Valknut: The Binding Read Online Free PDF Page B

science fiction conventions to political rallies to
garage sales.
    The Humvee’s horn blared. Doug ignored it and
fingered a stark, black button pinned to the jacket’s
collar:  My brother jumps from perfectly good airplanes .
He had given it to Austin on his eighteenth birthday. Doug’s
fingers moved on, touching other buttons—the rusted California
Raisin button that had gone an inch into Austin’s foot while he
swam in Lake Josephine, the  Resistence is
Futile  button signed by Patrick Stewart himself at a Star
Trek convention. Every button had its own story, which Austin would
tell to anyone who listened. Doug unzipped his duffle bag and
stuffed the jacket inside.
    As Junkyard Doug, he had worn that jacket so
much over the following months that he sometimes forgot that it
wasn’t his. But never for very long.
    The train bumped over rough track, rattling
the old boxcar. Junkyard opened his eyes and lifted his chin to let
the cool, night air stroke the heat from his face. Light spilled
from a three-quarter moon, glinting off Austin’s collection.
Sometimes the jacket was the only thing that kept him from giving
up on the hunt—and on his own life. Without its constant reminder,
his disguise would have become reality. As it was, he had nearly
forgotten what it was like to have a bed, daily showers, and
regular meals. Or to meet the eyes of strangers without their gazes
sliding away as if he didn’t exist.
    If he didn’t find Austin’s killer soon, even
the jacket might not be enough to save him.
    A woman’s scream pierced the boxcar’s steady
rumble. Junkyard swore and scrambled out of the moonlit doorway.
Jungle Jim still lay sleeping on his cardboard bed in a patch of
moonlight, but Junkyard couldn’t see Lennie in the boxcar’s dark
interior. No one could have swung inside from the roof and gotten
to her while Junkyard was in the doorway. Could they? He had only
closed his eyes for those few seconds.
    He waited, listening, but heard no voices or
sounds of struggle above the drone of the wheels. He felt around,
found his pack, and yanked a flashlight from a side pocket. The
light would make him a target, if someone had managed to enter the
boxcar from above. He wouldn’t turn it on until he had to. For now,
he held it like a club and began to worm across the dirty floor in
the direction of the scream.
    In the dark, every noise seemed amplified and
full of threat. He paused, listening, ready to launch to his feet.
Dust irritated his nose but his hands were too gritty to rub it. He
sneezed into the jean jacket’s sleeve, rattling Austin’s buttons.
Cursing silently, he lifted his head and waited. Nothing happened.
He moved on.
    After what seemed like a month, his fingers
brushed something warm and yielding. He gasped and jerked his hand
back. The clean smell of soap and lavender reached him through the
odor of rotting apples that stained the floor. No self-respecting
hobo or thug would smell like lavender. He came to a crouch, pulled
a knife from his jump boot, and switched on the flashlight.
    It was Lennie. She moaned and turned her head
away from the light. Knife ready, Junkyard swept the beam around
the boxcar. Jim had rolled off his cardboard and lay wedged against
the wall by the door. There was no one else. He returned the light
to Lennie and looked for anything that might have made her
scream.
    She lay unmoving on a piece of cardboard,
arms and legs rigid, fingers clutching its edges. Her face twisted
in fear, but her eyes moved under closed lids.
    A nightmare. Junkyard stared at her, working
his jaw. He had dragged himself through dirt and who knows what
else, terrified of finding her mutilated corpse, expecting a knife
in his own back at any moment, all for a lousy nightmare.
Disgusted, he straightened his cramped legs.
    He was about to return to his post when
Lennie groaned and rolled to her side. Her t-shirt rode up,
exposing flesh above the waist of her jeans. A dark stain glistened
on her