lyin’ down and then get
up and do a jig.

He closed his eyes and held onto the fence
until the earth’s movements slowed to a roll. The falcon screeched
overhead, circling lower. Hotshot had to go 
now
, or he
might never make it any farther than these bushes. Letting go of
the fence, he stumbled toward his ride. But the boxcar kept moving
on him, first off to the left and then to the right. Half-expecting
the full membership of the BRR to come charging down on him, he ran
the last few yards to the train, falling down twice.

And then he was there. Home base. Safe. He
tossed his pack inside. It took him several tries to scramble in
after it, and then he collapsed on the floor, his heart highballing
in his chest. The only noises were the usual rail yard clashings
and bangings. He began to relax and daydream about Santa Fe. His
nephew’s wife was a pretty good cook, if you liked Tex-Mex. But he
would have to deal with that mutt. What was its name? Calvin or
Cowboy, something like that.

“Hey, Hotshot, how’s it goin’, eh?”

Hotshot sat up and stared wildly at the open
doorway. The sudden voice was cheerful, friendly...and it terrified
him. He scuttled away until his back was against the closed door on
the opposite side.

“Who’s that?” His voice shook. He squinted at
the backlit face in the opening. “That you, Bill? ‘Cause if it is,
please don’t kick me off.”

“Yah, sure, it’s me.”

Relief warmed Hotshot like good rum. Even a
regular bull would be welcome just now, considering the
alternatives, but Bill Sutter was something better than regular.
Ever since Jungle Jim pulled him from under that train, Bill had
been soft on hobos.

“I know you’re supposed to throw me off, but
can you let it go just this once?”

The silhouette shook its head. “I’m afraid I
can’t do that, Hotshot. See, there’s a problem.”

Bill planted his hands and heaved himself
inside, landing with a soft grunt. A smell like something dead and
rotting followed him. Hotshot hugged his legs to his chest and
watched Bill uncertainly. The boxcar felt more like a trap than
home base.

“You don’t have to come after me, Bill. I’ll
get out, if that’s what you want.” Hotshot cringed at the thought.
He did not want to go back to the festival’s jungle, especially
with that falcon circling overhead. “But can’t you let me stay?
Please, I just gotta get out of town. They’re after me, Bill.”

“I know they are, Hotshot.” Bill climbed to
his feet. “I’m sorry. This is just the wrong place for you to
be.”

Bill moved forward until the light was no
longer behind him. Hotshot could finally see his round, fleshy
face. The normally pleasant features were pulled tight, reminding
Hotshot of a dog with its ears laid flat. Bill’s eyes looked
swollen and he blinked rapidly. The tears running into the creases
around his mouth frightened Hotshot more than anything else that
had happened that day.

But the coiled cord in Bill’s hand frightened
Hotshot even more.

“I’m sorry, Hotshot.” Bill’s voice broke as
though he truly were sorry. “El Lobo wants you gone.”

The soft, thin cord glinted white in the
filtered light. Bill pulled something from a pocket with his other
hand. A furtive ray of sunlight flashed across it as he swung his
arm forward. It was a knife. A bronze-bladed knife. In a gloved
hand.

The evidence was clear even for Hotshot’s
ethanol-soaked brain.

“It’s you! You’re the one that killed Tin Can
Petey—and all those others, too!”

Bill took another step. He said nothing, but
the anguish in his face told Hotshot everything.

Oh, bad!
 Hotshot rolled and drove
his shoulder into the closed door. 
Bad and worse and
worse!
 His feet scrambled for leverage on the worn, dusty
floor. 
Worse than Junkyard.
 He clawed at the
unmoving door, driving flaked rust under his nails in little
previews of pain. 
Worse than the BRR.
Grasping the edge
of the door, he rammed his shoulder against the metal, driving so
hard that he raised his entire length from the floor. He strained
until his fingers ached and his shoulders cracked in their sockets.
But no matter how much he struggled, he could not alter one fact:
boxcar doors can’t be opened from the inside.

I’m gonna die.

Hotshot slumped under the waiting knife.
Sobbing, he looked into Bill’s haunted eyes.

“Why, Bill?”

“I think you know the reason.”

Hotshot recognized the torture and
self-loathing in Bill’s eyes. He had seen that look on too many
faces from his post inside El Lobo’s den. Somehow El Lobo could
reach into a guy’s thoughts and jerk them around like a puppeteer
yanks on strings. Next thing you know, the guy’s doing all kinds of
ugly things—beating his wife, shooting up the office pool, knifing
a total stranger. Things he would never do on his own. Things he
can’t explain to the police, or even to himself.

When the guy knows what’s happening
to him...when he knows and still can’t stop it, well, then he wears
an expression just like the one on Bill’s face.

“Yeah, Bill, I get it.”

“It’s Ashley, see.” Bill lifted the cord and
knife on upturned palms and stared at them as if they already ran
with blood. For a moment, Hotshot thought—hoped—he would throw them
to the floor.

“If I don’t do what he says, he’ll go after
Ashley.” Bill lifted his eyes and Hotshot’s last hope died. The
anguish, the doubt, even the fear were gone from Bill’s gaze. Only
a fierce determination remained.

“I have no choice.”

“No. No, I guess you don’t.”

And then the pain began. Somewhere far away,
Hotshot heard the screams of Jarvis Cook. They came, he realized,
from his own mouth.

***

Bill Sutter stood over the corpse of Hotshot
Bob, gasping through his tears. Blood ran down the spattered door
and collected in the crack at the bottom. Soon it would begin a
slow drip to the ground.

He should go. Someone might see the blood. He
should leave and change his clothes, fill the gloves with sand and
throw them in the river. But he couldn’t make himself move.

He had known Hotshot for eight years.

No more. He closed his eyes, squeezing tears
onto his cheeks. I can’t do this anymore.

Even as he thought this, he knew he would do
it again. And again, and again. Whatever El Lobo wanted, just to
keep Ashley safe. Who would be next? His boss? His brother? Thank
God my wife is already dead, he thought, and hated himself a little
more.

A falcon shrieked outside the boxcar. Bill
lifted his head, understanding. A new assignment, his next victim.
The image of a face formed in his head and dismay filled him. He
had thought this nightmare couldn’t get any worse. But how could he
stop it? There was Ashley, though he could hardly look at her
anymore. He couldn’t meet her eyes at all.

How would she feel, if she knew?

Something hardened inside him, the last bit
of courage, perhaps, or maybe just desperation. He had thought all
his choices were taken from him, that there was nothing he wouldn’t
do, no one he wouldn’t kill, but he was wrong. He slid out of the
boxcar and faced the sky.

“No. Not him. Never him.”

The falcon swooped low and he ducked, but not
before sharp talons grazed his scalp. He straightened, ignoring the
blood that already streamed into his face. “I won’t kill him. He
saved my life and nearly died for it. You can’t make me do it.”

For the first time in a year, those words had
meaning.

***

Lennie paused at the door of the tattoo
parlor. She had never been in one of these places before. The idea
of enduring minutes, even hours, of pain to permanently engrave
some cheesy artwork on her flesh didn’t appeal to her. Besides, she
couldn’t shake the image of tattoo parlors as dirty, back-alley
sleaze pits frequented by bikers and gangs. The small print on the
welcome sign didn’t help: 40%
Discount with Parole
Card
.

Lovely. Just my sort. She pushed her way into
the store.

The scene before her left her feeling foolish
and vaguely disappointed. The room was large, well lit, and the
tiled floor glistened with recent waxing. An antiseptic smell with
chemical overtones hung in the air. Potted plants decorated the
reception desk and a lush Norway pine grew in a wooden tub in a
corner.