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

  He also picked up the sound of footsteps approaching from behind, perhaps a wolf or another bear. Kamp crouched low and changed his grip on the knife. He turned and sprang, holding the blade close to the throat of the figure behind him.

  The kid stood unflinching with a bemused expression.

  He said, “Christ, but you’re jumpy.”

  Kamp lowered the knife. “And you were just about dead.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Kamp went back to butchering, while the kid looked on.

  “I’m startin’ t’ think you need more help than I do.”

  “How’s that?”

  “That meat’s fixin’ to spoil.”

  “You know how to field dress a bear?”

  The kid snorted, “Course.”

  Kamp felt a fire starting at the base of his skull, felt the anger rising in his chest.

  The kid said, “Gonna hafta work a helluva lot faster n’ that. Else yer gonna have maggots.”

  Kamp said, “Ach, shut up!”

  “You brought salt and pepper, though, I bet. Let me get going on that hide.”

  Kamp motioned with his thumb. “In the bag.”

  The kid fished out the pepper and began working it in. “I suspect yer gonna need my help carrying all of this, too.”

  “I wasn’t planning on taking the hide. You’re welcome to it.”

  “I bring that home, and the old lady’ll shit bricks. You seen what she’s like.” The kid laughed to himself.

  “Your mother?”

  “Not exactly. She thinks she is.”

  “Then who is she?”

  The kid folded the bear hide carefully and then took a handful of salt from the jar Kamp had brought. He rubbed the salt between his hands to clean them.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke, wouldja?”

  Kamp ignored the question and wrapped the meat in a muslin hunting bag. With his free hand, he picked up the canvas haversack and headed back onto the trail. The kid scooped up the hide in both arms and followed Kamp.

  It was still dark when they reached the house. Kamp opened the bulkhead doors, and they put the meat and the hide in the cellar. Kamp now wished the slaughterhouse was built, in spite of his ambivalence.

  The pair emerged from the cellar, and both breathed a sigh into the cold air of the pre-dawn. The kid tipped his hat back on his forehead.

  “Now you hafta help me.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Well, son, Jesus said that iffin’ a man com-peyls you to walk a mile with him, you oughta go with him twain. I figure I gone at least that far with you already.”

  “I didn’t compel you to do anything.”

  “You sure about that?”

  THE KID LEFT WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE, and by the time Kamp finished salting the bear meat and storing it in the kitchen, dawn had begun to seep through the windows. He knew he wouldn’t sleep and that Shaw and Autumn probably wouldn’t be up for hours.

  He started a fire, heated a pot of water and washed his face and hands. After he put on a clean shirt, his thin work jacket and his hat, Kamp walked out the front door. He saw a black shape moving back and forth in the front yard, one of the bear’s cubs. The cub gave a low, sad cry, calling for its mother, which it must have smelled. Kamp knew that the cub wouldn’t leave, and he didn’t want Shaw, or worse, Autumn to discover it in the yard. Neither did he want to kill it.

  Kamp went back into the house, poured a bowl of milk and walked slowly toward the cub. He held the bowl out gently and let the cub smell it and then lap it a few times. He pulled the bowl away and backtracked toward the bulkhead doors, descending into the cellar with the bear following. While the cub finished the bowl, Kamp went upstairs, locking the cellar door behind him. He wrote a note—“Back soon. Bear in basement”—and headed for town.

  Riding a horse wasn’t an option for Kamp, as one of the permanent consequences of having been shot in the head was intense vertigo every time he climbed in a saddle. Driving a wagon produced the same effect, and so he rode the train when he could. But since Kamp had already missed the five-seventeen Black Diamond Unlimited into Bethlehem, he’d have to hoof it.

  Kamp never minded marching as long as it wasn’t on an empty stomach. And since he’d grabbed a handful of hard biscuits on his way out of the kitchen, he knew he’d be fine. Besides, he needed a long walk to think through the two visits from the kid. A number of statements the kid had made started a flood of associations in Kamp’s mind, memories and feelings that he’d thought had long since washed away. And even though he’d first met the kid the day before, Kamp was already retracing the causes and contingencies that first brought the kid to his door then returned him again in short order.

  Something about the kid reminded Kamp of the local misfit, Daniel Knecht, who’d also happened onto his property, trying to outrun the law. By saving Knecht from the train detective’s bullet, Kamp had unwittingly set in motion a chain of events that led directly to the gruesome murders of an upstanding husband and wife, not to mention the execution of the fiend Knecht himself. True enough, the detective’s bullet might have missed Daniel Knecht, and Knecht might have raced to an early grave regardless. And Jonas and Rachel Bauer were almost certainly doomed, even if Knecht hadn’t darkened their door. But Kamp couldn’t escape the fact of having been a cog in a murderous machine. And before that story ended, Kamp himself had taken lives.

  The kid and Knecht looked nothing alike, and neither did the kid seem broken and forlorn, as Knecht had. But still, there was a similar quality, a rootlessness, a sense that both had been cursed to wander. Kamp also reflected on Shaw’s point about not being able to save Nyx Bauer, knowing she was right but committing to the girl’s salvation all the same.

  Kamp knew his thinking would lead to nothing but rumination. Soon, his mood would darken, and not long after that, a full-blown war would erupt in his mind, complete with foul apparitions and endless gore. But Kamp had learned through hundreds of such episodes that physical exertion would keep him in his body and could hold the demons at bay. And by the time he’d walked halfway to Bethlehem, his brain had slowed so that his thoughts kept pace with his steps.

  The wind had blown away the haze, and Kamp walked the road under a brilliant sky lit with yellow sunshine on a scene of fall colors’ full blaze. He breathed the sweet smell of maple leaves and listened to them crunch under his boots. By and by the town came into view, or rather, Kamp saw black smoke billowing from Native Iron and then the stacks themselves and the iron-making plant and finally the buildings, streets, carriages and denizens that constituted Bethlehem proper.

  He avoided going to town as much as practical necessity would allow. Kamp assumed that although he was engaged in no quarrels at present, he would forever be regarded as an outsider and a malefactor for what he’d done in the service of the Bethlehem Police Department. And yet, he needed information, and in spite of their shared history, Kamp needed to begin with the decidedly low-brow High Constable, Samuel Druckenmiller.

  KAMP REMEMBERED the beat Druckenmiller walked, recalling, too, that the man followed the same path every day at the same time. He assumed the High Constable did this so that every criminal could be certain to avoid getting caught. Kamp also assumed that after the turmoil of the previous year during which Druckenmiller himself was nearly beaten to death, he would return to the same routine he’d followed before the trouble started.

  And if that were the case, he’d be making the turn from Main Street onto Market at exactly ten-thirty. Kamp waited on the corner and soon saw the familiar shepherd’s crook bobbing up and down in the mass of mid-morning pedestrians. When Druckenmiller saw him, Kamp watched the color drain from his face. The High Constable tugged his hat brim down, trying to look nonchalant and pass by without acknowledging Kamp, who pulled up alongside.

  “Guder mariye, Sam. Wie bischt?”

  Druckenmiller grunted, “Morning.”

  “Need a favor.”
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  The High Constable’s eyes darted back and forth. “Christ, Kamp.”

  “I need you to find some information about a couple of people.”

  “Ach, I don’t work with you no more. And I sure as shit don’t work for you.” Druckenmiller took the silver flask from his vest pocket and took a long pull. He offered the flask to Kamp, who declined.

  “I just need a few answers.”

  Kamp saw color blooming in Druckenmiller’s face.

  “Yah, a question here, a question there and pretty soon I’m in the hospital again. Or dead!”

  “A kid came to my house, nine years old or so, rich kid with a big mouth. And his mother. Tall. Angry. Kind of a strange—”

  “Leave me alone,” Druckenmiller hissed. He stared at the ground and stopped walking.

  “No one’s after me anymore, Sam. And no one’s keeping an eye on you.”

  Druckenmiller looked up and faced Kamp. “You don’t know that.”

  “Right now I just need a few answers.”

  The High Constable sipped the flask again and put it back in his pocket. Kamp saw a familiar twinkle in the man’s eye.

  Druckenmiller said, “What do I get?”

  “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Yah, what else do I get?” He cocked his head to the side.

  “Ten pounds of bear meat. Butchered this morning.”

  Druckenmiller started walking again. “I know the two you’re talking about. The kid’s name is,” Druckenmiller affected a British accent, “Hins-dale. Mas-tah Becket Hinsdale. And his mother’s name is Mah-garet.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The wife and son of Raymond Hinsdale, formerly of Massachusetts. They live over by you now, in that stone house with a slate roof, back from the creek.”

  “I know that one.”

  “Nice big house. Yah, well, Raymond is now the president of Black Feather Extraction, the outfit that took over after the chief of the last one died.”

  “Silas Ownby. He was murdered.”

  Druckenmiller shook his head. “Yah, that poor bastard. Anyhow, this Hinsdale is in charge now.”

  The police station came into view. They walked up the steps to the door, then paused outside it.

  Kamp said, “How do you know this, Sam?”

  “You wouldn’t believe the horseshit we been through with this one already. You just wouldn’t believe it. You think all he’s got is a big mouth. You don’t know the half of it. Kid’s trouble.”

  “What kind?”

  “Breaking into buildings, mostly. And carrying a gun. Course, we can’t do much with him on account of he’s a junge and his father’s a big shot. And that mother. Jeezus crackers but she’s a piece of work. Don’t get mixed up with ’em, not if you can avoid it.”

  “One more question. What do you know about Nyx Bauer?”

  Druckenmiller smiled for the first time as he turned the knob and walked into the police station. “Why, you can ask her yourself. She’s right here.”

  NYX BAUER SAT on the wooden bench in the jail cell, staring up at the small window near the ceiling. She looked much the same as she did when she’d visited Kamp’s house the night before. Two scroungy looking men sat on the floor away from her in the far corner of the cell. They kept their distance out of respect or, more likely, she’d intimidated them. Kamp crossed the room.

  “Nyx, Nyx.”

  She snapped from her reverie, reorienting herself to the hard bench, the iron bars and Kamp’s voice.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, without emotion.

  “Business in town. What are you doing here?” Kamp knew she wouldn’t like the question, and when she didn’t answer, he wasn’t surprised. “Are you hurt? Is there anything I can do?”

  She said, “Go home” and went back to looking up at the window.

  By the time Kamp turned around, Druckenmiller had already taken off his boots and propped his feet on his desk. He held up a book to show Kamp the cover.

  “Around the Moon. Jules Verne.” He pronounced the V as a W.

  “What’s she doing in there, Sam?”

  “Ach, this is a good one. Here, they shoot them all the way into space in a rocket shaped like a bullet with such a, such a conone, a Columbiad, ya know, a huge gun and then—”

  Kamp raised his voice. “Why is she in the cell?”

  Druckenmiller looked up at him with an expression of hurt. “Ach, Kamp, why ya always have to be so ugly?” He set the book down and put his feet back on the floor. “She was there when I got in this morning.”

  “Who was here over night?”

  “Who?”

  “The cop on duty last night. Who was it?”

  Druckenmiller screwed up his face as if he had to work to remember. “Obie.”

  “The drunk?”

  “Ach, we all got our predilections. Obie’s just a hoofty, I know. But we don’t have him do nothing except watch to see none of the jailbirds gets loose till I get in.”

  “Who arrested her? Who brought her in?”

  “New guy.”

  “Stop dicking around, Sam. What’s his name?”

  “I got work to do, Kamp.”

  “Let me read the report. There’s a report, right?” Kamp felt the kindling at the base of his skull, and he knew it would only be another minute or so before it erupted.

  Druckenmiller sensed it, too. He said, “All I know is it had something to do with the pharmacy. Go ask your friend, Emma.”

  THE SIGN OVER THE DOOR READ, “Pure Drugs & Chemicals, E. Wyles, Druggist.” Kamp removed his hat, went in the front door and saw E. Wyles herself, sleeves rolled up and grinding ingredients with a mortar and pestle hard enough so that her long braid swayed to and fro. She glanced up to see it was Kamp and then went back to work.

  She said, “What do you need?”

  “No good morning?”

  He was accustomed to her abrupt manner and her typical mood, and he enjoyed prodding her as much now as he did when they were children.

  She looked up and put the knuckles of one hand on her hip. “Good morning, Kamp. What do you need?”

  “Heard Nyx Bauer ran afoul of the law last night and that it had something to do with you.”

  “That’s what you heard.” As usual, E. Wyles wasn’t giving an inch.

  “What happened, Emma?”

  “I suppose that’s her business, not yours. Is there anything else you need? For your little girl? For Shaw?” She finished mixing the compound and carried the mortar and pestle to the back of the pharmacy.

  He called after her, “Emma, I didn’t think you’d be happy to see me, but I also didn’t think—”

  “You didn’t think. You don’t. Mind your own business. I’m certain that’s enough to keep you occupied.”

  Kamp walked to the back of the store. “I won’t drag you into anything. Tell me what happened last night.”

  Wyles put the mixture she’d prepared into a vial and then put the vial in a paper bag.

  She said, “I worked late last night and left around ten o’clock by the back door. When I turned the corner and left the alley, I saw a person, who turned out to be Nyx, smash the window next to the door, unlock it, and let herself in.”

  Kamp looked at the broken window next to the back door.

  She continued, “Not ten seconds later, a police officer ran in the door, baton raised. I rushed back to see what was happening, and by the time I got back inside, the police officer was writhing on the floor.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. The police officer stood up and put handcuffs on her.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told him, for god’s sake to put them away. He insisted.”

  “He arrested her.”

  “He wanted to arrest her for burglary, and I told him that she’d committed no crime.”

  “And?”

  “And another officer appeared, and the two of them took her away. I followed them, natur
ally, to the police station. I’m going back there now to see that she’s released.”

  “You mean pay her bail?”

  “Of course.” E. Wyles put on her coat and grabbed her keys.

  Kamp said, “One more question.” She had a flat expression but raised one eyebrow slightly.

  “A Margaret Hinsdale. Or a kid, Becket Hinsdale. Do you know them?”

  “Why would I know them?”

  “Does she ever come in here? For medicine?”

  Wyles shook her head. “Private and confidential, Kamp. For god’s sake.”

  “So that’s a no.”

  “Private and confidential.”

  3

  THERE WASN’T TIME for Kamp to digest the information he’d learned on his trip to Bethlehem, wasn’t time to pick through the particulars of what the High Constable and Emma Wyles had said. Kamp had already been away longer than he wanted to be, and now, as he willed his feet to move faster toward home, he felt for the first time that day the strain of not having slept the night before.

  But even though there wasn’t time to get sidetracked, to do anything but make a beeline back to his family, Kamp soon found himself lost in a reverie. It was as if the events of the previous twenty-four hours—the sense perceptions, the work, the people he’d met, all of it—forced Kamp to all sorts of places in his mind. He found it possible to continue to walk toward home, but he could in no way hurry.

  Letters began to spin in a cloud before his mind’s eye, slowly arranging themselves into words and eventually questions that formed a discrete three-dimensional structure, a locomotive. The questions appeared one by one in something like reverse chronological order. Why had Nyx Bauer gone from dinner at his house to E. Wyles’ shop, and why, if Wyles had told the police that no crime had been committed, did they take her back to the police station? How could a police officer have seen Nyx breaking in before Wyles herself saw it happen?

  Kamp also wondered about his conversation with Druckenmiller. How much more did the High Constable know about the kid Becket Hinsdale and his mother Margaret? And, naturally, Kamp couldn’t resist wondering about the kid’s father, Raymond Hinsdale, successor to Silas Ownby, the man Kamp tried to save, only to see him cut in half by shrapnel from an explosion. And as soon as the name Black Feather appeared, Kamp wondered to what extent Fraternal Order of the Raven was orchestrating the show.