Trumpet of the Dead (Raven Trilogy Book 2)

by Kurt B. Dowdle

  “What about the rest of it?”

  She shook her head gently back and forth. “There are more things in heaven and earth, love, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  “Is that a saying from your people?”

  “No, yours. Shakespeare.”

  They heard their daughter crying upstairs, and Shaw went to investigate. When she came back down, Kamp said, “Is the bear still around?”

  “She’s been going out every night at sundown and coming back every morning.”

  “She?”

  “Yes,” Shaw said, “she’s a girl bear. What’s the news with Nyx?”

  “Stuck in jail until the trial, which she’ll lose.”

  “Did you see her? How did she look?”

  “Tired. Angry. You should’ve seen how many people were in that courtroom. My god. And it was only a five-minute hearing.”

  “People are fascinated by her.”

  “Or afraid of her. Or both.”

  “Did you talk to the Judge?”

  “I visited him in his chambers afterwards. Appears he’s going to let the process run its course. He seems to think she’s better off in jail.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Don’t know,” Kamp said. “He also wasn’t wearing his usual outfit, you know, the dress. And he was drinking whiskey. I’ve never seen him do that before.”

  “Was anything else different?”

  “Nope. Other than that, same old Judge.” Kamp looked at the floor and rubbed the sides of his head.

  Shaw went to him and pulled him against her chest. “It’s bedtime. Let’s go.”

  Kamp breathed her in deeply, the soap she used and the scent of her skin. “Later. I’m not going to be able to sleep.”

  She kissed him on the top of his head and went upstairs.

  KAMP C OULDN’T ACCOUNT for much of what went on in his mind. He assumed his anguish was the after-effect of injuries suffered in the war, in particular a Minié ball that ricocheted off a tree and entered his head at the left temple. But Kamp also recalled that before he went to war, people told him he was different. And it wasn’t meant as a compliment.

  Still, for all of the visions and phantasms, imagined horrors and calamities—the insanity—that appeared before his mind’s eye on a regular basis, he never once had the feeling that he’d been alive before, that he’d had some kind of prior existence. And he couldn’t recall anyone ever telling him such a thing about themselves or anyone else.

  Kamp wanted to go to sleep, but he knew his mind wouldn’t allow it. He found himself obsessively asking questions about the kid’s story. If he’d died eleven years ago, and he was nine years old now, what was he doing for the two years he was dead? Where had he been? And if he’s alive now but was a different person before, does that make him a ghost? A new facsimile of a previous person? Kamp knew that the longer he obsessed, the more ridiculous his speculations became.

  The best he could do was change topics, and so he began ruminating about Nyx Bauer. Why would she be facing prison time for such a seemingly inconsequential offense? The police officer’s pride must have been wounded when she kicked him, but prison? It didn’t square with Kamp’s firsthand understanding of the justice system. And he wondered to what extent Nyx’s past, and the rumors about her, may have clouded people’s thinking, including the Judge.

  Kamp sat at the kitchen table and thought while he watched the candle burn down, then out. He stayed there motionless, eyes open, until morning broke and the dawn chorus began anew. Another lost night. He didn’t move until he heard a low call in the front yard and a scratching at the bulkhead doors. Kamp poured a large bowl of milk and walked down to the cellar. He set down the bowl and opened the door and saw the bear’s face looking down at him, head tilted to the side.

  He made way for the bear who went straight down the stairs milk and lapped the milk noisily. As soon as she finished, the bear went to the preferred corner of the room, curled up and went to sleep. Kamp watched with a tinge of jealousy before walking out of the cellar and hitting the road.

  He followed the trail alongside Shawnee Creek for a mile, his walk made easier by the fact that most of the leaves had fallen. The large stone house with the slate roof came into view, and Kamp started up the stairs that led from the bank of the creek to a patio at the back of the house. As he ascended, Kamp made out the form of a woman, standing and facing in the opposite direction. He saw a thin spiral of smoke curling above her head, and he smelled tobacco. The crunching of the leaves under his feet didn’t alert her to his presence, so he cleared his throat.

  Margaret Hinsdale whipped her head around and looked at Kamp.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you ma’am, especially this early in the morning—”

  “He’s not with you?”

  “Who?”

  “Becket.”

  Margaret Hinsdale’s arms were crossed, her hair pulled back severely.

  “No, ma’am, but I came here to talk about him with you.”

  She took a long drag and said, “So, you don’t know where he is?” Margaret Hinsdale threw the cigarette on the ground and crushed it with her heel. She looked down at the cigarette butt and said, “It’s a filthy habit, I know. Unwomanly.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Last night at supper,” she said. “When was the last time you saw him?” The question had the force of an accusation.

  “Yesterday.”

  Her eyes blazed. “Yesterday.”

  “Please calm down, Mrs. Hinsdale.”

  “I am calm, Mr. Kamp.”

  “Kamp.”

  “If you’ll excuse me.” She turned and put her hand on the brass doorknob.

  “Mrs. Hinsdale, why does your son think he’s not your son?”

  Her body went rigid, and she gripped the doorknob hard. She stood up straight and turned.

  Margaret Hinsdale said, “This isn’t the time. Kamp.”

  “Yes, it is, Mrs. Hinsdale.”

  “My son is missing. I’m going to look for him. You’re being cruel.”

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “None of your concern.”

  Perhaps it had something to do with the rude treatment he’d received from this family or maybe the exhaustion he felt from not having slept the night before or for the past ten years. Or maybe it was because he thought it best to finish all important matters, once started. Regardless, Kamp wouldn’t let it go.

  He said, “Do you think your son is telling the truth, or do you think he’s ill?”

  She levelled her gaze at him. “Do you have children, Kamp?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know what it means to worry about them, to suffer when something goes wrong, or worse, when you’re convinced something will go wrong.”

  “I do.”

  “But you love them so much. They’re yours. Now imagine if, every day, from the beginning, your child told you he didn’t know you, didn’t want to be in your home, that you weren’t his father. How would you feel?”

  “Tell me about how it started.”

  “I just did.” Margaret Hinsdale sat down in a wooden chair. “The first words he ever strung together, the first sentence he uttered was, ‘You’re not my mother.’”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he began talking about the house, the house in West Virginia where he said he grew up, his brothers and sister, his real parents. The more he talked, the more he articulated his dissatisfaction with me and his father. He’s quite a talker.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Yes, well, as he got older he started talking about how he got here, to Pennsylvania, and about his death.”

  Kamp said, “What do you make of it?”

  She looked at the ground and shook her head. “Why do you care?”

  “He wants me to help him. He keeps looking for me. I need to understand his story if I’m going to be able to help him. Or you.”

  “I
don’t need your help.”

  “Mrs. Hinsdale, I can’t imagine the sorrow you’re feeling about what you just told me, but I need to know what you think is the truth about your son.”

  She looked up at the sky for a long moment and then sighed. “Either he’s a very disturbed little boy, and always has been, or he’s exactly who he says he is, whatever that means.”

  “Which do you think it is?”

  Margaret Hinsdale stared into the distance across the creek. She said, “Four years ago, when Becket was five, he talked about his former home, incessantly begging me to take him there. ‘Margaret, take me to see them. I miss my mama. I must go back there.’ On and on and on.”

  “What did you do?”

  Margaret Hinsdale lit another cigarette and said, “I took him. We boarded a train and went to West Virginia, the two of us, and looked for the place he’d described.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “He wouldn’t hear of it. He stayed.”

  “What happened when you got there?”

  “Well, I’d researched enough to know which town it was, so we began there. And then I asked the local townsfolk if they knew of the people and places he’d described. One conversation led to the next, and soon enough, we’d found the trail to the right place.”

  Kamp said, “How did you know it was the right place?”

  “He jumped up and down, shouting, ‘This is it! This is it! See, see! Just wait!’ And he’d pulled me by my sleeve. I’d never seen him so animated, so blissful.”

  Kamp studied her face, sensing the how the story would end. “Was it the right house?”

  “It was as he’d described it. There were a few small inconsistencies, objects and features of the landscape that didn’t match his description. And there was one glaring problem.”

  “What was that?”

  “All the people were gone. No one there at all. The house had been abandoned, and it was falling in on itself.”

  “How did he take it?”

  Margaret Hinsdale pulled in a deep breath. “To say that that little boy was inconsolable would be a gross understatement. He fell to the ground and beat his fists. He wailed and wept. I thought he might die of grief on that very spot.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” Kamp said, abashed.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Did he ever tell you what he thought his real name was?”

  She ignored the question. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go inside.”

  “Mrs. Hinsdale, would you tell me where I might find your husband?”

  Without looking at him, she said, “I will not.”

  KAMP MARCHED BACK DOWN the stone stairs toward the creek and picked up the trail back toward his home. He quickened his pace, stepping over roots, between rocks and back onto the road. Kamp thought he heard a commotion in the distance, the baying of hounds and the yelling of men. He broke into a run.

  He saw horses, dogs and men swarming in his front yard. Kamp recognized Druckenmiller, but not any of the other men. He scanned the front porch and saw Shaw standing there, holding Autumn tightly to her chest.

  A man shouted, “There he is!”

  The group descended on him with the man Kamp had seen in the courtroom, the prosecutor Grigg, leading the way, pistol drawn. The man had sharp features and a muscular build.

  Grigg said, “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “You know goddamned well.”

  “I don’t.”

  Druckenmiller called from behind Grigg, “Ach, you do!”

  Kamp felt his breathing slow and his focus narrow. He stared at Grigg and said, “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nyx Bauer has escaped.”

  6

  “WHERE ARE YOU COMING FROM? You were away. What were you doing just now?” Grigg drew in a breath and waited for Kamp’s answer. The men and the dogs behind him grew quiet.

  Kamp studied Grigg’s face. He imagined wheels turning behind the man’s eyes. He said, “Who are you?”

  Grigg’s jaw tightened. “Attorney, Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”

  “Did you know Philander Crow?”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have time for a proper conversation about mutual acquaintances.” Druckenmiller unhooked the handcuffs from his belt.

  Kamp felt his hands curling into fists. “What evidence do you have?”

  “Evidence?”

  “Yes. Proof that I’m involved. That I did something to help free Nyx Bauer.”

  Grigg motioned for Druckenmiller to handcuff Kamp and said, “Mr. Kamp, you were—”

  “Kamp.”

  “Right. You visited Miss Bauer at the city jail, and you were seen in the courtroom yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “And you are a known associate of Miss Bauer. That means you’re contaminated by her illegality.”

  “Contaminated.”

  “Indeed. And the Commonwealth is aware of your history.”

  Druckenmiller said, “Put your hands behind your back. Go easy now.”

  Kamp looked at Druckenmiller. “Don’t do it, Sam.” Then he looked back at Grigg. “Did anyone see me help her escape? Is there anyone or anything at all that can show I’m involved in any way?”

  A long moment passed as Grigg stared at Kamp, and Druckenmiller held up.

  Kamp said, “If you’d like me to help you find her, I will. Otherwise, leave.”

  “You will be monitored,” Grigg said. “Your movements will be closely tracked. If there is the slightest hint that you’re rendering aid to the escapee, you will be arrested posthaste.”

  Kamp walked past Grigg and up the steps to the front porch. He put his arm around Shaw and guided her into the house.

  “YOU KNOW WHAT THEY’LL DO IF THEY FIND HER,” Shaw said.

  “They won’t find her.” Kamp placed logs and kindling into the brick fireplace in the front room of the house.

  “Where can she go?” Shaw paced back and forth across the floor. “Where can we go?”

  He struck a match and lit the kindling, and the wood began crackling right away. “We don’t need to go anywhere,” he said. “As for Nyx, that girl can take care of herself.” He held his hands in front of the fire to warm them.

  “I don’t know about that. You saw what she was like when she was here. How upset and confused. And then to be arrested and taken to jail. She’s alone.”

  He stood up and put on his jacket.

  Shaw said, “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to someone.”

  “Stay away from these people. All of them!”

  When Shaw shouted, the little girl, who had been playing in the far corner of the room, began to wail. Kamp picked her up and rocked her back and forth until she stopped crying. He handed her back to Shaw and went out the front door.

  He needed to get outside and to be alone and to work through the day’s events. He also knew he needed to calm himself. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, put his head down and walked. Kamp replayed the scenes from the morning in his mind. He pictured the agony, barely concealed, on Margaret Hinsdale’s face and the excitement and rage of the men looking for Nyx. He recalled Shaw’s fear and anger and his daughter’s distress. He saw himself at the center of all this swirling emotion but didn’t know how he got there.

  He’d learned through experience that the sole way to proceed, and the only way to keep from being overwhelmed by the intensity of others’ feelings and by his own, was to feel the soles of his feet on the ground, feel the cold air in his lungs, feel his body moving. Once he did that, he could focus on one discrete question at a time. And the question that formed in his mind this time was how Shaw knew those lines from Shakespeare. Where had she learned that passage or seen Hamlet, a play he knew well but that they’d never discussed? Kamp allowed himself to travel back in memory to search for the moment he met her. The memory was gone, which didn’t surprise him, considering the state he’d been in. He tried to remembe
r what Shaw had told him about her life before they’d met. Apart from a few stories about her father, he knew nothing. Shaw wasn’t one to volunteer information, though he realized now he never asked.

  He kicked through layers of dry brown leaves, letting a carriage pass before stepping back on the road and fixing on the next question: who was Raymond Hinsdale? Each time he’d asked Margaret Hinsdale a question about the man, she’d brushed it aside or ignored it completely. Druckenmiller had told him that Raymond Hinsdale was in charge of the mining operation that took over after the death of the Silas Ownby. What did Hinsdale know of Ownby’s death? What did he know about the murderous habits of the company for which he worked, Black Feather Consolidated? And what did Raymond Hinsdale think of his own son?

  One question led to another and another, as he tromped through the last of the autumn leaves, making his way for the offices downtown. What he didn’t question, though, was how Nyx Bauer had escaped from jail or where she’d gone. He’d already figured that out.

  HE WALKED STRAIGHT into the building that housed Black Feather Extraction, tipping his hat to the armed guard who stood outside the door. Margaret Hinsdale hadn’t told him where her husband would be, but since Kamp knew he’d have to track the man down sooner or later anyway, he decided he’d simply go to the man’s place of business. He planned to walk up the stairs to the top floor and then work his way through the building until he found Hinsdale.

  It had been easier when he was a detective, a sworn officer of the law. People typically acquiesced to his demands without thinking. By affecting the manner as a police detective now, he assumed that people would let him pass. And they did. He marched straight to the highest floor of the building and entered the executive hallway. The wood paneling on the walls was finely crafted, as were the windows. The floors, however, were bare. Kamp passed several smaller offices on his way to the double doors that would lead to the office of Raymond Hinsdale. When he reached them, he tried the handle and found it locked.

  He took off his hat and knocked gently on the door, expecting to talk his way past Hinsdale’s secretary. But no one answered. He continued down the hallway until he came to another set of double doors, also closed and locked. He heard men’s voices inside and smelled tobacco smoke. It sounded to Kamp as if the meeting inside were ending, and both doors soon swung open, a half dozen men emerging. Several wore three-piece suits with watch chains, but two of the men wore work clothes, canvas jackets and pants and white shirts. Rough but clean. He studied their faces as they filed past him. They all appeared red-faced and angry.