“My cousin. Angus.”
“Yeah, him too. There oughta be more of us, but there ain’t.” The kid took a long pause and then focused on Kamp again. “You figure out who killed me yet?”
“I think so. I have to make sure.”
“Yeah, I believe I got it figured, too.”
27
AT A MOMENT WELL BEFORE SUNRISE, when her husband walked out the front door and shut it behind him, Margaret Hinsdale awoke from her nightmare, ribs squeezed with fear. She calmed herself by counting silently backward from ten, again and again, listening for the first bird sounds of morning and hearing none. Just before first light, she heard noises at the back of the house that she took to be her husband’s return. He must have forgotten something, she thought, as she counted backward once more and drifted into the first real sleep of morning.
When she woke again, hours after the dawn, Margaret Hinsdale heard horses nickering and stomping their hooves. She went to the window and saw the team of horses and the carriage, exactly where they’d been before they were stolen.
She ran outside and called to them, “You’re here, you’re here.”
She also found the steamer trunk, swung open the lid and saw all of the items that had been taken, including her locket. She picked it up and opened it. The face of her boy in the tiny photograph looked back at her. Inside Raymond’s top hat, she found a note handwritten in pencil. It read, “Thank you.”
Tears flowed down both her cheeks. Margaret Hinsdale ran in the house and up the stairs to her son’s room. She saw his golden head of hair like straw and the rise and fall of his chest under the blankets. She went to the boy and cradled him.
She talked between sobs, “My boy, my boy, Becket. You’ve come back. My sweet boy.”
He opened one eye and grinned. “Sure feels good to wake up in my own bed.”
KAMP HAD SLEPT in his own bed that night as well, or at least he had tried. Upon returning home, he’d washed his face and hands and had climbed into bed next to Shaw.
“I love you,” she’d said, and immediately gone back to sleep. He lay awake for a half hour or so, then gave up. He went downstairs, lit a lantern and ground some coffee beans. When he sat down to drink his cup, he saw a handbill on the kitchen table. Shaw had written on it, “This.”
It read, “One Night Only, the music of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart at the Lutheran Church, Bethlehem, December the 15th. The Requiem in D minor.”
He scanned the rest of the handbill, particularly the small print at the bottom, which named the underwriter of the concert, Native Iron. He turned the handbill over and saw a list of names, written in pencil. He committed the list to memory, folded the handbill and put it in the pocket of his jacket before lacing up his boots, pulling on his slouch hat and leaving again.
RAYMOND HINSDALE DIDN’T HEAR the horses and carriage pull up to the house, because they’d waited until they were certain he was gone for the day. He might not have paid attention even if he had heard the carriage, fixated as he was on getting to the office. He walked the dark road purposefully, head down, not noticing the dawn chorus, not feeling the shift in the weather, a breeze slightly warmer, and not seeing the purple line horizon.
He didn’t recognize anything different at all that morning until he unlocked the door of his office, went in, and found Kamp sitting on the edge of his wide, impressive desk.
Hinsdale stood up straight, evaluating Kamp, looking for the man’s intention. He held out his hands and said, “I’m not armed.”
“Me neither.”
“You’re trespassing.”
“I didn’t want to upset them by going to your house.”
“Them?”
“Your wife and your son. They’re both there.”
Hinsdale shook his head, barely concealing rage. “Becket is still—”
“No, he’s not. He’s at your house right now, probably asleep in his bed.”
“Mr. Kamp—”
“Kamp.”
“When last we spoke, you assaulted me. Now, you’ve broken into my office—”
“You need to tell them.” Kamp didn’t feel anger, didn’t change his tone. “They deserve to hear the truth. The lie is killing them.”
“What in god’s name—”
“You fell in love with the same woman, the prostitute. You and Abel Truax.”
“You’re insane.”
“You saw him as a competitor and a threat. And you knew if he told your secrets, he could destroy you. He was a dangerous man.” Kamp watched Hinsdale calculating his next move. “You were working for Native Iron the night of the concert. You were there. And someone, I don’t know who, told you Abel Truax was going to be there. And then you realized you could get rid of him and do someone else a favor at the same time.”
“Favor?”
“Truax wanted to free a man who’d been wrongfully imprisoned in the church cellar. Someone stood to gain from preventing that man from going free. My guess is that it had to have been someone from Native Iron, from the Order of the Raven. You might’ve even gotten a promotion for your trouble. Maybe that’s why you’re in charge of Black Feather Extraction.”
“Your facts are wildly inaccurate, as usual.”
“You took a pickaxe or a shovel from the shed and stole up on Truax. One swing and it was over.”
“Wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Hinsdale said, “Of course it matters. You’re the malefactor here, because you have a vendetta. Against my employer, and therefore against me. If you did in fact kidnap my son from the hospital, you’re preventing him from getting the attention he desperately needs.”
“Tell them, Raymond.”
“Do you tell your family all of your secrets, Mr. Kamp? Do you?”
“Tell them the truth.”
Raymond Hinsdale stared down at his hands. “What I share and with whom is my business, of course. And none of yours. Your problem is your mouth and your inability and unwillingness to leave good people in peace.”
“Good people.”
“Indeed, this city, this region has grown in so many ways that promote the greater good. This region is thriving. People’s lives are improving. Defectives like you just want to tear things down, want to hurt others. You need to hurt people because you’ve been hurt.”
Kamp rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Just tell them.”
“They won’t allow you to live.” Hinsdale took off his coat and hat and put them on the rack.
“Who won’t?”
“You want the truth to be known? The truth is that you’re an idiot and a fool. It’s time you left. Good day.”
KAMP HURRIED HOME the way he’d come, assessing the meaning of the conversation he’d just had. He didn’t expect that Raymond Hinsdale would confess but neither did he expect the man, upon hearing his accusations, simply to sit down and commence his daily business. Hinsdale seemed angry but not discomfited in the slightest, and the man’s lack of a strong reaction struck him as odd, given that he’d broken into the man’s office and accused him of murder. Then again, he thought, Hinsdale had likely had considerable experience with hiding his misdeeds and burying whatever human emotions may have accompanied them.
Kamp knew Hinsdale’s threats were real, and he turned his attention to getting home, making sure Shaw and Autumn were safe. He didn’t imagine that anyone would be troubling him or his family on this fine morning, but the knot in his gut told him otherwise. When his house came into view, he saw a man on the front porch, hands cupped around his eyes, peering into the front window.
He broke into a run. He tried to tell if the man had a gun, but there was no way to know.
Kamp yelled, “Get away from there!”
The man wheeled around, and Kamp saw that it was the prosecutor, Grigg.
Grigg said, “My goodness, you gave me such a fright.”
“Yah, me too.”
The prosecutor smiled and extended his
hand, and Kamp shook it. “You’ve been busy.”
“What brings you here?”
“My briefcase. I need it back.”
Kamp went to the front door and unlocked it. When he pushed the door open, he caught the smell of wood smoke and saw a smoldering fire.
“Shaw? Shaw?” No answer.
“I don’t think anyone’s home. I’ve been here a good five minutes. I haven’t heard anything.”
Kamp walked upstairs and checked each room. He came back carrying the briefcase and handed it to Grigg, who said, “I hope you found what you needed.”
“And then some.” He looked Grigg in the eye. “Thank you.”
“I heard Becket Hinsdale escaped from the insane asylum. Authorities said two men and a woman with a rifle broke him out.”
“Yah.”
“You weren’t in Philadelphia yesterday by any chance, were you?”
“Is there some way I can help you, Mr. Grigg?”
“Don’t worry. No one has identified you, although I’m sure the Order has already figured it out.”
“I wish you well.” Kamp gestured to the front door.
Grigg turned to go, then turned back around and said, “The man Nyx Bauer shot at the hospital, the orderly. His name was Mungo Leach. He died. Don’t worry about that, either. He didn’t have a family. And you heard about Emma Wyles.”
“Heard what?”
“She turned herself in to the police.”
“For what?”
“Aiding and abetting a fugitive. Or two. Your cousin was with Nyx Bauer when they went to her shop, correct?”
Kamp shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, well. She’s still in jail. One bit of advice. Let her get herself out.”
Grigg buttoned his coat, picked up his briefcase, bowed slightly to Kamp and went to the door. He put his hand on the doorknob and said, “The coroner was furious that I took his files, but if it ultimately helps bring justice, then of course it was worth it.”
“And I owe you one.”
Grigg smiled, “At least one. Goodbye.”
Kamp closed the door and turned to see Autumn standing at his feet, arms raised.
“Daddy’s home,” she said.
He picked her up, kissed her on the forehead and said, “Yes, he is.”
Long after his family had gone to sleep, he rechecked all the house’s doors and windows to be sure they were locked tight. If someone were to attack, it would most certainly be Adams. Kamp intended to lie awake until dawn, but a powerful relaxation overtook him immediately, and he began to dream.
He dreamt of the mountain behind his house, and in the dream he was flying and looking down at the mountaintop. He saw his brothers down there, and himself. Pulling up and soaring into the sky and clouds, Kamp descended into the first deep sleep he’d known in years.
28
ONCE SHE WAS CERTAIN Kamp had gone to bed, Adams started inspecting the locks, jiggling each slightly to see if it would give and to what extent it would be amenable to being picked. She stepped silently across the porch, going to the first window, then the door, then the next window, patiently and precisely searching for a way in. When she finished, she went to the back of the house and checked all those locks as well.
Knowing that Kamp was exceedingly vigilant and likely an insomniac, Adams exercised extreme caution. She believed she could cut him down in a knife fight if necessary, but she didn’t want commotion. She wanted to bleed him right in the bed next to his woman, without a sound. But the locks were too tight for her to pick one noiselessly.
Adams went around the side of the house and found the bulkhead doors lit by bright moonlight. Even as she approached, she could see that the padlock was open and that the chain had been removed. She lifted the right-hand door to test it. The door was well-oiled and swung freely. Adams steadied herself and slowly inched it open further. She had no flame or lantern and couldn’t afford the risk of lighting one, so she let her steps guide her down into the darkness. Besides, she didn’t need to hurry. The moment would come soon enough.
Adams reached the bottom step and felt for the dirt floor with her right foot, planting it on solid ground. She let the blade slip from the sleeve of her jacket and began moving across the floor to where the base of the stairs would be, in the center of the cellar.
Kamp snapped from his dream, heart slamming in his chest. A stifling fear hit him, but he couldn’t find its origin. He forced himself to lie still and let it come to him, while he listened to the gentle sounds of Shaw’s breathing.
The pitch darkness intensified Adams’ other senses. She smelled the damp earth and the dried vegetables and herbs, garlic the most. She caught another smell, an animal smell. Rats in the cellar, she thought.
Kamp’s heart didn’t slow and in fact raced even faster. His thoughts swirled in a great cyclone until the realization finally came. He’d forgotten to lock the bulkhead doors, and now she was in the house. He felt certain of it.
Adams made out the dim outline of the staircase and moved for it. The animal smell, which had been faint before now filled both nostrils. She recognized the presence of a being in the cellar, though she couldn’t see it.
She readied her blade and took another step, placing her foot squarely on the neck of the hibernating bear. The animal roared from its slumber, and when, from instinct, Adams slashed with the knife, the bear caught her wrist in its jaws, biting down with the force of nature. The bear pulled Adams’ hand deeper into her jaws, chewing and working the wrist with her back teeth. Adams brought her fist down atop the bear’s head, angering the beast further. Adams pulled until her forearm came free, hand and wrist gone.
Adams scrambled out the bulkhead doors, cradling her arm which sprayed blood. The bear, famished from the long sleep, crunched all the bones and swallowed before standing up stiffly and departing the cellar as well.
Kamp heard what he thought might be a growl and then a thump in the cellar. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, crept downstairs and stood in the kitchen, listening for several minutes. He heard nothing but the first robin of the new morning. He lit a candle, and as soon as he opened the cellar door, a strong breeze blew it out. His heart began pounding anew. She was there after all, or had been.
When he reached the bottom step, he went to where he knew the bear was hibernating, though he couldn’t hear or smell her. Kamp put his hand to the warm, wet ground and rubbed his fingers together until they became sticky. Kamp sniffed his fingers. Blood, not piss. He kept feeling along the floor, realizing what had happened. Kamp wasn’t surprised when his fingers brushed a very sharp blade.
He walked back upstairs and inspected the weapon, a Bowie knife with an elk handle. Indian. He turned over the blade and saw engraved there the face of a figure, smiling and wearing a cap in the Phrygian style.
“THE GIRL CANNOT BE CONSOLED,” Shaw said.
Kamp went to Autumn, who sat in the corner by the front window, sobbing.
“She left. She left!”
He sat down next to her. “I know, sweetheart. She’s gone, but she had to leave. It’s spring. That’s how bears are.”
The tears slowed, and then Autumn looked at him and said, “She’ll come back, won’t she?”
Kamp’s mind went to the trail of blood leading from the cellar. Adams had been mauled, that was certain. But it was possible she’d delivered a mortal wound as well.
The little girl stood up and threw her arms around Kamp’s neck and then ran out the front door. Kamp stood up and waited for the soreness in his hip to abate.
“Do you think she’ll be back?” Shaw said.
“The bear?”
“Adams.”
Kamp and Shaw stood side by side, watching their daughter walking toward the tree line.
“Eventually, maybe. Not soon.”
He pulled on his boots, jacket and slouch hat.
“You’re not—”
“No, I’m not going anywhere. Just outside.”
KAMP PULLED THE TARP OFF THE PLANKS, precisely where he’d left them the day after the kid first appeared in his yard. He counted the boards and measured them, making adjustments in his mind based on his new plan. He allowed himself to focus solely on the task at hand, sorting materials and imagining the structure he intended to build. The exertion loosened his joints and muscles, and soon Kamp ditched his jacket and hat and rolled up his sleeves. Winter had conceded, and it felt good to be warmer, to be working, and to be at home.
He knew the kid would appear and suspected he knew the reason for his visit. And so Kamp didn’t look up from his labor when he heard footfalls crunching on the trail to his house.
“Son, it’s good to see you takin’ the fresh air and doin’ honest work.”
“Good morning, Abel. How can I help you?”
There was a pause until Kamp stopped working and looked at the kid.
“Well, I don’t believe you can help me, not this time.”
The kid wasn’t clad in the familiar velvet trousers and jacket. Instead, he wore a cotton shirt, canvas pants, work boots and no cap atop of his head of straw-like blonde hair. He carried nothing, no haversack and no bindle.
Kamp stood up straight, tilted his head back and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Why not?”
“You already helped me in a lot of ways.”
“But I never told you who killed you.”
The kid gave him a sad smile. “No, I figured it out while I was lyin’ there in that box they stuffed me into in the hospital. Probably knew all along. Just din’t wanna believe it.”
“I’m sorry they put you—”
“They’re not evil, son, no. Confused, maybe.”
“Yah, well, that doesn’t—”
“Truth is, I jus’ needed to know one bitty thing from Raymond, and he did tell me, the thing I had to know so I can be on my way.”
“What was it?”
“What was what?”
“The one thing you needed to know.”
Trumpet of the Dead (Raven Trilogy Book 2) Page 21
