Trumpet of the Dead (Raven Trilogy Book 2) Page 8

  “I will not disturb his honor.”

  “Just tell him I just need to find something.”

  The woman said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

  He heard her footfalls recede and focused back on the birth certificates. Finally he found it:

  Hinsdale, Becket.

  Time / Date of Birth: 11:57P.M., October 30, 1863.

  18 Sainter’s Mill Road

  City of Bethlehem

  County of Northampton

  Commonwealth of Pennsylvania

  Signed, Wyles, E., Midwife

  Kamp recognized the address as the Hinsdale residence he’d visited. And he noticed Emma Wyles’ signature beneath her typed name and next to the official county seal.

  He heard footsteps approaching again and then the woman’s voice. “I spoke to the Judge. He said, and I quote, ‘Be gone, Wendell.’ You’ll need to leave this instant.”

  He put the birth certificate back in its place, closed the cabinet, unlocked the door and walked out of the room.

  Tipping his cap to the woman, Kamp said, “Ma’am,” and he left by the building by the side door.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME THAT DAY, he felt angry, and by the time he reached the door of the pharmacy, he realized he’d have to struggle to keep his temper in check. He found E.Wyles at her typical station, mixing ingredients at the counter.

  She looked up at him and said, “Oh, hello—”

  “How come you lied?”

  “I did no—”

  “You said you didn’t know the Hinsdales.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  He felt the fire at the base of his skull erupt. “The kid and his mother. You said—”

  “Settle down!”

  He could see hurt in her eyes and behind that, fear. Kamp took as deep a breath as he could, lowered his voice, and said, “You told me you didn’t know them, but your name is on the kid’s birth certificate.”

  E. Wyles drew a breath through her nostrils and touched her hair gently. “I said information regarding people whom I may or may not treat is private and confidential. I don’t tell you anything simply if you ask, and certainly not if you demand.”

  “I’m trying to help these people, Emma.”

  “So am I.”

  They heard someone come through the back door. The girl with corn silk hair, porcelain skin and wide-set blue eyes appeared in the doorway. The girl saw the tension and the color in their faces, Kamp’s aggressive posture, and Wyles’ stiffened shoulders.

  She said, “I’ll come back later.”

  He turned back to Wyles and said, “Who is that?”

  “Is there anything I can help you with, Kamp?” By that, Wyles meant he should leave.

  “Was there anything about that kid’s birth that was unusual?”

  “Unusual?” She rolled her eyes and exhaled.

  “Just tell me, and I’ll leave.”

  She turned back to face him. “It was a very difficult delivery. Margaret Hinsdale lost a great deal of blood. And the baby had the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. Twice. When he was born, that boy had been choked by the cord. He appeared lifeless. No breath, no heartbeat. I didn’t want to tell Margaret Hinsdale for fear she’d die as well.”

  Wyles paused and looked at the floor.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then the baby’s body jerked one time. He started breathing, his eyes opened and he began to cry. He was fine after that.”

  “Anything else?”

  Without looking at him, she said, “Kamp?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  KAMP HEADED STRAIGHT from Wyles’ shop to the New Street Bridge, paid the one-cent toll and started walking across. He heard a commotion behind him at the toll booth.

  He heard the kid say, “I’ll borry one from you today an’ pay you back two t’morrow, but right now I need to catch up with that fella up yonder.”

  Kamp couldn’t hear what the toll collector said, but the kid’s reply was louder, almost belligerent.

  “Mister, I didn’t have no time to grab my coin purse when I left the house this morning. Let me cross, an’ I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

  Kamp hustled back to the toll booth, flipped a penny to the collector and took the kid by the shoulder. The kid muttered under his breath, “Eejit” and walked alongside Kamp. He stopped when they got halfway across and stared at the smokestacks of Native Iron.

  Still fuming, the kid said, “You know, the first day I rode into this town, it wasn’t half-bad, almost even kinda pretty.” He pointed to the iron-making plant. “That abomination there, it was jus’ a wee bitty l’il factory. Friendly-lookin’. But shee-it, it’s whallopers now, a regular leviathan. Ugly beast breathin’ fire an’ filth into the air.” He let out a long breath, shook his head, and started walking again.

  “When was that?”

  “What?”

  “When you first got here.”

  “I got here in the spring. I remember that. Cherry blossoms and whatnot. An’ I recall the first newspaper I seen said war’s on. So that was sixty-one.” He tipped his cap back and looked up through the trusses while he walked.

  Kamp said, “What brought you to town?”

  “Jesus, but yer full of questions.”

  “Why did you leave West Virginia?”

  “Came here to help a fella. Two, actually. One that was locked up, an’ the other who wanted him free.”

  “How’d it go?”

  The kid said, “I got myself locked up straight away. Imagine that, me comin’ to try t’ spring a fella an’ gettin’ throw’d in jail myself. Disturbin’ the peace. Course, I was wild-ass back then. You were, too.”

  A man walked past them, going in the opposite direction. The man wore a three-piece suit, a stylish frock coat and a fine hat that Kamp recognized as a Bollman.

  The kid said, “Say, friend, you wouldn’t happen t’ have a smoke on ya?”

  The man looked down at the kid, sizing him up, sniffed, “Certainly not” and kept walking.

  The kid turned to Kamp, “See, that’s another thing right there. Weren’t none like that when I got here. Puffed up an’ pompous sons-a-bitches.” He spat on the ground and started walking again.

  Kamp said, “You got here in 1861.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And Becket Hinsdale’s birth certificate said you were born in 1863.”

  “What of it?”

  “If you died in 1861 and were born again in 1863, where were you for two years?”

  The kid glared at him. “Here an’ there.”

  “The two years in between. Where were you?”

  “I see where yer goin’ with this.”

  As they stepped off the New Street Bridge and onto New Street, Kamp said, “If you weren’t alive for those two years, where were you?”

  The kid stared up at the clouds. “Folks are really starting to piss me off around here, they really are.” He looked at Kamp with a flat expression. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  They walked in silence for a while, taking a left on Lehigh and heading toward Main Street. Kamp wanted to hit Druckenmiller with a few more questions, and if the kid didn’t want to be careful about showing his face around town, well, that was his business.

  Main Street was packed with wagons, horses and people, the course of commerce. In among the clamor, Kamp saw Druckenmiller’s crook bobbing.

  He sidled up to the High Constable and said, “Morning, Sam. How’s business?”

  Druckenmiller glanced sideways at him and hissed, “Jee-zis Christ.”

  Kamp said, “Good to see you. I heard you had a bit of troovel at the station.”

  The High Constable hunched his shoulders, looked at the ground, and kept walking.

  “How’d it happen? How did Nyx Bauer escape?”

  “Stop goading me, Kamp.”

  “Your man Obie screwed up.”

  “You told me you’d lea
ve me alone.” He turned onto Market and picked up his pace.

  “How was that bear meat I gave you?”

  Druckenmiller wheeled on Kamp, eyes hard. “Ach, she stole it.”

  “Who?”

  “Nyx Bauer! Took it right outta my own cellar.”

  “How could—”

  His cheeks turned bright red. “You know she put the hex on poor Obie, too.”

  “A hex.”

  “Yah, put the hex on him, seduced him. Then she called upon a dark spirit, a demon, to come help her. Demon broke in and let her out. Damn near killed Obie.”

  Kamp raised his eyebrows. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Ach, it’s true. She took flight with that demon and then broke into my house and picked it clean. Took all my food. I didn’t do nussing to that girl. Nussing! Except try to help her.”

  “What about that bix?”

  “That what?”

  “The rifle in the cellar, Sam. Did she take that, too?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Where do they think she is now?”

  The High Constable tilted his head to the side and studied Kamp. “You really think I’d tell you? Ach, it don’t matter no how. She’ll get what she deserves soon enough.”

  Kamp said, “Well, machs gute, Sam.”

  Druckenmiller turned and trudged up the street toward the police station and said something under his breath that sounded like, “Screw you, too.”

  The kid, who’d been leaning against a store window and listening to the conversation approached Kamp.

  “What was that bit about a rifle?”

  “When I was in Druckenmiller’s house the other day, I saw a rifle, a rare one,” Kamp said.

  “Rare how.”

  “A special kind. A .44 rimfire. Repeater.”

  The kid said, “Sounds like a Henry. I call it a seventeen. Sixteen plus the one in the chamber.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  The kid leveled his gaze at Kamp. “Well, son, that fine rifle you saw in that fool’s cellar. It belongs to me.”

  “That so.”

  “Must be the one. One helluva whimmy-diddle, I tell you. Mr. Bell give it to me ’fore I come up this way. Said I’d need it. Yer own personal war machine. Ever seen one before?”

  “Yes.”

  Kamp bought two pierogies from a street vendor who wrapped them in wax paper, put them in a bag and handed it to Kamp.

  The kid’s eyes twinkled from under his blonde hair. “I thought this whole day was goin’ in the slop jar, you know, right down the ol’ shithole ’til I heard that moron open his trap. An’ then, first off, I found my gun. That’s good.” He started to giggle. “And second, did I hear right? That girl seduced Obie? An’ a demon come an’ fetched her?” The kid started shaking with laughter. “A demon come an’ sprung her an’ they flew away?” He was laughing so hard he could barely talk. “You can’t make up this garbage!” The kid doubled over and held his belly.

  When he finally stopped laughing, he said, “I tol’ you these eejits are too dumb t’ figure out squat.”

  Just then, a carriage pulled up next to them, and two men in wool uniforms jumped out. One of the men grabbed the kid by the shoulders, and the other stood in Kamp’s way.

  Kamp said, “You can’t do this.” Neither of the uniformed men said a word.

  As they loaded him in, the kid yelled, “Raymond Hinsdale will have your heads for this. Tell ’em, Kamp! Tell ’em it’s so!”

  Before Kamp could say or do anything, they’d shut the door, and the carriage started to roll. Another carriage started off right behind it. As it passed by, he saw a man staring at him through the carriage window. Raymond Hinsdale tipped his hat gently to Kamp and was gone.

  9

  KAMP SPRINTED back over the New Street Bridge, straight to the courthouse and pounded on the door of the Big Judge Tate Cain’s chambers.

  “Open the door.”

  No answer. He bounded up the stairs to the main level of the building and peered into the courtroom. He saw the Judge sitting at the bench, and he appeared to be alone. Kamp burst into the room, but as he entered, a large, uniformed bailiff stepped into his path. Kamp slammed into the man’s chest.

  The bailiff grabbed him by both shoulders, held him in place and said, “No admittance.”

  The Judge craned his neck and saw that it was Kamp.

  He said, “Edward, please inspect him.”

  The bailiff jabbed his hands into Kamp’s armpits and then ran them down his ribcage, around his waist and up and down each leg. He even reached into each of Kamp’s boots.

  He called over his shoulder, “Nix.”

  The Judge said, “Approach.”

  Kamp walked to the bar. “Checking for weapons?”

  “How may I help you, Wendell?”

  “What’s going on with the kid?”

  “The kid?”

  “Come on, Judge. The Hinsdale kid. He got picked off the street half an hour ago. What’s going on?”

  “It was described to me as a medical matter or possibly a religious one.”

  “Meaning what?” He heard the emotion rising in his own voice.

  The Judge sat back in his black, leather upholstered chair. “Meaning that he’s not well and must be held for the time being, and examined.”

  “Examined?”

  “Indeed. And held.”

  “Where?”

  The Judge leaned forward, stared down at Kamp and said, “It’s far better for the boy than what they wanted.”

  “Who?”

  “He committed a very serious crime, Wendell. He orchestrated a prison break.”

  Kamp’s body went rigid, and he had to fight to keep himself in the moment. He felt the bailiff lean toward him.

  Kamp said, “Ach, it’s bullshit she was in jail in the first place. You know it is.”

  “I adjudicate the matters that come before the bench, including the matter regarding young master Hinsdale. I signed the commitment order. As for Nyx Bauer, unless she stands trial, justice can’t be done.”

  “Last time we talked you said she was safer in jail. What did you mean? Who’s after her?”

  The Judge gestured slightly with his right hand, and the bailiff took Kamp by the shoulders again.

  As the bailiff guided him forcefully out of the courtroom, Kamp said, “You seem a little fergelshtered yourself, Judge. Who’s after you?”

  “Love and strife, Wendell. Love and strife.”

  KAMP HURRIED TO THE HOSPITAL, where he suspected the kid had been taken. Two men stood in front of the doors. Neither wore a uniform, but each held a shotgun. He didn’t recognize either man.

  He approached them slowly, taking off his hat and holding it in both hands.

  “Afternoon, fellas.”

  One of the men focused on Kamp. The other one didn’t, and neither man said a word.

  Kamp looked at the shotguns and said, “Expecting a war?”

  The man on the left said, “Not as such.” He tightened his grip on the gun.

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get through.”

  The man on the right said, “No visitors.”

  Kamp looked at the ground. “Well, that’s too bad. He’s in a lot of pain.” He twisted his hat in his hands.

  The man on the left said, “Who is?”

  “My brother. Accident in the mines.”

  “Accident?”

  “Yah. Explosion blew his leg clean off.”

  “Oh.”

  “Balls, too.”

  “Gott in himmel.”

  “Yah, yah.” Kamp shook his head and kept looking at the ground. “I come from the druggist just now. She give me this medicine to ease his pain. Morphine.” Kamp pulled the bag of pierogies from his pocket and held it up.

  “Morphine, huh?”

  “Yah, well, I see you boys have a job to do,” Kamp said and turned as if to go.

  The man on the right said, “What’s your
brother’s name?”

  Kamp looked at the man. “Abel.”

  “Well, you tell Abel we hope he feels better soon.” The two men stepped aside.

  Kamp said, “God bless you,” and walked into the hospital.

  HE KNEW that by virtue of having passed by the men at the door, Kamp was safe, to an extent. Most people inside would think he belonged there, or at least that he wasn’t a threat. Then again, he’d caused trouble at the hospital more than once before. In the first case, he’d barged in to ask questions of Sam Druckenmiller who’d been very badly beaten about the face. In that incident and the one that followed it several weeks later, Kamp had run afoul of a particularly hostile nurse. The very sight of him incensed her. He assumed she still worked there but hoped she was otherwise occupied, or even better, off from work.

  He took off his jacket, slung it over his arm and tried to appear casual as he searched the men and boys’ ward for the kid. As had been the case before, the ward was very crowded. Some of the patients’ heads were wrapped with bandages, some were moaning, some were asleep. Kamp saw none that looked at all like the kid. He realized quickly that if the kid were at the hospital, they’d keep him off the ward, lest he pester, wheedle, goad or otherwise foment unrest among his fellow patients.

  Kamp left the ward and looked for a cellar door but found none. He then walked quietly to the back of the building to what appeared to be a maintenance wing, made up of a supply area and a repair shop. No sign of the kid or anyone else. Just before he turned to go, he saw a wooden door that didn’t appear to lead to the outside. Perhaps a storage closet. Outside the door, Kamp noticed a stack of boxes and a row of bottles, as if the items had been removed from the closet. He crossed the room and tried the knob. Locked.

  He considered breaking down the door with his shoulder and thought better of it. He scanned the counter across the room, looking for the right tool and saw nothing that would help. Above the counter, though, was a pegboard that held an assortment of implements. He picked out a large hammer and chisel and went back to the doorknob. He listened to hear if anyone was coming and satisfied that no one was, Kamp raised the hammer and gave the chisel one mighty whack that sheared off the doorknob.