Stier knew he couldn’t tell anyone. It would be best to put the page back at the bottom of the drawer, precisely where he’d found it.
But the flicker of bewilderment and anger he’d felt upon first reading the report now burst into a small flame in his chest. Something wasn’t right. He folded the form into thirds and slipped it into his pocket.
B. H. GRIGG THRASHED IN HIS BED. His left hand slid from its cuff, then his right foot. In a single motion he ripped off the right cuff and then finally his left foot came free.
He stood, balling his fists at his sides and arching his back. The sun was nearly up, and soon the attendants would return to take him to the surgical theater. He was still locked in his room and still trapped behind the doors and walls of the hospital. But Grigg felt no fear.
He knew there was a way out. He would escape the building or shuffle off the mortal coil, it mattered not which. His eyes went to the metal lattice on the window. He gripped it with both hands and pulled. It didn’t give. He turned and scanned the room for anything he could use, some kind of implement he could use to escape, or to fight.
The room was bare, except for the bed itself. One of its legs could do some damage. If he flipped the bed over, maybe he could wrench one of the legs free.
Grigg heard voices in the hallway. They were coming for him. He turned over the bed as quietly as he could and tried working one of the legs. No luck.
He braced himself for the entrance of the attendants, determined to go down swinging. A bit of iron the underside of the bedframe caught Grigg’s eye. It was an implement, a metalworker’s file, affixed to the center rail.
Around the file was wrapped a piece of paper, which he unwrapped and read the handwritten scrawl:
“If you’re reading this, you’re probably an unlucky son of a bitch like I was. Use this here as a means to effect a dramatic escape. Your Friend, A.T.”
Grigg grabbed the file, went to the window and started sawing through the lattice. The soft metal yielded to the tool, and though the process made a loud noise, he made very good progress.
Within minutes, he’d cut through a few of the thin bars along the right-hand side. He gripped the lattice again with both hands, and this time it gave. Grigg bent it back far enough so that he could get his hands on the sash.
He pulled up but found that it had been painted to the window frame. He heard the door to his room open behind him.
The first attendant shouted, “Unlawful patient exit in progress!”
The attendant lunged at Grigg, who whirled on the man and sank the file in the man’s neck as far as it would go.
The attendant dropped to the floor, as Grigg punched the window pane, shattering it. He forced himself through the broken window, slicing his forearm on the jagged glass and then falling fifteen feet to the ground. He stood up and scrambled for the wall, clutching the vines that clung to it and hauling himself over. The guard at the front gate was only able to get off one errant shot before Grigg sprinted down a busy street and then disappeared.
TWENTY-FOUR
KAMP PULLED ON HIS THIN WORK JACKET and cinched his bag. Until and unless he brought his tormenters to account, he and his family could never find peace.
Shaw found him in the bedroom. She balled her fists and blocked his way out of the room.
“It doesn’t matter what you did or what they made you do,” she said, “or why they still care. You left it behind, you let it go. It’s dead.”
“Your father made a point.”
“Which is what?”
“If I stay, they’ll come and kill me, and you and Autumn. And your father. But if I—”
“But if you go, they won’t? Think about it. If you go and do whatever it is you’re planning to do, they’ll still punish us.”
He moved close to her and kissed the crescent-shaped scar above her eye.
“As long as they’re looking for me, I can’t stay here. I have to make them stop.”
“No.”
“Your father will protect you until then.”
He took her face gently in both hands, and they kissed.
WHEN E. WYLES FIRST PLANNED her pharmacy, she’d decided to call it “Pure Drugs & Chemicals.” She wanted the name to be straightforward, in keeping with her manner. She knew she’d face pressure and scorn from the community at first, merely for being a woman and in spite of her sterling reputation as an apothecary and midwife.
And at first that had been the case. Roustabouts and neighborhood toughs routinely harassed and pestered her. That was the overt kind of friction. Less obvious but more pernicious were sideways shoulders and turned backs, the language of bodies that whispered their disapproval.
But people couldn’t deny they needed her help as a midwife, though at first they tried. One woman, then another and another allowed her to assist in difficult childbirths, and her reputation grew.
Soon, men with panicked expressions sought her out in the dead of night, leading her to a small farm, a tumbledown shack, or a mansion. They summoned her to assist their wives or their lovers, and to save their not quite born babies.
The tide had turned more slowly in the pharmacy, though the change followed the same pattern. The most desperate came first, heads down, hands in pockets, all damaged in the ironworks, the mines or the war.
They’d been told by the doctor and by their families to bear up under it, but they knew she had much better remedies for pain than a stoic grimace.
With so many men mangled and in permanent agony, the trickle of patients became a torrent. Over time, E. Wyles was accepted, grudgingly. In public people still called her “unladylike” and “disagreeable.” But they prayed she’d always be there.
And now her business was gone. No one came through her door. Everyone went to Native Plants & Medicines, which had undercut her prices.
To assuage their guilt for abandoning her, Wyles’ former customers convinced themselves she hadn’t been much help after all and that they’d been wrong to have overlooked what they considered her moral failings.
As they passed her on the sidewalk or from across the street, they all called her the same name. Tribade. She didn’t know who’d first called her that but assumed it must’ve been the Big Judge.
E. Wyles wasn’t given to reflection or introspection, but surveying the shelves of the store with nothing on them except dust and empty bottles, she had to wonder how life had brought her to such an unfamiliar station. At least, she thought, she was still a midwife. There would always be women in need of her services.
Wyles was deep in this thought when the bell over the door jingled and a small man entered the store and removed his felt hat.
He wore a grey ditto suit and scuffed black brogans. The man carried a business envelope and without introducing himself, he walked to the counter and handed the envelope to her.
She opened it, unfolded the typewritten form inside and began reading, “By order of the Health Inspector, City of Bethlehem, Emma G. Wyles is hereby ordered to cease and desist in the practice of midwifery, including any and all activities related to the gestation, birthing and subsequent existence of infants. Signed, Dotter, M.L., Health Inspector.”
E. Wyles looked up at the man and said, “Who are you?”
“Health Inspector.”
“Inspector?”
“Dotter, M.L.”
“Who told you to do this?”
“County.” The man sniffed and looked past her.
Wyles felt rage welling up in her belly. “Yes, but who, Mr. Dotter? What person?”
“You’re unlicensed to practice, ma’am.”
“Since when is there a license?”
“County requires a license.”
“How do I get one?”
“You can’t.”
“What?”
M.L. Dotter straightened. “You can’t get a license.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Madam, restrain yourself.”
“Go to hell.”
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“Firstly, ladies are forbidden to become or to be midwives. Secondly, no unlicensed person may render medical services.”
“No unlicensed person.”
“That’s correct. And currently there is no licensure process for midwives.”
“So, no one is allowed to help a woman give birth.”
“A licensed medical doctor may do so. Which you are not.”
M.L. Dotter surveyed the rows of shelves that ringed the store, then looked down at the empty mortar on the counter.
“You also need a license to become a pharmacist.”
“I am a pharmacist.”
“Native Plants and Medicines has a pharmacist, Mr. Uwe Wedekind Eugen—”
“Pickler?”
“Mr. Schiffhorn is a pharmacist. Perhaps he can help you better understand the requirements for licensure.”
M.L. Dotter put on his hat, tipped it, and left.
Wyles scrutinized the letter which bore the seal of the city. It was signed, “By order of the Honorable Tate Cain.”
She choked down tears and felt the sting of grief at the back of her throat before she looked down, pulled in a long breath and regained her composure.
When she looked back up, the girl with the wide-set pale blue eyes and long, straight hair with the color and texture of corn silk was standing before her. Now tears filled Wyles’ eyes.
“Let’s go home.”
AFTER KAMP SAID HIS GOODBYES, he walked back into the woods, skirting the town of Mauch Chunk. Along the way, he heard and saw groups of men, hunters with shotguns draped across their arms or held at the ready. Some were hunting pheasant, deer or bear. All of them, given a chance, would hunt him.
He thought about retracing his steps back to the cabin where Nyx and Angus were. Then he realized he’d just be creating same situation for them that he’d caused for his own family. If anyone discovered him there, his cousin and Nyx would suffer.
When night fell, Kamp walked to the railroad tracks and followed them south. Soon, he settled into a rhythm that let him tick off the miles without having to think about having left his family.
TWENTY-FIVE
ONLY WHEN SHE WENT BACK to the mountain the day after they took Aodh away did Nyx realize how much his presence and protection had meant.
As soon as she set foot in the company store to retrieve her Gezähe, Nyx knew she’d suffered a dramatic drop in stature. The clerk, an Irishman who’d replaced the German before him, handed her the ring to which her tools were affixed.
But they weren’t the ones she’d used the day before, the tools she’d carefully maintained, gleaming and sharp. The ones he gave her were blunt and rusted.
“This is bullshit,” she’d said, as the clerk looked past her to the next man up.
Nyx had been expelled, too, from the work crew to which she and Aodh had previously belonged. They should have given her another hewing partner, but now she was alone. And as long as she was by herself, she’d never be able to fill seven cars.
For two days, Nyx worked alone, filling four cars each day. On the third day, she thought she’d collapse from exhaustion. Her taut muscles and iron will weren’t enough to carry her through.
She let her coal axe fall to her side, and she slumped against the wall. A light bobbed toward her, and she heard footsteps crunching on the floor.
“Sir?”
It was a boy’s voice. Nyx looked up and saw the trapper kid, Short Pinky. He held a blunt coal axe.
“Yah.”
“I’m ready to work with you, if you’ll let me.”
Nyx looked him up and down. “Go back to your stool.”
“Sir?”
“You’re better off sitting and reading books.”
“I need real work. Trapping don’t pay nothing. And if I don’t have no money, I can’t pay for no candle to read by.”
“You’re shit out of luck, kid.”
“I can do it. I’ll show you.”
Nyx considered her prospects. By herself, she’d never get paid. And no one else would work with her.
“Seven cars,” she said. “That’s what we’re after.”
KAMP FELT THE LIVING HUM in the rails and knew the train was coming. He hustled down an embankment, ducked into the underbrush and waited for the engine to pass.
He’d walked all night, probably twenty-five miles with a good fifteen to go. By the time he made it to Bethlehem, the dawn chorus had begun, murmurs and chirps and then well before first light, bird songs in full throat. He had to pick up the pace.
He passed by his small farm and crept to his house. No sparks issued from the chimney, but when he pressed his hand to the glass of a downstairs window, it was warm. And when he peered into the main room, he could see red embers winking in the fireplace.
He forced down his rage. Breaking in would accomplish nothing, so Kamp turned and headed for town. He crossed the New Street Bridge in time to see the first golden rays of dawn pouring into the river. His waking thoughts began to flow together with a dream, and it was all he could do to will himself across the bridge and to the back door of E. Wyles’ store.
Kamp fished the skeleton key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. He barely noticed the eviction notice posted on the door and made straight for the cellar and the wooden cot Wyles used whenever she had to sleep there. By the time he hit the thin mattress and pulled the wool blanket over himself, Kamp was already asleep and dreaming of a scene he’d witnessed as a boy, a hawk driven to the ground by large black birds.
AODH AWOKE ON THE HARD BENCH, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window in his cell. He shielded his left eye, the one that wasn’t swollen shut. Caked blood filled both nostrils, and he struggled to breathe. With great difficulty, Aodh sat up.
When the jailer walked past, Aodh said, “Friend, how about some water?”
He got no reply.
FOURTEEN HOURS AFTER THEY STARTED, Nyx poured the last bucket of coal into the seventh car and started pushing the car along the tracks.
Short Pinky, who’d been silent all day said, “Didn’t think I’d make it, did you?”
“Make what?”
“You didn’t think I’d hew my share.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you, no.”
“But I did it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I can do it again tomorrow. Faster.”
Nyx pressed her shoulder hard into the back of the car, burning the last of her strength.
“Yah, well, right now we need to finish for today.”
Everyone else had gone home, except for the new trapper kid. He sat in the dark beside the stack of books Short Pinky had left behind.
As Nyx and Short Pinky pushed the full car toward the massive door, the kid swung it open and let them pass. Nyx grabbed all the penny dreadfuls as they went by. When they reached the surface, she handed the books to Short Pinky, and they parted ways without a word.
WELL AFTER SUNDOWN the jailer turned the key in lock of Aodh’s cell and entered it. He was followed by three uniformed policemen, one of whom carried a bucket of water, a scrub brush and a bar of soap. Another carried a prisoner’s uniform.
“What’s the occasion?”
The man with the bucket set it down and lathered the brush.
The jailer said, “We can’t have you looking like dog shit.”
“Mind telling me what I done wrong?”
“You gotta go before the judge t’morra.”
One of the officers held him by the shoulders and another scrubbed the coal dirt from his face. When Aodh turned away, the third officer gripped him by the throat.
The jailer said, “It ain’t for me to say what you done wrong, and it don’t matter. Hearing is tomorrow morning. And make sure you’re wearing the uniform.”
“Yah, well, can I have a drink?”
“Why, sure.”
The jailer tilted his head toward the bucket of soapy water, then turned and left with the policemen follow
ing.
B.H. GRIGG WRAPPED HIMSELF IN NEWSPAPERS and sat down in an alley. He couldn’t control the shivering and feared he wouldn’t last the night. He reasoned that he must have reached the other side of Philadelphia, given how far he’d fled. But asking for help was still too dangerous.
He had no shoes, no food, no money. And the wounds to his wrists and ankles had to be cleaned or else he’d die from gangrene.
Grigg stood up, sloughed off the papers and shuffled to the street, passing a few drunken walkers and a solitary carriage pulled by a bony draft horse. He pulled himself along the side of the street until he found a low-slung brick building with a candle in the window and sparks spewing from the chimney. A sign over the door read, “Philadelphia Home for the Needy.”
He knocked twice, and the door opened. A woman wearing a blue dress and a white muslin cap looked out at him.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she said, “Oh, you poor dear” and put her arm around him. The smell of baking bread filled his nostrils as soon as he stepped inside. Relief mixed with extreme fatigue overpowered Grigg, as a nurse led him to a room upstairs, where she washed and bandaged each of his wounds before he collapsed.
KAMP THOUGHT THE SOUNDS of Wyles working upstairs would wake him, but they didn’t. Neither did he know what time it was when he woke up, but it was dark outside.
He swung his legs over the side of the cot, planted his feet on the floor and tested the strength in his legs before standing and letting all of the soreness surge through his body, radiating from his right hip up through his chest and down through the soles of his feet.
When he made his way up the stairs and into the back room of the pharmacy, his footfalls echoed louder than he thought they should.
He felt along the counter until he found a lantern and a box of matches. He lit the lantern, held it up and saw bare shelves. When he moved to the main room of the store, Kamp saw that it, too, was nearly empty, and judging by the layer of dust on the floor, no one had been there for days.
Kill the Raven: A Thriller (Raven Trilogy Book 3) Page 13
