Valknut: The Binding (26 page)

He chuckled, feeling stupid. Then the phone
jangled under his hand and he nearly knocked himself out on a low
branch. Swearing, he rubbed his head and answered the phone.
“Briggs here.”

Marybeth’s voice bubbled around a burst of
static. “Pizza or burger?”

Brigg’s grinned. Marybeth claimed she could
predict what he was going to eat when they worked a case together.
She was usually right. “Take a guess,” he said, playing along.

“That’s easy—burger.”

“Bingo.”

“I knew it. It was the flies, right?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t stomach pizza after seeing
them laying eggs on the one in the dumpster.” He ducked under the
tree branch and picked his way down the path. Damn, it was dark.
“Do you have something for me, or are you only interested in my
eating habits?”

“Well, you do eat at the most fascinating
array of fast food restaurants.”

She was baiting him. She must have found
something good. “Come on, cough up!”

“Oh, it’s nothing much.” She grew more
serious. “In fact, nothing at all. That’s what’s really odd. The
killer didn’t leave a trace. There wasn’t even any skin or blood or
fabric fiber under her fingernails.”

“Maybe he killed her before she could
struggle.”

“No, remember, she lost a fingernail.”

The girl’s gold, manicured nails were long
and curled, like talons. Probably false. “Don’t those things pop
off all the time?”

“You should have looked closer. She didn’t
just lose the fake nail. Half of the real one was torn off with it.
A bloody mess, but all the blood was hers. Other nails were chipped
and loosened, too—on both hands. If you bother with a high-dollar
manicure, you’re not going to put up with that for long. I’d say
they were damaged in the struggle. Maybe she couldn’t reach her
attacker’s bare skin, but surely she would have torn into his
clothing.”

Briggs brushed against a sapling and suffered
a shower of rainwater from its leaves. “Could someone have cleaned
her nails up?”

“No, there’s the usual dead skin—her own—plus
beer residue, some ketchup, and semen. We’re following up on the
semen, but remember, she was a prostitute. That won’t get us far
without some corroborating evidence.”

“So maybe the evidence just evaporated along
with the flies.”

“Or...” Marybeth paused dramatically.

“What?”

“Or maybe there was never any evidence to
leave!”

The woods seemed oddly silent. The flashlight
penetrated only a few lousy feet. There could be anything out
there.

“They pay you to come up with that crap?” he
grumbled. He felt anxious to keep the conversation going, but he
didn’t like the direction it was heading.

“I’m serious.” She sounded more sincere than
Briggs liked. “Think about it. No latents. No blood except hers, no
fibers, not even a glove imprint.”

“You saying she got killed by a vampire or
something?” This was turning into the weirdest case he had ever
worked on.

“Don’t be silly. Too much blood left in the
body. Besides, no bite marks, and a vampire has corporeal form.
Even the undead leave trace evidence. Or so I’ve heard. I’m
thinking some kind of spirit.”

“Oh, come on, Marybeth. You telling me a
ghost did that?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it in writing,
but...”

Briggs began to walk faster, underbrush
whipping at his legs. “A ghost. Just for the sake of argument, can
you think of any explanation belonging in the real world? You know,
the world 
I
 live in? Because—whoa!”

A wall of bark rushed at him out of the
darkness. He was so intent on the conversation that he had nearly
run into an enormous elm tree.

“Hello? Briggs, are you there?”

Why was a tree growing in the middle of the
path? He swung the flashlight around, turning in a slow full
circle. The tree wasn’t growing in the path. In fact, it was
growing in a patch of moss. There was no sign of a path.

“Briggs...?”

“Uh, Marybeth, I’m going to have to call you
back.” It would not be good to admit to her that he was lost. Not
good at all. “Maybe tomorrow. Things have gotten, uh, busy
here.”

He returned the phone to his belt. “Shit. How
the hell can a guy get lost in a ten-acre stretch of woods?”

He gave a vicious kick to a clump of moss,
sending it into the trees. The boathouse was somewhere along the
riverbank. Find the river and pick a direction. He headed downhill,
toward the sound of rushing water.

The bull’s-eye feeling was back. Briggs
zipped his jacket against a chill that went deeper than his clammy
shirt. Joke or not, Marybeth’s theory fit the facts. Gangbangers
and thieves he could handle, but he had no idea how to deal with a
murderous ghost. He followed his flashlight through a maze of tree
trunks, feeling as though something large and predatory was hanging
over him. But when he directed the flashlight overhead, he saw only
a twiggy web of branches. No otherworldly spirit there.

He nearly screamed when a black ghost burst
from the weedy floor and swept toward him. It loosed a harsh cry
and launched into the sky.

A crow—or maybe a raven, said the logical
detective voice in his mind, but he wasn’t in the mood for
logic.

He began to run.

***

The poetry reading had no structure, no
rules, and no master of ceremonies. Hobos gradually emerged from
the boathouse or trickled down the path to the landing, seating
themselves on the damp concrete or against trees in nearby shadows.
They waited without seeming to wait, muttering and scratching,
snarling at anyone who came too close. A half-dozen had gathered
loosely about the oil drum that served as a fireplace. They kept
their heads down and avoided each other’s glances, loitering as if
in coincidental proximity.

Lennie studied each face, looking for her
father’s features, finding no similarities. She and Junkyard sat at
the edge of the landing near the path. They were close enough to
the front to watch the audience and far enough from the fire to go
unnoticed. Junkyard fidgeted and leaned close to Lennie.

“Something’s wrong,” he whispered. “They
usually loosen up at these things and have a good time, but they’re
all acting like stray dogs without an alpha. Looks like they could
turn on each other any minute.”

Lennie shuddered. “I don’t want to get caught
in the middle of that.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll settle down
once the readings start.”

But he didn’t look sure. He looked tense,
ready to launch to his feet, and his eyes flicked restlessly from
face to face. Hardly reassuring.

He glanced over his shoulder at the path. “I
hope Jim gets here, soon,” he said in a low voice. “I thought he’d
be here, already. I’m getting worried—the Ragman saw him with us
this morning.”

“I’m sure he just went someplace to get out
of the storm.”

Lennie knew she should be more concerned.
Jungle Jim wouldn’t stand a chance against the Ragman or his
cronies. But the pressure behind her eyes had returned and she
couldn’t think about much else. The feeling was more diffuse this
time, as though the focal point were somewhere else. Feeling
exposed, she wished she at least had a tree at her back. And that
the tree was somewhere in Hawaii.

Finally, a hobo took a hit from a hip flask
and stepped beside the oil drum. He pulled a crumpled paper from
his pocket and smoothed it between his hands. Chin to chest, he
read in a rusty, halting voice.

I heard the freedom whistle blow

From miles on down the track.

I kissed my Lady Saturday–

Goodbye, I won’t be back.

The poem droned on, expounding on hobo themes
of itchy feet and freedom. More lies. Lennie shifted uncomfortably
and tried to listen. Junkyard had spread a thick layer of newspaper
on the ground, but the cold concrete leached through to chill her
still-damp backside. She slouched forward, rubbing her temples.

“This poem is no better than the one at the
festival’s show.”

Intent on the speaker, Junkyard said nothing
at first. Then he bent his head closer to hers and said, “It’s not
the poem that’s different. It’s the audience.”

And he was right. The men who had warily
circled each other now turned toward the speaker like a ragged
chorus before their director. Tears shone in the eyes of one old
man, his face a shriveled prune grown moldy with gray whiskers. A
younger man with a bruised eye and split, swollen lip paced the
landing as though ready to take to the iron road that very moment.
All the hobos bore the same look of intense longing on their
faces.

“Somewhere over the rainbow,” Lennie
murmured. Her anger faded to pity. She fell silent and tried to
understand.

One poem followed the next, the speakers with
varying amounts of facial hair, dressed in coveralls or frayed
jeans. One man mumbled so low that only those in front could hear.
Another wore an ancient suit and orated in a deep, singsong voice.
“Ah, the wind! The midnight air! Take ease, oh weary feet, in this
thunderous chariot of iron!”

Hesitant or loud, spoken or sung, the words
were interchangeable, the poetry uniformly bad. It didn’t matter.
The audience was as absorbed as though Jack Kerouac had come among
them.

They had no idea they were being watched.

***

The clouds broke overhead. The light of a
three-quarter moon fell upon the river’s shore, where it struck a
shadow with no visible source. Within the shadow, Fenrir sent
tendrils of dark thought through the hobo gathering. They listened
to their fellows, unspeaking, unthinking, caught in a hobo past,
facing a street person’s future.

And as they listened, Fenrir stole their
souls.

A twist here: Tonight, the fork-bearded man
would find a pre-teen runaway sulking behind a gas station and
convince the boy to go with him to see the world. Then the man
would rape him and leave him dead in the river. A jab there:
Tonight, the fat one in the tattered rain coat would burn a man’s
business to the ground, leaving a hundred people jobless. A prod:
Tonight, the quiet one at the back would start a fight at a strip
club that would send men to the hospital and tie up two squad cars
for half the night.

For years, he had sent others like these
crawling like fleas across the belly of society, unseen but
ever-present, biting the vulnerable, spreading discontent like
disease. Now, he did it more out of habit, for his plan was nearly
ready. Just a few minor tasks, and the end could begin.

He turned to the two minds that burned most
brightly in the dark. His thoughts first snaked over the girl. A
powerful anger lay buried within this one, and anger gave him
leverage against her, though he did not strike yet. She was not
like her father, who was too timid to be more than a short-lived
annoyance. Her will had solidified under the pressures of her
youth. With each meeting, he had felt her growing stronger. Now the
power the Allfather had given her was ready to flower. He must
confront her, but not here.

His thoughts flicked to Monte, who swayed
like a mad cobra with his unblinking eyes focused on Lennie Cook.
Monte would bring her to him, and Fenrir would be pleased, hell
yes, very pleased.

Unless the one called Junkyard Doug chose to
interfere.

Fenrir narrowed his eyes and studied the
girl’s companion. The man looked like a hobo, lounging on
cardboard, propped up by a duffle bag held together with duct tape.
His shoulder-length brown hair hung damply around his face and
two-day’s growth covered his chin.

Junkyard Doug looked the part, but Fenrir had
sensed something more in Junkyard’s mind that morning. It was time
to find out how much more.

Dark tendrils slithered into the mind of
Junkyard Doug.

Anger, hatred, a thirst for revenge—the
weapons in Fenrir’s war, but tempered by affection for Jungle Jim
and the girl, held in check by sympathy for the misfits among whom
Junkyard chose to live. The tendrils wormed deeper, probing the
horror and anguish behind the anger, finding the brother...

Ah, the irony. Fenrir’s lips curled wider
than any human’s should. The curve of sharp teeth glittered under
the three-quarter moon.

The brother had been found wrapped in a
strand from Gleipnir, with a black-handled knife lodged in the roof
of his mouth.

All who defied Fenrir or saw something that
could endanger his plans were sacrificed thus; imprisoned as Fenrir
had been imprisoned, wrapped in the tortuous threads of Gleipnir.
Their palates were cleft by the symbolic sisters to the sword he
bore for thousands of years of excruciating pain. The bodies were
left on trains and in rail yards as gauntlets flung at the feet of
Odin Allfather, the Foul Betrayer.

And now, the brother of one sacrifice would
be used in his own turn.

But how? This one’s mind was far too
disciplined to bend easily. The tendrils twisted past surface
thought and memory, creeping into the hidden places of Junkyard’s
soul—slowly, gently, for here Fenrir’s presence could be felt.
Despite Fenrir’s care, Junkyard shifted uneasily, half-rising from
the ground. But Fenrir had found what he needed. He slipped his
thoughts free. Junkyard blinked and settled back with a shrug.

So simple! Fenrir tipped his head back and
laughed. The sound rang with an anger that ran deeper than the
ocean abyss where his serpent-brother Jormungand lay imprisoned
until the end of days. Those gathered before the oil-drum fire
heard the laugh as the howl of a dog. Or so they thought it must
be, for when had there last been a wolf in Minneapolis?

It was all so simple. Fenrir felt victory as
surely as if the blood of Odin ran down his chin. Oh, how easily
these humans were manipulated. Odin was a fool to balance his
fate—the fate of the world—on the shoulders of such silly
beings.