Trumpet of the Dead (Raven Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  He heard the hammering first, an insistent pounding on metal, and when Kamp crested the hill that brought Grace Lutheran Church into view, he saw a man dangling in a harness from a large wooden crane next to the church building. At first glance, Kamp wondered if perhaps the Reverend A.R. Eberstark had invented a novel form of punishment for his congregants but soon realized the man was doing work of some kind. Thus the hammering. Kamp cut through the cemetery, picking his way through rows of headstones and passing the graves of Jonas and Rachel Bauer. He noticed that Jonas’s stone bore the epitaph, “Wer bis zum Ende ausharrt, wird gerettet werden.”

  Looking toward the church, Kamp also noticed two horse-drawn carriages, the same two that he’d seen when the kid was spirited from the sidewalk on Market Street. The first belonged to the hospital, the second to Raymond Hinsdale.

  He scanned the building and grounds for guards and spotted a man at the far corner, watching him closely and another in a second floor window of the church. He caught the gleam of a rifle barrel as well. Kamp opened his jacket and held his hands wide to show he wasn’t armed. As he walked toward the front door of the church, he called out over the hammering, “Friend of the family” and walked in.

  The pounding somehow resounded even louder inside the church, echoing powerfully off all the hard surfaces. Kamp strained to listen for voices in the narthex and then the nave, heard none, and then went through a door to the left of the pulpit.

  He knew it led to the back rooms of the church, because he’d been there before, at the funeral for the Bauers. Kamp heard low voices behind a closed door and knocked softly. The talking stopped.

  He said, “It’s Kamp.”

  The door opened, and he saw the frowning, tear-stained face of Margaret Hinsdale. She said nothing and let him enter the room, the office of the Reverend A.R. Eberstark. Raymond Hinsdale was there as well, along with the High Constable Sam Druckenmiller, the Reverend himself and seated in a chair in the center of the room, the kid. The hammering, which had been continuous, stopped. Everyone but the kid stared at Kamp.

  Raymond Hinsdale broke the silence by saying, “Nice to see you, Kamp. But with all due respect, this is a family matter.”

  Without looking at her husband, Margaret Hinsdale said flatly, “He’s staying,” and the meeting proceeded.

  Druckenmiller stared straight ahead and said without warmth, “Morning.”

  “Morning, Sam.”

  The Reverend A.R. Eberstark wore his vestments, including a fine purple chasuble. He cleared his throat and said, “We find ourselves in a most harrowing situation. We’re here to—”

  At that moment, the hammering started anew, drowning out the Reverend’s words. He waited for it to stop, then began again, “Today, we must—”

  The pounding started up again. The Reverend’s face turned red, and he said to Druckenmiller, “Tell that man to stop!” The High Constable left, and after a few moments the banging ceased.

  Kamp said, “What are they doing out there anyway?”

  “Cloaking the steeple,” Eberstark said.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Cloaking the steeple. In copper.”

  Druckenmiller returned and closed the door behind him. “He says he’ll take a break once. There’s more on the way, though.”

  The Reverend said, “Thank you, son, that’ll be—what do you mean ‘more on the way?’ ”

  “Wagons, carriages, men on foot. People comin’. Lots.”

  Eberstark’s eyes grew wide. “Coming for what?”

  “Don’t know,” Druckenmiller said, “mebbe they heard about this here.” He gestured to the kid, who sat motionless in the chair, looking at the floor.

  Holding his arms wide, the Reverend A.R. Eberstark collected himself, took a deep breath and said, “Yes, well, just as Jesus cast out unclean spirits and so, too, did Martin Luther. Today a foul demon, by the power and grace of the almighty one, will be cast out of this—”

  A loud knock came at the window behind Eberstark.

  Through the glass a man shouted, “Reverend! Reverend! Open up!”

  The color brightened in Eberstark’s face as he spun on his heel to face the man. “Not now!”

  The importunate man continued, “Reverend, we want to see!”

  Eberstark looked over the man’s shoulder and saw a crowd forming behind him. “See what?”

  “Ach, the exorcism!”

  They heard a commotion at the front of the church, voices and footfalls that grew louder and then a knock at the office door and another man’s voice.

  “Machs uf! We heard that boy is demon-possessed.”

  Kamp looked to Margaret Hinsdale, who appeared distraught, eyes fixed on her son.

  Raymond Hinsdale said, “This is a private matter!”

  Through the door, the voice said, “Not no more.”

  The Reverend A.R. Eberstark collected himself, looked at Margaret and Raymond Hinsdale and said calmly, “Dear ones, this is a sign.”

  Margaret Hinsdale said, “A sign of what?”

  “A sign of the power of the living and almighty god who intends to pour out his grace on this little one. And all these lambs assembled outside must be allowed to witness this miracle, and be blessed thereby. We shall move the solemn ceremony to the front lawn of the church forthwith.”

  Raymond Hinsdale said, “Are you insane?”

  “You’re putting the boy in great danger,” Kamp said. “You don’t know what those people will do once they’ve turned—”

  Eberstark boomed, “God shall not be mocked!”

  In a small voice the kid said, “It’s all right, son. It’s the proper thing to do.”

  11

  BY THE TIME THE ARMED GUARDS had tied the kid to the chair and transported him to a hastily assembled platform on the front lawn, the crowd had created its own gravity, pulling in more and more people from every direction. The Reverend A.R. Eberstark took his position on a small wooden pedestal atop the platform. He spread his arms wide, the chasuble giving him the appearance of wings, as if he were a magnificent purple bat.

  Eberstark said, “May God’s grace be upon all of you as we participate in this sacred ritual.”

  Kamp studied the Reverend’s face and saw a combination of excitement, anticipation and arousal. He looked at the crowd and saw the same expression reflected and magnified there. He scanned the scene for the kid’s parents. Raymond and Margaret Hinsdale stood near the door of the church, arms crossed and helpless. Margaret Hinsdale smoked a cigarette that bobbed crazily between her lips.

  Eberstark spoke again, “We are gathered here today to defend this young one, Becket Hinsdale, from a most foul fiend, who’s taken up residence in this boy’s very being!”

  A woman said, “Help that poor boy!” A shudder rippled through the crowd, low murmurs of assent and deeply furrowed brows.

  Eberstark said, “With grace and thanks to the most high God, the evidence is clear. We know this demon’s nature by the way it evidences itself: secret knowledge, speaking in a way the boy never learned, disrespect for the parents and all manner of rambunctiousness. The demon also transformed this boy into a beast of the field and abetted in the commission of a most nefarious and egregious crime.”

  The woman in the crowd shouted, “Heaven help that child!”

  Another woman said, “May Jesus save him.”

  The Reverend gazed lovingly at each woman in turn. “Let us pray.” All bowed their heads, except for Kamp, Raymond and Margaret Hinsdale, and the armed guards. “Dear and merciful Lord, bless us now, give us wisdom and discernment. And help us to gird our loins against the foul fiend. Amen.”

  Kamp made his way through the throng to Margaret Hinsdale and took a place beside her.

  Under her breath she said, “Do something.”

  “How did this happen?”

  She said, “I went to the hospital, and they were getting ready to take him away.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t
know. But I pleaded with them not to, of course. They said it was ordered by the Judge and that the only exception would be religious one.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I had to say that I thought he was possessed by a demon.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “In any case they said that if the demon could be exorcised, if they could tell it was really gone, Becket would be able to go free.”

  “Did you talk to Becket?”

  “Yes, I told him all he needed to do was play along and everything would be fine.”

  Kamp said, “Oh, Jesus.”

  A hush fell over the restive crowd as an attendant carrying a large bowl of water took his place next to the Reverend.

  Eberstark said, “We’ll perform with the ritual blowing, beginning with the insufflation.”

  He bent slowly over the bowl. “I breathe above the water of this font.” As he inhaled, the Reverend moved his head in the form of the cross. Then he stood up and looked out over the crowd. “And now the exsufflation.”

  He turned to the kid, bent down and breathed on his face three times in the form of the cross, saying, “Be gone, unclean spirit! Make way for the spirit, the paraclete!”

  As Eberstark said it, the kid shook forcefully in his chair, gnashed his teeth, threw his head back, arched violently and then slumped forward.

  The crowd fell silent again and leaned in, all eyes fixed on the kid, who stopped moving. Then a man in the crowd shouted, “The demon has flown!”

  “May God bless you, Reverend,” a woman said.

  Margaret Hinsdale whispered, “Oh please, oh please, Becket.” She clasped her hands in front of her.

  The Reverend A.R. Eberstark took a step back, and said, “My child, hast thou been healed?”

  The kid raised his head, looked out over the crowd, blinking slowly as if he’d just awoken.

  He said, “Healed? There wasn’t nothing wrong with me to start with.”

  The crowd let out a collective sigh, and the Reverend smiled and said, “This house is clean!” He focused back on the kid and said, “How do you feel, my child?”

  The kid said, “Good. I feel good. Loose these cords, would’ja?”

  “Of course, of course.” Laughter and relief spread through the crowd as the attendant untied the ropes binding the kid’s hands and feet.

  “Rise, my child.” The kid stood up and smiled, and the crowd cheered. Margaret Hinsdale hugged Kamp.

  The Reverend put his hand on the kid’s shoulder and said, “Just a few questions so that we know the healing is complete.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “My child, what is your name? Where were you born? And who are your parents?”

  The kid puffed out his chest and tilted his chin back. He looked over at Kamp and the Hinsdales and gave them a wink. Margaret Hinsdale pulled in a sharp breath and said, “Oh, no.”

  In a loud, clear voice the kid said, “My name is Abel Truax. I was born in a low-down holler in West Virginia in the year 1825 to my mother Louisa Truax and my father Martin Truax, may God rest their souls.”

  Eberstark pulled back in horror, and the crowd erupted.

  The kid motioned for everyone to be quiet, then said, “An’ iffn’ you wanna know somethin’ else, one night I heard a swellin’ o’ trumpets an’ then I was killed in this very churchyard, right over there.” He pointed toward the side of the building. “Maybe one of y’all standin’ here is the one that done it.”

  The faces in the crowd wore stunned expressions, and no one spoke, except the Reverend, who said, “Demon, from whence hast thou traveled?”

  The kid said, “Well, truth be told, after I was murdered, I lived in a tree for two years atop that hillock over yonder.” He pointed to the mountain above Kamp’s house.

  Eberstark said, “You came from the pit!”

  “No, no, preacher, I lived in a tree up there, where for two years I saw all manner of things, some beautiful. Some not.”

  The Reverend hardened his gaze. “And what did you see, foul fiend?”

  “Well, I seen you up there more than once.”

  The crowd gasped.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, many times I seen you up there in congress with a fine young woman or two.”

  “What?” The Reverend tried to act shocked.

  The kid laughed. “Talk about cloaking the steeple!”

  “Enough!” The Reverend went apoplectic, and the people surged toward the platform. Kamp knew that in the people’s eyes the kid could transform from victim to sacrifice as quickly as a crowd of ordinary citizens could turn into a mob.

  The kid said, “I’m sure you done even worse than that, ain’t that right, preacher? Tell these here fine folks some of the things you done in secret. Maybe you’s the one with the demon. Maybe we oughta just go ahead an’ instuffalate you!”

  Eberstark pointed his finger and bellowed, “It’s the father of lies himself!” He clutched his breast with both hands and stumbled backward. The men in the front row of people lunged for the kid who deftly jumped backward, as the mob broke into its frenzy.

  The kid pulled the forager’s cap from his pocket, put it on his head and then leapt down into the swirl, zigzagging sharply amidst the tangle of limbs. Many caught a handful of his shirt or jacket, but none could hold onto him. And eventually they lost track of him altogether. He burst from the back of the crowd and sprinted into the cemetery, escaping the notice of all but one.

  The hammering, which had stopped entirely for the proceedings now started again in earnest, and the confused people looked up to find its source. The workman, floating above the scene like some ersatz announcing angel, pointed in the direction of the cemetery and said, “He’s there!”

  Kamp’s eyes went to the guard at the corner of the building. The man was raising his rifle, locating the kid in his sights. Kamp burst into a run and from a distance of a few yards dove at the man with the gun. He led with his elbow, connecting with the shooter’s jaw an instant before the gun went off. Both men went hard to the ground.

  Kamp scrambled to his knees in time to see the other guard and a uniformed policeman run the kid down amidst the headstones, tackling him and dragging him back into the mob. Some of the people resisted the urge to spit on him. Some didn’t. Margaret Hinsdale ran to him and shielded him from the jeering and the scorn.

  Kamp scanned the scene for Raymond Hinsdale and found him rooted to the same spot where he’d been the whole time. He appeared dazed, face ashen.

  From the direction of the city, a fast-moving carriage came into view. The driver pulled the horses to a stop in the churchyard. The carriage door popped open, and the prosecutor Grigg bounded out, holding a folded sheet of paper. He located the High Constable and went straight for him. The sight of Grigg roused Raymond Hinsdale from his stupor. He walked to where Grigg and Druckenmiller conferred. Kamp noticed that the Reverend A.R. Eberstark tried several times to join the conversation but was rebuffed. Kamp himself made his way toward the group of men, as well. He saw Druckenmiller telling the story of what had just happened and Grigg nodding. Raymond Hinsdale listened but did not say anything.

  Some of the spectators, meanwhile, had gone to the vegetable garden behind the church, because they needed something rotten to throw. The guard and the policeman pulled the kid away from Margaret Hinsdale and marched him back to the platform, and Grigg stepped up and stood next to him.

  The prosecutor cleared his throat. “By order of the Honorable Tate Cain, Judge, Northampton County—” A tomato soared out of the crowd and barely missed Grigg’s head. “Stop that!” he shouted. “Settle down. Effective this day, November twenty-three, in the year of our lord, eighteen hundred and seventy-two and by order of the Honorable Tate Cain, this boy, Becket Hinsdale, is hereby remanded to the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane.”

  The announcement brought a volley of rancid vegetables from the mob. A fetid head of cabbage hit Raymond Hinsdale in the chest. The men with guns clear
ed a path through the mob for Druckenmiller to lead the kid to the hospital carriage.

  Margaret Hinsdale shrieked, “Why, Becket?”

  The kid looked at her and then found Kamp. He said, “I had t’ do it, son. I had t’ try an’ draw out the killer. I know you understand. It’s up to you to figure it out from here.”

  Druckenmiller ducked the kid’s head as he loaded him into the carriage. The driver snapped the reins, the horses bolted forward, and the carriage was gone. A pair of women from the church consoled the Reverend A.R. Eberstark, each taking an elbow, cooing and walking him gently back into the church. The armed guards saddled up and rode away. A stone-faced Raymond Hinsdale guided his sobbing wife to their fine carriage and departed, too. One by one or in pairs, the mob melted back into the landscape until the only people left outside were Kamp and the workman, still suspended in mid-air, who hammered the last copper panel into place.

  The man holstered his hammer and via the rope and pulley lowered himself softly to the ground. He stepped out of his harness and stared up at the steeple, scratching the whiskers on his chin.

  With a look of deep satisfaction, he turned to Kamp, tipped his hat and said, “All in a day’s work.”

  12

  OVER THE YEARS Shaw had grown accustomed to seeing Kamp walk home looking tired and dirty. It wasn’t uncommon to see him come through the door splattered head-to-toe in mud from the fields or covered in sawdust. But rarely, if ever, had she stood at the window and watched Kamp trudge the path to their front door with his head hanging low. He did so now. She also noticed a hitch in his step.

  The little girl noticed nothing amiss with her father’s bearing, or if she did, she sought to correct it immediately. Autumn ran out onto the porch as soon as Shaw said, “Daddy’s here.”