Kill the Raven: A Thriller (Raven Trilogy Book 3)

by Kurt B. Dowdle

  He hadn’t called for Joe and wouldn’t have known how to find the man even if he’d wanted to. But in the same way he knew that Joe would find Shaw and Autumn and bring them to safety when the need arose, he knew Joe would do the same for him.

  Joe understood what it meant to be an outsider and a fugitive. He knew he could never move freely in daylight without putting himself at great risk.

  Kamp glanced sideways at Joe and took in his profile, the bump along the ridge of his nose, the granite jaw. He looked at the man’s scarred knuckles and at the shabby uniform he wore.

  “Where’d you get that outfit?”

  Joe looked at his clothing as if it weren’t on his own body, shook his head and made a wry face. To explain how he’d peeled the jacket and trousers from the corpse of a man he’d had to kill would be to place the burden of knowing on Kamp. It wouldn’t add to Kamp’s understanding and would only further contaminate his dreams. Some stories weren’t meant to be told.

  So Joe shrugged and focused on the sun that warmed his face.

  NO ONE DARED TO ENTER the room at the bottom of the mine unless summoned by Dis Padgett, who sat at a small wooden table.

  He lit a candle, warmed his hands and let waves of satisfaction wash over him. He’d heard the action had been a rousing success. The scabs had been terrorized, and even though dozens of miners had been beaten and arrested, they’d made their point.

  More important was that he’d incited and then ordered the men to riot. He’d taken their rage and frustration and used it for his purposes.

  Dis Padgett opened the beer bottle he’d brought for the occasion. The smell of it took him back to the first sip he’d ever taken as a small boy. In a field of waving barley under a magnificent sun, his grandfather had uncorked a bottle and handed it straight to him. He’d held it with both of his small hands, then pressed the bottle to his lips and tilted his head back, letting the beer trickle onto his tongue and down his throat.

  His grandfather had said, “Tha’s a good lad,” taken the bottle back and downed the rest in one swig.

  Padgett lost himself for a moment in the memory as feelings of pride mixed with a sense of loss. He pulled himself out of it by reminding himself there was a great deal still to be done, more moves to make and obstacles to overcome. For now, though, he wanted to savor his victory.

  Dis Padgett took a gulp and called out, “Connor.”

  A stout miner with a wide face and no shirt came hustling into the room. “Yes, Pater.”

  “Connor, you know the trapper boy called Short Pinky.”

  “I do.”

  “Bring me that dear boy. I want to celebrate.”

  AS NYX AND AODH TRUDGED out behind their seventh car, a man went rushing past them. Moments later the man came back with the trapper kid, Short Pinky, in front of him. The man held the boy by his collar.

  “What’s going on?”

  Aodh lowered his head. “Never mind.”

  “What are they going to do with that boy?”

  “Patience, Nef Bahr. Patience.”

  On their way out of the mine mouth, they heard excited chatter about the riot and rumors of what would happen next. Imprisonment? Execution? The mountaintop hummed with the news. Even the wraiths who worked the slag heap spoke of it.

  Nyx and Aodh walked away and down the mountain, waiting until they were out of earshot. For once, Aodh spoke without prompting.

  “All right, now listen, Nef Bahr. And I donna want you to speak until I’m finished.”

  Nyx nodded.

  “You remember that son of a bitch, Butcher, the one who got the free ride down the mountain? Yes, well, in one way he was the last man who stood between Padgett an’ what he wanted.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Rule everything down below by driving out the Germans. Butcher was the last one that mattered, last one with pull. Padgett can do whatever he wants now. That young German boy we seen back there, Short Pinky, belongs to him now.”

  “Belongs to him?”

  “Every Irish will follow Padgett. No reason to do otherwise. And no choice.”

  “I’m German.”

  Aodh turned his head and raised an eyebrow. “I’m aware of that.”

  “So what will they do when—”

  “You’re with me. You wonna have any problem, long as tha’s so.”

  “I heard people saying Padgett’s trying to make things better for the miners.”

  “Yah.”

  “And that he’s just doing what he has to.”

  “Well, tha’s what he wants miners to think.”

  “But—”

  “He wants to make things better for Padgett. Me an’ some of the other men intend to set things right. It’s what you call a work in progress. The only thing standing in our way is—”

  Aodh stopped talking when he saw two men approaching them. One wore a shabby blue uniform and the other wore a slouch hat. He had pale skin and had a hitch in his gait. Nyx recognized them immediately and broke into a run.

  KAMP WATCHED THE FIGURE, covered head to toe in coal dust, running at him. If it were a demonic phantasm, he’d question anew his mental state. But since it appeared to be a real person, Kamp wished he’d brought a gun. He didn’t have the strength for a round of fisticuffs, and his jaw hurt.

  But as the figure got closer, he saw a smiling face and outstretched arms, and even though Kamp still didn’t know who it was, he smiled and opened his arms, too.

  NOW THAT HE’D ESCAPED BETHLEHEM and the reach of the Fraternal Order of the Raven, B. H. Grigg could investigate the plot against Wendell W. Kamp. For starters, he wanted a closer look at the file on Kamp at the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane.

  Grigg didn’t believe in the idea of insanity, as such. If a man committed a crime, that was his nature, and he deserved punishment. He recalled the matter of a man named Elijah Sample, a villain who’d cut down his family in cold blood. A jury had found Sample not guilty by reason of insanity. Grigg also knew that a mob made up of peaceful, law-abiding neighbors had hanged the fiend Daniel Knecht so that he couldn’t escape justice via the same route.

  Even though Grigg wasn’t one to ponder the whys and wherefores of men’s motives, he now found thoughts of this type turning in his mind as his boots crunched the gravel path to the hospital.

  He’d gotten past the guard by displaying credentials that showed him to be a sworn servant of the County of Northampton. And while he couldn’t claim to have an appointment with Dr. Alistair MacBride, Grigg sounded convincing when he said he was there on “official business.”

  He stepped smartly up the impressive marble steps leading to the portico and underneath it, the front door. Grigg felt excited that he’d kept the element of surprise.

  Before he reached the top step, though, Dr. Alistair MacBride burst out the door, extended his hand, and said, “Mr. Grigg, so good to see you again. We’ve been expecting you.”

  NYX THREW HER ARMS AROUND KAMP’S NECK and gave him a bear hug.

  “It’s me, it’s me.”

  “I see that,” Kamp said. “But who are you?”

  Nyx surprised herself with a laugh she hadn’t heard in years. She licked her fingers and wiped away the coal dust from her cheeks and forehead, then lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “Me.”

  Then Nyx gave Joe a hug as well and said, “I didn’t expect to see you out here. What’s with the ridiculous get-up?”

  She turned to Aodh to make the introductions. It occurred to her in that moment that she didn’t know whether Aodh could be trusted with the truth about Kamp and Joe.

  “Aodh, this is my, um, cousin, Wendell and his friend, Joe.”

  He extended his hand. “My name is Aodh Blackall. And you three better get your story straight about how you know each other, else I’m liable t’ think you’re lying.”

  Joe, Kamp and Nyx looked at each other for a long moment, then all broke into laughter.

  MACBRIDE USHERED GRIGG into his of
fice and offered him a seat on the red velvet divan. Grigg noticed the fine wood paneling, burnished to a shine and a fern in an ornate porcelain vase.

  Two attendants entered the room, the first carrying a sterling silver tea service and the second a tray of crumpets with a variety of jams.

  MacBride handed Grigg a cup of tea before dismissing the attendants, who closed the door when they left.

  Grigg took a sip, steadied himself, and said, “What do you mean you were expecting me? I didn’t have an appointment.”

  MacBride pursed his lips and then sighed. “So they haven’t told you?”

  “Who hasn’t told me what?”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Grigg had assumed that MacBride was associated with Black Feather and probably with the Order of the Raven. He may even have been a member. As such, he didn’t expect MacBride’s cooperation. But now, Grigg felt his throat constrict and felt his hands and feet go cold.

  “Dr. MacBride, I’m just here to see the file you presented, the one with the photographs of W.W. Kamp, if I may.”

  Two large men in white uniforms entered the office.

  MacBride looked at the men, then back at Grigg and said, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  ONCE THE WARMTH OF THE REUNION began to dissipate, the four of them realized they were standing together in broad daylight and that each of them was in grave danger. Nyx knew she had to explain to Aodh the truth of her relationship to Kamp and Joe, at least part of it.

  She turned to him and said, “Kamp helped me one time and for that I’m grateful. And Joe is Kamp’s—”

  Aodh said, “You donna hafta explain, Nef Bahr. That history’s in the past.”

  While Nyx and Aodh talked, Kamp studied Nyx and marveled at the transformation. She’d changed her name, her clothing, hair, voice and skin color. No wonder the wanted poster looked nothing like her. She’d utterly adopted the persona of the working man, except for the moment when she’d seen him and dropped her disguise.

  He wondered what her Irish friend may have noticed there.

  Nyx said to Kamp, “Where are you on your way to?”

  “Oh, just going piece way up—”

  Joe raised his hand. The four of them listened to the wind in the branches.

  Aodh said, “I donna hear—”

  The crack of the rifle made them scatter and take cover in the woods. They crouched low, listening. The second shot told them where the shooter was.

  Nyx pointed in the direction from which the sound had come.

  “Angus.”

  NINETEEN

  THE FOURSOME RAN FOR THE CABIN, weaving their way through the trees with Nyx in the lead. They heard one more shot and then silence as they drew closer.

  When they reached the edge of the clearing, Nyx signaled for Kamp, Joe and Aodh to slow down and get low. The cabin came into view, and they saw Angus standing on the front porch, a rifle across his chest.

  When Angus saw them, he smiled and said, “Remember, normally I shoot on sight, but in your case I’ll make an exception. Hurry up once.”

  He held the door open as they filed into the cabin. Angus locked the door behind him, then put water on the stove to boil and ground some coffee beans.

  Kamp said, “We heard the shooting.”

  “Oh, yah,” Angus said, “I was just testing a gun.” He motioned to a rifle resting in the rack.

  Kamp said, “You weren’t testing it by shooting at someone, were you?”

  Angus forced a laugh. “Ach, cousin, you know me.” He poured four cups of coffee. “Yah, well, I seen a couple fellas at the tree line. Maybe two. Don’t know.”

  Nyx said, “More people have been coming around. Someone even broke into the cabin.”

  While she spoke, she dipped a washcloth in the hot water and wiped the coal dust off her face. Now Kamp could see the way Nyx’s face had changed. It was thinner, more angular.

  “It’s not safe here,” he said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Joe said, “You can come with us.”

  “Where?”

  Joe took a sip of coffee, paused, then said, “Up the line.”

  Aodh, who’d been standing at the window and looking out turned around and said, “If you want to speak freely, I can step outside.”

  Nyx looked at Aodh and then Angus.

  “I’m not leaving. I’m not finished yet,” she said.

  Kamp said, “Finished with what?”

  Nyx pulled the pepperbox pistol from her boot, held it up and said, “Besides, not everyone wants to hurt us. Someone left this for me.”

  Angus turned to Kamp. “It wasn’t you, was it?”

  He shook his head.

  Nyx set the pistol on the table in front of him. Kamp recognized it immediately, recalling the moment Daniel Knecht pressed it to his own temple and yanked the trigger.

  Angus said, “When was the last time you seen this gun?”

  Kamp closed his eyes and pictured the scene in the front yard of the Bauer’s house, the grim carnival that led to the hanging of Knecht. He remembered firing the pistol into the air in the hopes of jolting the mob from its collective nightmare. When that failed, men in the crowd dragged him away. The pistol had been lost in the melee.

  He opened his eyes and said, “Three years ago.”

  “Any idea who mighta brung it?”

  “No.”

  Angus went to the gun rack. “Yah, well, in any case I want yous to take this rifle.”

  He retrieved the Henry and handed it to Joe. Aodh looked at the pistol, then the Henry and at the assortment of weapons on Angus’s workbench.

  “Jaysus but you’ve got an arsenal.”

  The room fell silent and then the attention turned back to the Henry.

  Joe said, “What kind is this?”

  “A repeater,” Kamp said. “You can fire sixteen times without having to reload.” He turned to Angus and said, “Thanks, cousin, but we don’t need it.”

  “It’s mine anyway,” Nyx said.

  E. WYLES NEVER GAVE much thought to personal safety, and she’d only put the pistol under the counter at Kamp’s insistence. Her daily existence revolved around caring for others, and she’d assisted hundreds of individuals and families in their time of greatest need.

  People knew she worked tirelessly in the pharmacy and that, barring an emergency, she’d be there during business hours, and usually later than that. For these reasons, Wyles believed the community tolerated her as an outspoken and uncompromising woman.

  They were willing to overlook the fact that she hadn’t married, and even though they gossiped behind her back, the people of Bethlehem showed her the utmost respect in person.

  But starting the day the two men in drag invaded her store, that changed. She saw it in cold stares and stiff postures. She heard it in strained tones and clipped words. And she heard the whispers.

  Someone had apparently labeled her with a term. She’d never heard the word before, but now she heard it in whispers and low murmurs.

  Passing a tavern on Fourth Street, she’d heard a man say, “Here I thought she was just odd. Truth is, she’s what’s called a ‘tribade.’ ”

  No matter how many lives she saved or babies she delivered, and no matter how much pain she alleviated, E. Wyles was being reduced to a term, a word that signaled her expulsion and empowered others to harm her.

  Her role and standing in the community would have been safe if she were the only person who could provide what she provided. But now there was competition.

  The day after she shot the two men, she’d seen a drop in business, and for the first time, Wyles noticed customers going to the pharmacy across the street. The second day, she had four customers, and on the third day, she had none. A continuous stream of people began to flow in and out of Native Plants and Medicines.

  By lunch time of the fourth day, Wyles had worked through her entire backlog of prescriptions, and she’d received no new ones. She contemplated leaving
early, something she’d never done before.

  As she placed the “Closed” sign in the window, she saw a man emerge from Native Plants and Medicines and walk straight across the street toward her.

  “Miss Wyles, Miss Wyles, may I have a word with you?”

  “I’m sorry, we’re closed for the day.”

  “Miss Wyles, if I may, I’m in need of your assistance.”

  He was a small and sturdy man with close-cropped hair and a clean shave. He wore a starched white shirt with stainless steel sleeve garters, no necktie, wool pants and shiny, black brogans.

  “Please come back tomorrow. I open at eight.”

  She saw the color rising in his cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “I’LL JUST BE GOING. Thank you for your time.” Grigg tried to sound confident when he said it.

  Alistair MacBride leaned against the edge of his wide mahogany desk and filled his Meerschaum with cherry smoking tobacco.

  “Oh, not at all. Please, stay.” MacBride struck a match on the desk, dipped it into the bowl of the pipe and sucked down the flame. “May I know your first name, Mr. Grigg?”

  “There’s really no need—”

  “Your given name. What is it?”

  “Bartholomew. But that’s not what people call—”

  MacBride breathed out the smoke. “Bartholomew, I can see I must be frank. Your condition demands it.”

  Grigg looked at the men guarding the door and felt his pulse hammering in his temples.

  MacBride continued, “We know about what’s happening to you.”

  “What’s happening is that I came to ask if I may see your file on Wendell Kamp. And now I’ll be on my way.”

  MacBride said in a pitying tone, “Oh, Bartholomew, it’s so hard to admit we need help, isn’t it?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s sad when everyone can see it but you.”

  “See what?”

  “Your recent behavior. Strange actions, deception. Fear, delusions of persecution. Depravity of various sorts.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Oh, a number of people.”