Ax & Spade: A Thriller (Raven Trilogy Book 1)

by Kurt B. Dowdle

  Kamp looked at the faces of the other men. George Richter appeared to be very angry, while Hugh Arndt stared at the floor. Knecht gaped at the bodies with a look of shock, disbelief and heartbreak.

  Kamp said, “Let’s find the children.” Immediately Richter and Arndt were out the door and up the staircase. On his way out of the room, Kamp brushed past Knecht, who stood unmoving, fixed to the floor.

  Richter shouted, “Nyx! Heidi!” When he burst into their bedroom, the girls shrieked again. Heidi and Anna held each other, wailing. Nyx sat on her bed, silent, head down.

  Richter said, “Oh, thank God.”

  Nyx raised her head and screamed, “Where are they!”

  “Settle down, child. Settle down.” Richter moved to put his arms around Nyx, and she shoved him away forcefully.

  Kamp walked into the room. Nyx looked straight at him. “What did he do? Tell me!”

  Christ, Kamp thought. Knecht.

  Nyx launched herself toward the door, but Richter blocked her path and held her fast. Kamp ran back downstairs to where he’d left Knecht standing next to the bodies. The corpses were still there. Knecht was gone.

  By the time Nyx explained to the men what Knecht had tried to do to her and how he’d locked them all in her room, Knecht had broken into a dead run across the snow that covered George Richter’s cornfield. The first rays of dawn slid through the trees at the border of the field. Sun up would bring the scene under the harshest light imaginable.

  Richter stayed with the girls in their room, barring the door. He sent Hugh Arndt to get the word out. They would need help caring for the bodies, comforting the girls and finding Knecht. He walked out of the house into the grey morning light. He could only conclude that the fiend Knecht had finally appeared in full. That which everyone had sensed in him, and feared, had emerged. He wondered how Knecht’s true nature could have remained so hidden, so deep, only to explode into view. And yet, he admitted to himself, it had. Perhaps the thousand tons of pressure it took for Knecht to keep it all underground had contributed to or even caused the explosion. Irrelevant now.

  The goal was simple. He needed to find him, haul him back, bring him to justice. Kamp imagined that Knecht had shifted from murderer to fugitive. He’d want to get as far away as he could, but he’d know that at least a dozen determined men with horses and dogs would be hunting for him very soon. Knecht would know, too, that traveling in daylight would get him caught. He’ll find a hiding place and lie low until dark, Kamp reasoned. And if anyone else but me finds Knecht first, they’ll kill him on sight. And so Kamp went alone.

  Following Knecht’s footprints through the snow would have been the easiest way to track the man and certainly the most direct. Picking up his tracks would prove difficult, however. The front yard of the house was crisscrossed with many sets of footprints, making it impossible for Kamp to single out the right ones. He guessed Knecht would have wanted to run on the road as long as he could in order to avoid creating a single set of tracks into the woods. Eventually, though, and probably soon, he’d need to get off the road which would force him to cross the creek. And if he did that, he’d prefer to cross by bridge. Otherwise, his feet would freeze. Kamp headed off in the direction of the one place that, if his string of assumptions were correct, Knecht would be hiding.

  SAINTER’S MILLS WAS THE NAME given to a collection of grinding mills adjacent to George Richter’s property and powered by the Shawnee Creek. Next to each mill was a barn that housed the miller’s tools, as well as the crop. None of the mills offered a hiding place, unlike the barns. Kamp guessed that he’d likely find Knecht in one of the barns, probably the one farthest from the Bauer house. Knecht would wait for the Black Diamond Unlimited, and he’d simply catch out the next time the train passed. If that happened, Daniel Knecht would vanish for certain.

  He pieced together the logic while he jogged on the road. Just before he turned to cross the bridge, a horse-drawn sleigh carrying a man, woman and four children glided past going in the direction of Jonas Bauer’s house.

  A man’s voice called from the sleigh. “Morning, Kamp.”

  People already know, he thought, and they want to go look. He kept his head down and trotted across the bridge and toward the mills. As he neared the first building, he slowed to a walk and stepped lightly to avoid crunching the snow. He scanned the ground for footprints and saw none, though it seemed certain Knecht would have erased his tracks by now. He recalled the empty cigar box he’d seen on the windowsill, and for the first time, Kamp felt acutely aware that he didn’t have a gun.

  He walked to the last barn and stopped to listen. A blue jay whirred in a tree. Kamp heard clumps of snow falling to the ground from the branches above, then nothing. He pulled back the barn door. Shards of morning sun slanted in behind him, and he let his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness. He saw a wagon in there, filled with horse tack and a kerosene lantern, painted green. He spotted two winnowing machines against the wall. Between them, he saw a wooden ax handle. No blade, just the handle.

  Kamp stepped quietly across the floor and retrieved the handle. He took it in both hands and felt the heft of it. He strained to listen, to hear above the roar of blood at his temples. He stood motionless for several minutes, more hunter now than detective. He heard enough silence to convince him he was alone in the barn. He turned to leave.

  Thump. Movement above. Then another bump. He’s up there, Kamp thought. He walked silently to the ladder that led up to the second floor of the barn. He looked straight up into the darkness. He realized he wouldn’t be able to climb the ladder and carry the ax handle at the same time. He set the ax handle aside and began to climb. The ladder creaked, sometimes loudly, as he ascended.

  Kamp reached the top rung, shoulders hunched, ready to jump back down if necessary. He saw the shape of a man, sitting between two large piles of hay. The man sat cross-legged with his back to him, staring through a small window at the blue sky outside.

  Kamp said calmly, “Danny.”

  Knecht gave no response. He stopped looking out the window and stared straight ahead.

  “Danny, I need you to come with me.”

  “I knew you’d come and find me.” He didn’t move.

  “I know what happened. I know something went wrong. I know it was a mistake.”

  “It wasn’t no mistake. Say, remind me once. I need to give you something.

  “What?”

  “Don’t let me forget.”

  “Give it to me later.”

  “And there’s something else. Someone taught me something. Made me commit it to memory. That’s what the person said. ‘Commit these words to memory.’ Do you want to hear it?” Knecht turned his shoulders and neck to face him, and Kamp saw an expression of pure menace. It was Daniel Knecht, to be sure. But his face was contorted, a deeply furrowed brow and lips twisted into a snarl.

  “Come on, Danny. Let’s go.”

  Knecht said, “You hafta hear this.”

  “Get up.”

  “It goes, Quia merito haec patior.”

  Kamp heard a hammer cock as Knecht lifted the four-barrel pistol to his own temple.

  Knecht said, “How’s that for a joke?”

  Kamp lunged across the floor, reaching Knecht as the gun went off. The bullet grazed Knecht’s scalp and lodged in the ceiling. He slammed into Knecht, knocking him sideways. He jammed his knee against Knecht’s chest and pinned his head to the floor. He grabbed the wrist that held the gun and with his other hand, Kamp took the revolver. Knecht gave no resistance. Instead he rolled onto his side and stared blankly at the wall. The tension, the rage vanished. Kamp eased off slowly, the pistol trained on Knecht.

  He said, “Danny, come with me.”

  It occurred to Kamp that considering the circumstances, most men would have let Knecht deliver himself to his maker. And some would’ve even enjoyed seeing him do it. Allowing Knecht to kill himself might have been an act of mercy, because by the time they emerged from the barn into fu
ll sunlight, Kamp could hear the shouts of the men and the barking of their dogs, all heading for Sainter’s Mills. He saw that behind the dirt, blood smears and hard lines, Knecht’s face had transformed again. He now looked like a broken child.

  Knecht said, “Don’t let ’em have me.”

  “Just walk.” Kamp shoved Knecht in front of him.

  WITH THE PISTOL TRAINED on Knecht, Kamp marched his prisoner back in the direction of Jonas Bauer’s house. The first person to meet the pair was George Richter, and behind him his hired man, Hugh Arndt. Richter came running, losing his footing now and again in the snow.

  Richter shouted, “He done it! It was him!” Richter slowed to a walk, breathing hard and trying to not to slip as he kept the muzzle pointed at Knecht. Hugh Arndt kept his gun raised as well.

  “Step aside.”

  Kamp studied Richter’s face, cheeks blazing bright red, eyes bulging from their sockets.

  “We’re going to take care of this right now. Me and Hugh. Step aside!”

  Kamp stepped directly in front of Knecht and said, “No. This is not the appointed hour.” Richter gently released the hammers on his shotgun, and Arndt lowered his rifle.

  “Walk.” As Knecht passed him, Kamp pressed the barrel of the pistol into the small of Knecht’s back and followed him. When they passed Richter and Arndt, Kamp said, “Stay on either side of us when we get there. Hold your guns at your side, and keep your mouths shut.”

  “Jesus boom, you can’t expect us to protect this filthy dog that done what—”

  “Do it," Kamp said, and he kept marching Knecht down the road with Richter and Arndt in tow.

  The closer they got to Jonas Bauer’s house, the slower they had to move, owing to the swarm that had already amassed there. Sleighs and their horses lined the fence that ran alongside Shawnee Creek. Children chased each other through the snow on the lawn of Bauer’s home. Women huddled at the side of the road, talking in hushed tones, barely beating back a feeling of collective hysteria. Men pounded on the front door, shouting, “Let us see it once! Now! Now!”

  Kamp recognized the scene for what it was, a grisly carnival. So distracted were the carnival-goers by their apocalyptic fantasies that they didn’t notice the villain in their midst, and he quietly guided Knecht to the door of the barn next to the house.

  He said to George Richter, “Keep watch over him. You’re my neighbor, George, but anything happens to him while I’m gone, you’ll swing for it. That’s certain.”

  Arndt snarled, “Figures someone like you would–”

  Kamp said, “Protect him.”

  Richter seethed. He jammed the butt of the gun between Knecht’s shoulder blades, knocking him into the barn. Then he and Arndt followed him in. Kamp walked around to the back of the house. A clump of men stood at the back door, pounding on it and shouting. No chance of getting in there. He went to the side of the house and spotted the bulkhead. He opened the door and scrambled down into the cellar. Kamp hurried up the cellar stairs and into the kitchen. He reasoned that he had a few minutes at most to assess the situation in the house before the mob found Knecht and ripped him to pieces.

  Sam Druckenmiller stood guard at the door to the bedroom. He looked pale and scared and not likely to stem the tide of angry witnesses that might soon rush past him. He stepped aside as Kamp approached and entered the bedroom.

  Having already seen the room, Kamp knew better than to try to take in the entire scene at once, particularly in the stark morning light. To do so would be to surrender his ability to analyze rationally and to be subject to the power of his visceral reactions. So unspeakable was the violence that shock, fear and revulsion could overwhelm him. He determined that he would process each sensory detail one at a time. He noticed first that almost nothing seemed out of place in the bedroom, including the bodies. Jonas and Rachel lay on their backs in repose, with their finely-sewn quilt pulled up to their chins. The only misplaced object was the empty cigar box, now on the floor below the windowsill and turned upside down. He looked at the blood on the wall next to the bed. He considered the force of each swing of the murder weapon it must have taken to create those patterns.

  Kamp forced himself to inspect the ruined faces of Jonas and Rachel Bauer. They appeared identical in that each was an unrecognizable mask, not human. He wondered whether the killer’s motive had been to obliterate these souls, to destroy them utterly with the most extreme and brutal force he could summon. He knew he was looking at an abomination, the likes of which no one should have to see, and certainly no man or woman should have to suffer. He looked upon a sight unnatural and perverse, evidence of an evil that should never have existed and always would.

  Kamp put one hand on the forehead of the ruined Jonas Bauer and the other on the forehead of his wife Rachel. He allowed himself an instant to imagine them as children, running, laughing, picking raspberries. He felt a scream welling inside himself and stifled it.

  HE RESUMED THE INSPECTION, pulling back the quilt to look at the bodies, their bedclothes intact, bodies unharmed. He looked at the murder weapon, a common ax laid straight across Rachel Bauer’s chest. Kamp pondered the placement of the ax and assumed it meant two things. First, the murderer may have intended to indicate the completion, the finality of the act. Second, the killer needed to demonstrate control, the imposition of order on total chaos. There could have been a rational process at work, a pattern he followed. Each swing of the weapon traced a predictable arc. The ax laid crosswise said, when I did it, I was not insane. I did precisely what needed to be done, what they deserved, and it is finished.

  He tried to preserve his conclusions and wipe the entire scene from his mind, though he knew it had already left a permanent stain. Kamp opened the window to let in the frigid December air and to let out the intensifying stench. He heard anger and fear in the voices of the dozens, even hundreds of people outside, a rising wail. He heard the bedroom door open behind him, and he turned to see the coroner, A.J. Oehler walking in.

  Oehler looked at the bodies and said in a low voice, “What’s going on?”

  Kamp said, “Nix.”

  The two men stood side-by-side, staring at the corpses. Oehler was shorter than Kamp. He had thinning hair, a barrel chest and eyeglasses. He was unfazed by the carnage, which made sense to Kamp, given Oehler’s line of work. Oehler produced a small tablet and pencil from his coat pocket and quietly began to take notes the way a botanist might note plant species in the field.

  Oelher said, “Time of death, approximately.”

  “Three in the morning.”

  “Were the victims alive when you got here?”

  “No.”

  “What time did you get here?”

  “Probably four.”

  Oehler’s manner brought a stillness to the proceedings. He continued taking notes and talking to himself. “Cause of death, by the looks of things, homicide.” He looked up from his notepad and looked at the bodies, then the blood on the wall, then back at the bodies.

  Oehler said, “Strange.”

  “What is?”

  Another man stumbled into the room, the Reverend A.R. Ebertstark. The gruesome scene, the smell, all of it hit him full in the face. He said, “Gott in himmel!” and turned away, putting his hand over his nose and mouth.

  Oehler asked Kamp, “Did you question him yet?”

  “Who?”

  “This man Knecht.”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain he done it?”

  Kamp said, “Certain as I can be.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I wasn’t here when it happened, so I didn’t see him do it.”

  The Reverend A.R. Eberstark bent over and vomited on the floor.

  Oehler said to Kamp, “They’re going to hang him for sure.”

  Kamp said to Eberstark, “Reverend, Reverend.” Eberstark struggled to steady himself. “I need you to talk to him, Daniel Knecht. He’s in the barn.”

  The Reverend A.R. Ebers
tark stood up straight, and Oehler handed him a handkerchief.

  Oehler said, “Go ahead. Keep it.”

  Eberstark wiped his mouth, and Oehler handed him a silver flask. The Reverend took a swig and handed back the flask. Oehler produced another handkerchief, wiped down the top and took a swig himself.

  The shouting grew louder outside. Eberstark took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and said, “The man is damned for certain. As well he should be.”

  Kamp said to him, “Talk to Knecht. Find out why he did it.”

  Eberstark gritted his teeth and said, “God will show this man no mercy.”

  Oehler said, “We will follow the law as best we can. We must follow a process to bring this man to justice.”

  Eberstark shot back, “You’re a coroner, Arthur! You only handle ’em when they’re cold. You’re not a judge. And not an attorney.”

  Oehler boomed, “Christ, Reverend! The Judge isn’t here. Attorney neither.”

  “The coroner is correct.” The men in the room wheeled around to see Philander Crow standing in the doorway. “We will impanel a jury immediately. That’s a killing rage outside. We must establish standard procedure if we’re to keep those philistines at bay.”

  KAMP WALKED INTO THE CHILDREN’S ROOM, where Nyx was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall. She still wore her bedclothes. The color had drained from her face, and her hair was matted. He gently pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down. Nyx did not look at him.

  He said, “My name is Kamp.” No response. She continued staring. “Nyx, I know what happened. I’m sorry.”