He turned off the main thoroughfare and onto the path toward his house. He’d walked this route thousands of times, and his body could guide his steps without Kamp having to think at all. But when the mountain came into view, Kamp returned to his senses, and when he did, he found himself struck with a thunderbolt of grief so powerful his knees buckled. What brought it on, he had no idea, but the image that formed in his mind was that of his hat, the red felt hat he’d worn as a boy.
Kamp’s oldest brother had given it to him when Kamp was nine years old, at precisely the age when his adoration of his brother had reached its zenith. As such, the hat became a sacred object to Kamp, and he wore it through all the days of reckless gambols and imaginary wars fought on that mountainside. Like every other fragment of his shattered faith, the hat was now lost. Kamp couldn’t recall what had become of it. Perhaps he didn’t want to.
He wouldn’t have had to think about it at all if the kid hadn’t brought it up. How could the kid have known about it? The locomotive made of questions departed Kamp’s consciousness. He swallowed his grief hard as he watched it go.
HE REMEMBERED what he’d left at home for his family to discover: the parts of a mother bear scattered around the house and the yard and the bear’s cub mewling in the cellar. He immediately recalled the admonitions of E. Wyles, “You have to take care of them. This is serious. You know that, Kamp. You have to take care. Take care, take care, take care.”
He worried, as always, what might have gone wrong while he wasn’t at home, wasn’t taking care. He imagined that the bear meat had spoiled and the hide along with it. Or perhaps the bear cub had ingested his daughter. At the very least, Kamp imagined Shaw’s fury for his having left her to cope with it all. But when he reached the path to his house, Kamp detected no trouble, and certainly no trauma. He saw the bear cub come running into the front yard with Autumn chasing in an uncertain stumble. Shaw watched from the porch, arms folded and smiling at Kamp as soon as she saw him. He jogged toward the bear cub, who scampered away and into the tree line.
Autumn said, “Daddy,” and Kamp went to her, picked her up and kissed her on the forehead. He looked into her eyes, one brown and one blue and wondered by what right he should be allowed to hold a miracle in his arms. He walked up the stairs to Shaw.
She said, “We missed you.”
“I thought you’d be angry.”
Shaw looked into Kamp’s eyes. “You never know what I’m thinking,” and she kissed him on the lips.
“I have to finish working on that bear.”
“Yes. You do.”
Kamp went around the backyard, where he’d stashed the hide. He laid it out flat on the ground and inspected it. The kid had done a good job of peppering it to keep the flies off and salting it to keep it preserved. Kamp stretched the bear hide across two saw horses to let it dry. He knew he’d spend the rest of the day scraping the hide until it was entirely free of flesh.
Night had fallen by the time he went back in, and Shaw had already put Autumn to bed. She’d also cooked Kamp a bear steak. He savored the first bite and washed it down with a long sip of water.
Shaw said, “Did you find what you wanted in town?”
“I found out that kid’s name. Becket Hinsdale. Lives about a mile from here. His father is in charge of some coal mines.” He looked down at his plate while he said it.
Shaw’s expression darkened, and Kamp felt the shift in mood. “It’s fine.”
“No, Kamp.”
“I don’t really care about any of that anymore.”
“Sure you don’t.”
“I also found out that Nyx Bauer is in jail, at least she was this morning. Don’t worry. Emma Wyles told me she was going to bail her out.” He looked back up at Shaw. “Emma sends her regards.”
“Stay out of it. All of it.”
“What about Nyx?”
Shaw took a deep breath. “None of this has anything to do with you.”
Kamp rubbed his left temple. “I don’t know that for certain.”
He saw the anger rising in her face, which was rare. “The last time you thought someone needed your help, look what it did to us.”
Without letting the words sink in, Kamp reached across the table and took her hand.
He said, “When I was a boy, my brother gave me this red felt hat. I loved it. Wore it for years. I was wearing it the day my brother left. He walked away down the road, and when he turned around, just before he disappeared around the bend, he waved to me. And I took off the hat and waved it back at him. That was the last time I saw him.”
“You never told me.”
“Six months later, there I am splitting logs in the yard, wearing that goddamned hat, and here come two men in uniform. Told us what happened to him. I ran straight out of the yard and up the mountain. Got rid of the hat.”
Shaw had tears in her eyes. “Where did you put it?”
“I don’t remember. I put it all out of my mind.”
“Why are you thinking about it now?”
“That kid brought it up. He said he used to see me wearing it all the time. Described exactly what it looked like.”
“So?”
“That hat was long gone before that kid was even born.”
KAMP ROSE well before dawn, lit a candle and fixed a cup of coffee before pulling on his boots and returning to his work of preparing the mother bear’s hide for tanning. He used the hiding knife to scrape the rest of the flesh away. The salt had done its work of drying the hide, but the job of cleaning it would still be long and tedious.
He liked to work before sun up partly because he knew he wouldn’t be interrupted and mostly so that he could listen to the last solemn notes from the great horned owl that lived in the woods followed by the building chorus of day birds.
He cut and scraped by candlelight, face close to the pelt, fingers close to the blade. When the sun came up, Kamp was able to step back and assess his progress. Not much. In spite of the cold fall air, beads of sweat popped out on his face. He stood up, tilted his slouch hat back and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. As he did it, he saw the now familiar form of the kid marching up the path. The kid took off his hat and gave Kamp a little wave, while Kamp settled back into his work.
The kid sidled up alongside Kamp and said in a low voice, “Iff’n I’m gonna help you out, you’re gonna hafta get me started with a cup of that joe.”
“Come back later.”
“I’m here now.”
“Yah, well, I don’t have work for you to do. I don’t have another hiding knife.”
The kid smiled. “Well, son, you’re in luck. I happened to bring my own.” He fished a blade from his pocket and began working immediately in the same fashion as Kamp, only faster and with more skill.
Without looking up, the kid said, “Now, how ’bout that coffee?”
THEY WORKED FOR HOURS without talking. By the time they took a break, the hide was at least three quarters clean.
Kamp said, “You work fast.”
The kid stood up straight, shoulders back, chest out. “Shit, where I come from, iff’n you don’t eat what you kill, you go hungry. An’ iff’n you don’t skin what you kill, you go cold. At least in winter. Everything spoils faster where I come from, too.”
“Where was that?”
The kid screwed up his face. “Say, you got a smoke?”
Before Kamp could say no, they heard a forlorn cry from the tree line, then another, and they realized the bear cub was back. It scurried straight for the bulkhead doors. As soon as Kamp opened them, the bear disappeared down the stairs into the dark cellar.
The kid laughed. “Looks like you got yourself a boarder.”
Kamp studied the kid. He wore maroon velvet trousers with a jacket to match and a fine silk shirt. He had mud on both knees and bits of bear flesh on the cuffs of his shirt. He had a shock of blonde hair that had the texture of straw. On top of it, he wore a grey wool hat.
“You’re lookin’ at
my hat. Some folks call it a mechanic’s hat. I call it a forager’s hat.”
“It’s a nice one.”
“Nice one? Shee-it. It’s a beaut.” He took it off, held it at arm’s length and inspected it proudly. “Margaret hates it. Says it’s low class.” The kid turned his attention back to Kamp. “Now, look here, son. Lamb of God says iff’n a man com-peyls you to walk a mile with him, you go with him in twain. An’ I reckon I gone three with you already.”
Kamp heard his stomach growl and felt himself losing patience. He said, “Thanks for your help, Becket, but I—”
“Don’t call me that.” Kamp saw the kid’s fingers curl around the hat in his hands tight enough to drain the blood from his knuckles.
“That’s your name. Becket Hinsdale.”
The kid cocked his head to one side and parted his lips. “First off, like hell that’s my name. And second, have you been performing researches on me? Some sort of detective work? I thought you got quit of that business. Who’d you talk to? Margaret?”
“The High Constable.”
“Oh, that eejit.” The kid spat on the ground and then looked at Kamp. “I don’t like that, son, that you went around askin’ after me. That disappoints me. It really does.”
“Why?”
“Because, son, all you gotta do is ask.”
Kamp took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right, if your name isn’t Becket Hinsdale, what is it?”
The kid put his hat back on and said, “I’m about full up on your bullshit right about now. And seein’ as this is the Lord’s Day anyhow, I reckon it’s time for a rest.” He turned on his heel and left.
As Kamp watched him turn off the path onto the road in front of the house, he thought about Shaw’s warnings not to get involved with the kid and his family. Clearly they’d already attached themselves to him.
4
THE NEXT MORNING AT SUNRISE, Kamp heard hoof beats on the road and half-expected to see the kid riding back up the path yet again. Instead, when Kamp parted the curtains in the front window, he saw a girl riding what he recognized as the Druggist E. Wyles’ horse. The girl rode straight to the porch, jumped off the horse and strode up the steps. Kamp opened the door before she could knock, which didn’t appear to surprise the girl.
She had pale blue eyes, porcelain skin, sharply angled cheekbones and long, fine hair with the color and texture of corn silk, and no hat. Her bangs were cropped close to her forehead, making her face fully visible and adding to the girl’s otherworldly appearance. She stood straight, shoulders back and wore a grey pinafore dress but no jacket.
Kamp said, “Aren’t you cold?”
The girl said nothing and didn’t change her expression. She handed Kamp an envelope, and before he could open it, the girl turned to go. When she did, Kamp saw that the braid in her hair was tied with a red silk ribbon. Kamp watched her ride back in the direction of town at a gallop and then read the message.
It was written in Emma Wyles’ precise hand, and it said, “Nyx still in jail. Require assistance.”
Kamp pulled on his boots and put on his jacket. He went to the ice chest and removed what he thought was ten pounds of meat, give or take.
By this time, Shaw had partly awoken and had drifted into the kitchen. She picked up E. Wyles’ note and read it. She pursed her lips, shook her head and put it back down.
Kamp said, “I know, I know.”
She watched him wrap the bear meat in wax paper and put it in his canvas bag.
“I promised Druckenmiller I’d give him some.”
“Druckenmiller.”
“Yah.”
“The guy who abandoned you when those assholes tried to kill you?”
“Yah.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I know what you’re—well, I don’t exactly know what you’re thinking, but I can guess. And you’re right.”
Kamp picked up his bag, kissed Shaw once, and went out the front door.
He cut off the main road to get to Druckenmiller’s house, figuring the High Constable might not have left for work yet and that he could just drop off the package. He tried the back door, which was unlocked, and let himself in.
“Sam? Sam? You there?”
He got no response and walked down to the cellar to find the ice chest. By the thin light coming through the small windows at ground level, Kamp slowly made out the contents of the room. Strings of garlic hung from a rafter above a jumble of wooden crates and garden implements. Along one wall, he spotted the old cold cabinet he knew Druckenmiller kept in the cellar. He went to it and put the package inside. When he turned to go back upstairs, he caught a glint of metal on the other side of the cellar.
It was an unusual firearm. Kamp held it up to the light and recognized it as a Henry, a brass-framed breech loader. He wondered where Druckenmiller could have come into possession of such a rarity. Kamp set it down and walked back up into the kitchen. He wrote a note—“Bear in basement”—set it on the counter and left the way he’d come.
THAT NYX BAUER WAS STILL IN JAIL meant at least a couple of things upon which Kamp could speculate as he walked to town. It meant that the police, or someone, must have found a reason to keep her longer. More troubling, though, was that E. Wyles couldn’t get her out. And most troubling of all was that Wyles, by way of the message she’d had delivered to his doorstep, was asking for Kamp’s assistance, something she was loath to do. With respect to that messenger, who was that strange corn silk blonde-haired girl, and from whence had she come?
He let himself feel the chill against his skin and the gravel crunching under his boots while the questions spun in his head. Every now and again a wagon or a carriage passed by, but mostly he walked alone and in silence. When he reached the outskirts of town, the clatter of civilization reminded him of the business at hand. Kamp made his way to the police station, knowing that his presence would be unwelcome and expecting to have to pry answers out of Druckenmiller.
When he reached the station steps, though, he found the door locked. He peered in a side window and saw no one. He hustled three blocks to E. Wyles’ pharmacy and found that she too was out. A message written in her precise hand had been affixed to the door.
“Kind apologies for the inconvenience. Closed. Shall return.”
The note didn’t say where she’d gone or when she’d be back. Kamp suspected that he might find answers at the courthouse, though he dreaded the thought of having to ask the Judge. He took a deep breath, set his jaw and marched for the courthouse steps.
Before he even made it across the street, however, he heard a now familiar voice.
“Where you been, son? I looked everywhere for you just about.”
He didn’t have to turn around to see it was the kid, and he continued across the street without acknowledging him.
“Here, let me get that for you.” The kid ran ahead of him and held the courthouse door open. “You got official business here, or is you just soldierin’?”
Kamp blew past him.
“Okay, I’ll catch you later then.”
KAMP MADE HIS WAY through the narrow hallways to the imposing door with the brass sign at eye level that read, “Strictly No Admittance.” He tried the doorknob. Locked. Then he rapped his knuckles on the door and listened. It was possible that the Judge was in there, but not likely. He jogged to the lobby of the building, where he saw people streaming into a courtroom. When Kamp peeked inside the room himself, he saw all the people for whom he’d been searching. Sam Druckenmiller sat next to the prisoner, Nyx Bauer, who wore handcuffs. She looked bedraggled but unbowed as she sat perched on the edge of her wooden chair, back straight, chin tilted back, eyes straight ahead.
Just behind her, he saw the back of Emma Wyles’ head, easily identifiable by her long braid, adorned with a feather. And sitting above them all was the heavy, the Big Judge Tate Cain. Kamp hadn’t seen the man for over a year, and though his long, pale beard appeared a shade or two whiter, he looked otherwi
se the same.
Kamp took a seat at the back of room, inadvertently sitting next to the kid.
In a low voice the kid said, “I love a good theatrical production. Don’t you?” He smiled at Kamp, eyebrows bouncing up and down. Kamp looked for another seat and saw that the courtroom was already full.
He stared straight ahead, and the kid elbowed him in the ribs.
“Don’t worry, I got popcorn here iff’n you get hungry.”
He saw that indeed the kid had a brown paper bag filled with popcorn.
The Judge said, “In the matter of the County of Northampton versus Nadine Bauer, specifically the decision to grant bail, the court will come to order.”
Everything Tate Cain said sounded like a primordial croak and a last rite, as if emanating from the void and then returning to it.
The room, which had begun buzzing with excited chatter, immediately fell silent again, except for one persistent sound, the kid munching the popcorn. The Judge leaned back in his chair and slowly surveyed the room, searching for the source of the irritation. When he located the kid, the Judge fixed his gaze on him.
A moment later the uniformed officer appeared in the aisle next to them and gave the kid a stern look and said, “Knock it off.”
“Right, right,” the kid said and closed the bag.
In the meantime the Judge produced a black leather tobacco pouch and carefully packed the bowl of his briar wood pipe. When he struck the match, it echoed. He inhaled sharply a few times forcing the flame to dance in the bowl, then took a long pull and let the smoke cascade from his mouth.
“Mr. Grigg,” the Judge said.
A man in a smart, brown three-piece suit stood up, glanced briefly, if somewhat dramatically at the audience, and then addressed the bench.
Trumpet of the Dead (Raven Trilogy Book 2) Page 3
