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

  “At least stay here tonight.”

  For all the years Kamp had known E. Wyles, he’d rarely ever seen her angry. Now, she appeared enraged.

  “Do you realize that each minute I stay here is a grave risk to all of us?”

  “How so?”

  “People will realize, if they haven’t already, that I’m gone and that I left shortly after Angus visited me. They’ll deduce that Nyx is here. And you coming here is even worse. If we’re found here, we’ll be slaughtered.”

  “Then we need to move.”

  “She can’t travel yet. She has to be much more stable.”

  “How long will that take?”

  E. Wyles stood up straight and pulled in a breath. “The best thing for you to do is to leave. Go home to your family. And keep away from Nyx.”

  Wyles slung her bag over her shoulder, picked up the medical case and headed for the back door.

  As she left, Kamp called after her, “Tell Shaw I’ll be home as soon as I’m certain Nyx is all right. She’ll understand.”

  KAMP AND ANGUS DIDN’T TALK as the long night passed, but neither did they sleep. Instead, they listened, Kamp at the kitchen table and Angus in a chair by an upstairs window. Listened for sounds of distress in Nyx’s bedroom, for barking dogs in the distance or for the crunch of footsteps on fallen leaves close by. They listened to the voices in their own heads, voices from far back in their shared past, voices that preached shame and foretold doom.

  In the first charcoal light of dawn, Angus came quietly down the stairs and pulled on his boots.

  He said, “Morning, cousin,” and went out the back door. Kamp went to the window and watched Angus douse the fire in the back yard with a bucket of water that sent up one great grey plume of smoke. Angus retrieved an iron rake from under the cabin and worked the dead fire until it was spread out evenly. Kamp saw Angus bending over, inspecting the ground, and sifting through the cinders and picking up pieces here and there. Angus found the metal pan and tossed the handful of pieces into it.

  When he came back into the house, Angus went to his workbench, lit a lantern and dumped out the contents of the pan. The bones from Nyx’s toes and first finger clattered onto the wooden bench.

  “All that’s left,” Angus said.

  15

  SHARDS OF MORNING LIGHT slanted across the kid’s face, and he squinted hard against them. His hands were still strapped fast to the bedframe. The door opened, and the nurse from the day before reappeared.

  “Mornin’, sunshine.”

  “Hello, Becket. How are you?”

  “You wanna know?”

  “Yes.”

  “You really wanna know how I’m doin’?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Shee-it, I’m amazin’. I’m right as rain on this fine blue sky sunny day.”

  “Please refrain from using foul language, Becket.”

  “Right. Shit. Of course. Say, would you loose these binds? I’d like to shake the dew off the lily of my own accord, iff’n it’s all right by you.”

  “Becket, today you’re going to meet a man.” As she spoke, the nurse unbuckled the straps at his wrists and ankles. “A very important man would like to speak with you.”

  “Got a name, has he?”

  “The man who runs this hospital. Does that sound good?”

  “Sure. Say, where’s the toilet? I feel like maybe I’m gonna need to pinch one.”

  “I’d like you to get dressed now, Becket.”

  He looked down and saw that he wore only a pair of undershorts. The nurse handed him a white cotton shirt and pants.

  “What’s this?”

  “This is what you’ll wear here. This is what everyone wears.”

  “It’s not what you’re wearin’.”

  “I’m not a patient, Becket.” Her voice shifted to a slightly higher pitch.

  “Yah, well, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll wear what I wore when they drug me in.”

  “That won’t be possible.”

  “Then jus’ lemme wear my hat. It’s a grey wool type deal—”

  “We don’t allow the—”

  “Some folks call it a mechanic’s cap. I call it a—”

  “The answer is no. Now, if you’ll get dressed, we can go outside. And later today you’ll meet our founder, the man who runs this institution.”

  “Outside?”

  “That’s right. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  The kid took the clothes from her and dressed as quickly as he could.

  THE KID FOLLOWED the nurse through three sets of locked double doors before they reached the yard. He saw dozens of people, some walking in pairs, some sitting alone on benches, all of them wearing the official garb. He noticed an oval-shaped wooden track, perhaps six feet wide in the center of the yard. Several of the patients rode bicycles on the track, pedaling slowly and unsteadily. The kid scanned the perimeter of the yard. A stone wall encircled the property. Ten feet high or so.

  He said to the nurse, “You know, these fine folks out here don’t seem crazy, not to me. A little dazed, maybe.”

  “That’s kind of you, Becket.”

  “Say, iff’n it’s all right with you, ma’am, I’d like to set awhile on that bench over yonder.”

  “Of course, you’re free to go wherever you like.”

  He walked to a bench under the bare canopy of a large chestnut tree, the bench closest to the wall. The kid sat down and looked right and then left. He jumped up, ran for the wall and started scaling it. Orderlies came sprinting, peeled him off the wall and hauled him back into the building.

  They took the kid in the back door, up two narrow flights of stairs and then down a finely carpeted hallway with wood paneling that gleamed. The first orderly turned the brass doorknob, and the second ushered the kid into a large office with wide windows that overlooked the grounds. They ordered him to sit on a leather couch and handcuffed him to a nearby radiator.

  A man strode into the room. He had flowing hair, wireframe glasses and a beard in the Van Dyke style. He wore a three-piece suit and shiny, black brogans.

  The man looked at the kid and then focused on the first orderly. “Remove those binds. Now.”

  The orderly took off the handcuffs, and then left with the second orderly following. The man turned his attention to the kid.

  “Good day, Becket. I’m Doctor Alastair MacBride. How do you do?”

  The kid looked up, “I done better, truth be told.”

  “We’re just happy you’re here, Becket.”

  “I didn’t mean t’ seem ungrateful, what with tryin’ t’ go over the wall and whatnot.”

  The doctor gave him a warm smile. “Fear not, son. We favor moral treatments here. Compassion. And discomfort is quite understandable. You’re in a new setting. Strangers. That would give anyone the jitters.”

  “And then some.”

  “But let me assure you, you’re in the perfect place, young man. That’s certain.”

  “Is that why you brung me in here? To tell me that?”

  “I was told you have a delightful personality. And an extraordinary imagination.”

  “Who tol’ you that?”

  MacBride carried a chair across the room and sat down facing the kid. “Becket, your father has asked me to take special care of you while you’re here.”

  “Who? Ray?”

  “That’s right. Raymond Hinsdale. Your father.”

  “He ain’t my father, no. Let’s clear that up. My father’s name was Truax. Pastor Martin L. Truax. That man had the fire o’ God in him. Passionate. You can believe that. Upstandin’, too, ’specially for a preacher. Ray’s not all bad, but nowheres near Martin L. Truax for a father.”

  The doctor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Becket, if you’ll permit me—”

  “Name’s Abel. Wanna know how my father died?”

  “No, I—”

  “Well, fine, I’ll tell ya. He died handlin’ on serpents. That’s right. He took up the
m reptiles as a faith demonstration. But one o' them ol' snakes bit ’im, got ’im right between the thumb and first finger. I was there. I seen it. They played a long and lonesome trumpet song at his funeral. Beatifullest melody you ever heard.” The kid tilted his head back and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he focused on MacBride. “Okay, doc, what did you want to talk about?”

  The doctor spoke in a professional tone, firm and gentle. “As part of your treatment, your father Raymond Hinsdale has asked me to ask you some questions.”

  “For what?”

  “To help you find your way out of your delusion.” MacBride produced a tablet. He held it out so that the kid could see the writing on it. “I’m just going to ask you each question, and I ask you to provide me with a detailed answer.”

  “Go ’head.”

  “First question, when you helped Nadine Bauer escape from jail, where did she say she was going?”

  The kid shook his head slowly. “She didn’t say nothing.”

  “Think hard.”

  “She was outta there too fast.”

  The doctor took off his glasses and leaned toward the kid. “Let’s talk about the night you say you were murdered. In the churchyard, correct?”

  “That’s right. I was hiding in the dark.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “I was there to save a good man. I was waitin’ for ’em to bring ’im outta the cellar.”

  “Save him from what?”

  “Folks who wanted to put him back into the bondage.”

  “He was a slave.”

  The kid grew more animated. “Not no more. He was free. Legally free. And he deserved to be.”

  “Do you know why, if he’d been freed, someone sought to return him?”

  “Don’t know. Some folks is just crooked. Evil. Maybe they was insane.”

  “Do you remember who they were? What they looked like.”

  “No.”

  “If you were hiding, how did they find you?”

  “God damn, iff’n I knew that, I sure as shit wouldn’t be here!”

  “Where would you be?”

  “Look, doc, I’m sure you’s a bona fide expert on lunatics an’ all, but what’s this got to do with helping me?”

  The doctor sat back. “I’ve upset you. I apologize.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Next question, why is Wendell Kamp helping you?”

  The kid looked up with raised eyebrows. “Wendell? That’s his first name? Wendell?”

  “Why is he helping you?”

  “’Cause I asked him to.”

  “Why?”

  “So’s he could help me find the son of a bitch who killed me.”

  “Do you find it odd that you, a nine-year old boy, believe you were once an entirely different man?”

  The kid winced. “No odder’n sittin’ in this here bug house, shootin’ the shit with the likes of you.”

  “You know, your friend Kamp was a patient here once.”

  “Bullshit.”

  MacBride stood up and went to his desk. He pulled out a beige folder marked “Kamp, W. W., Capt. US Army”, and began reading.

  “Patient admitted January two, eighteen sixty-three. Madness, insomnia, delusional suspicion, disobedience. Rumination in the extreme.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like him. What’s your point?”

  “Simply that there’s no shame in being here.”

  “Never said there was.”

  The doctor stood up, signaling the end of the conversation. “Additionally, we’d like to make sure that Kamp doesn’t have to come back here.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Becket, it’s most important that I tell patients the truth. And the truth is, you haven’t done a very good job of answering my questions. Your father will not be pleased to hear of your lack of progress.”

  “Jee-zis Christ. Ain’t you heard—”

  “The better you behave, Becket, and the more honestly and correctly you answer our questions, the less likely we’ll have to punish Kamp.”

  “He didn’t do nothin’ to you.”

  “That’s immaterial. If you’ve gotten him ensnared in your delusion, he’ll certainly need additional treatment as well.”

  MacBride opened the office door, and the orderlies reappeared. The doctor said, “Take good care of him, gentlemen.”

  The orderlies led the kid back down the finely carpeted hallway and down the two flights of narrow stairs. They walked him in the direction of the room where he’d spent the night. But they didn’t even slow down and went right past it.

  “I think you fellas missed our stop. It’s right back there.”

  The men said nothing and turned down another staircase and then another until the dampness and the darkness made it clear they’d reached the cellar.

  The first orderly lit a match, and the trio shuffled into the blackness. The second orderly pushed open a heavy metal door, and the kid could see a single object in the room. It looked like a baby’s crib, only larger, with no mattress. The second orderly placed the kid in the crib, and the first closed the lid that locked into place.

  The kid said, “I think you got it fastened too tight. I can’t even bend my legs.”

  The first orderly said, “This is for trying to run away from people who want to help you. It’s for your own good.”

  The kid said, “Yeah, well, if this here is one of them moral treatments, I’d hate like hell to see the immoral ones.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  16

  “YOU CAN’T DO THAT GIRL NO GOOD by pacing back and forth on this floor.”

  Kamp stopped and looked at Angus, who was seated at his workbench.

  “We have to do something.”

  “Ach, there’s nothing to do right now. Why, it’s already starting to make you narrish, you know.”

  “Yah, yah.”

  “A little nuts.”

  Kamp said, “We have to make sure she’s safe,” and he went back to pacing.

  “Cousin, listen. She’s as safe here as she can be. It’s going to take time. And we can’t move her anyhow. I’ll take care of her. Emma’s right. You need to go back, go back and take care of your own family.”

  “Yah.” Kamp rubbed his temples. “You’re right.” He put on his canvas jacket and slouch hat.

  “Let me get you something to eat.”

  Angus wrapped up some biscuits and half a ring wurst and handed the package to Kamp, who put it in his haversack and then walked to the bedroom door where Nyx was sleeping. He cracked the door, looked in on her, then closed it again.

  He turned back to Angus. “They’re coming for her. Today or tomorrow, who knows.”

  Angus took a pause, then said, “Oh, I’ll be ready.”

  He took Angus gently by the shoulders and kissed his forehead. “Machs gut, cousin.”

  “Yah, you as well.” Angus offered him a rifle. “It’s loaded.”

  “No.”

  “Ach, take it.”

  “Not this time.”

  KAMP WALKED OUT OF THE WOODS and onto Long Run Road. He knew that if he were spotted on the road, they’d be at Angus’s cabin within minutes, but he had to make time. He planned to catch the passenger train out of Lehighton, and he knew he would have had to ditch the rifle before getting aboard.

  Pulling his hat brim low, he hustled into the station, bought a ticket and climbed the steps in to the car. He sat down and opened his haversack. Kamp wanted to read the murder files Grigg had given him, but first he needed to eat. Kamp polished off a biscuit and a length of ring wurst and then began reading the first file. As soon as he settled into the cushioned seat and the train wheels began to turn, though, sleep began to overtake him. He fought to keep his eyes open, focusing on the clothes he wore, the shirt and pants Angus had given him.

  Soon his eyes closed, and images began to flash against his eyelids. He saw fragments from his last ride on a passenger train when they sent him from the
front to Philadelphia, to the hospital. He pictured the straps they used, the straitjacket. Most of all, as Kamp tumbled down into slumber, he heard the screaming mixed with the croaking of ravens outside his window. The dream scene shifted to the Judge’s chambers, the clothes the Judge had worn, what they’d talked about. A trumpet blast accompanied a flash of insight, and the dream went dark.

  “HEY, BUDDY.”

  “Yah, yah.”

  Even before the conductor tapped Kamp’s shoulder, he snapped awake. He focused on the man’s brass buttons and leather belt.

  “You’re here,” the conductor said.

  “Where?”

  “Ach, Bess’lum. Third Street.”

  Kamp knew he had to get home, had to make sure everything was all right there. He also didn’t want to linger in town, lest any of his adversaries see him and seek to block his way. But he had to find the Judge first. He pounded on the door of the Judge’s chambers. “Judge, open up. It’s me.” No answer. He waited another minute, listening. At first, there was silence. And then, Kamp heard the sound of the Judge banging his pipe on his desk.

  “Judge, I can hear you. Let me in.”

  He heard the floorboards creaking, and a moment later, the door opened. The Judge leaned out and looked both ways down the hall.

  Once inside, he said, “Something wrong, Judge?”

  “What do you need? You want to know about the medical order I signed for the Hinsdale kid?”

  “No.”

  “Involuntary commitment. Textbook case. Aberrant behavior, criminality. Inciting a riot.”

  The Judge went to the coat rack and threw on his robes.

  “Empedocles?” Kamp said.

  “What?”

  “Last time I was here, you brought up a philosopher named Empedocles. You were trying to make a point.”

  “Wendell, I don’t have time.”

  “I know why you’re scared. I know why you put the kid away.”

  “That child is ill, Wendell. Deranged. I can’t say that I’m surprised you’ve taken up with him.”

  “One of Empedocles’ better-known writings had to do with the transmigration of souls. I know you know that. Reincarnation. The idea that a person could die and be born with memories of their previous life.”