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

by Kurt B. Dowdle

  “Druckenmiller told me you’re going to Philadelphia.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Why did he think that’s where you’re going?”

  “He’s probably shitfaced. Focus on doing your job. And let me focus on doing mine.”

  Crow stepped into the carriage. Before he could close the door, Kamp had climbed in as well. He sat down opposite the district attorney. Crow closed his eyes and shook his head indignantly. He said to the driver, “Let’s go,” and the carriage lurched forward.

  Kamp said, “Hear about what they did to Knecht’s body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pulled it out of the ground. Desecrated it. Still think nobody should be arrested?”

  “What do you need?”

  “It’s about Knecht.”

  Crow took in a sharp breath. “I’ve arranged with the coroner to have the body removed and given a proper burial. They won’t find it this time.”

  “No, not about that. About the murders.”

  “Why don’t you go back to your little farm, take a rest, soak your head, commune with the rocks and trees? And then come back when you’re feeling better, all righty?”

  “You don’t get it.”

  Crow said, “Settle. Down. For the last time, there’s nothing you can do about—”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “Didn’t do what?”

  “Daniel Knecht didn’t murder Jonas and Rachel Bauer.”

  “Driver, please stop.” The carriage slowed, then halted.

  “I don’t care if you don’t believe me.”

  Crow said, “You should.”

  “It’s been bothering me since Knecht showed up at my door right after the murders. That’s not something he would do. It didn’t make sense. Not right.”

  “With all due respect, get out.” Crow swung the carriage door open, and Kamp slammed it shut.

  “He was trying to tell me something, but for some reason he couldn’t. He wanted me to know what really happened.”

  “What did he actually say to give you that impression?”

  Kamp paused and looked up at the ceiling of the carriage, then settled his gaze back on Crow. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing. Hmm.”

  “He didn’t say anything in particular. Or, he didn’t say what you think a person would say under those circumstances.”

  Crow said, “How many other people have you talked to under those circumstances?”

  Kamp felt the kindling at the base of his skull. He shut his eyes hard, trying to smother it.

  “All right,” Crow said, “I’ll play along. If Knecht didn’t commit the murders, who did?”

  Kamp rubbed his left temple. “I don’t know.”

  “How about this? Why would someone else, this mythical phantom about whom Knecht himself said nothing, why would that individual wish to kill an upright, law-abiding man and wife?”

  “No idea. For some reason we haven’t found yet.”

  “We?”

  Kamp said, “Yah. My guess is you probably know more about this than I do.”

  “In the hours leading up to his execution, did Knecht himself ever protest his innocence?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Crow said, “So, you have no confession, no evidence, no other alleged murderer and no other motive for the killings.”

  “Correct.”

  “And yet you’re certain that someone besides Knecht committed the killings?”

  Kamp fished out the eight-sided coin and handed it to Crow. “I found this in Daniel Knecht’s pocket. Mean anything to you?”

  Philander Crow studied the coin. He said, “Driver, let’s go.”

  Kamp said, “Where are we going?”

  “Jonas and Rachel Bauer’s funeral. And for the sake of Jesus Christ himself, keep your mouth shut.”

  SIXTEEN

  IN THE TWO DAYS following the murders, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people had descended upon the former home of Jonas Bauer. Kamp heard that the story had been reported in both the Philadelphia and New York City newspapers. The combination of a pair of grisly killings and “Pennsylvania’s first lynching,” as it was being called, generated massive, morbid interest. He expected the funeral might be yet another occasion for an onslaught of gawkers. Yet, when the cemetery where Jonas and Rachel Bauer were to be interred came into view, he saw only two other carriages and a small knot of people. He realized that the ceremony would be lightly attended due to the frigid weather but more likely, to the fear among the local folk that the power of the hex might somehow extend to the funeral. Drawing closer, he made out the figures of the Bauer girls and a woman standing next to them as well as the Reverend A.R. Eberstark. He saw another large man, wearing a black overcoat and stovepipe hat, the Judge. To his right stood another tall man, similarly dressed, except that he wore a bowler hat. Beside that man stood a man with a full mustache and sideburns flecked grey, wearing a black suit and Homburg hat. He recognized that man as the undertaker, Manfred Otis.

  Kamp noticed for the first time that day that he was wearing the clothes he’d slept in, a rumpled red flannel shirt, brown wool pants and thin work jacket. Crow was nattily attired, as always, with a charcoal gray, three-piece suit, watch chain and black Chesterfield overcoat. The carriage pulled into the cemetery drive and stopped.

  Crow looked him up and down and said, “You’re welcome to wait here” and got out of the carriage. Kamp followed immediately after him.

  THE FINELY CRAFTED HEXAGONAL WOODEN BOXES were arranged side by side and next to the open graves carved at neat angles and dug to a sufficient depth. Kamp stood away from the group, between two rows of headstones, and he took in the scene. The girls stood next to the coffins and beside them the woman he hadn’t recognized before but now saw was the neighbor, Charlotte Fogel. The Judge, Crow, the undertaker and the other man took their places behind the girls, and before them all stood the Reverend A.R. Eberstark. The Reverend wore a heavy black gown with velvet panels around the neck and down both sides, and a white collar.

  The Reverend surveyed his small audience, cleared his voice and began, “Sometimes the judgment comes sudden. Sometimes the trumpet blast sounds on a day and at an hour we don’t expect. And we remember that the winnowing fork is ever in the hand, and He will purge his floor most thoroughly and gather his wheat into the garner. But the chaff…” The Reverend paused and raised his chin, “He will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire! In this story on this day and at this time, know this, dear people of God.”

  He looked at the younger girls, Heidi and Anna as he spoke. Heidi stood with her arm around her little sister’s shoulders, and both girls looked at the ground.

  “Know, dear children, that when judgment came suddenly, God winnowed the wheat from the chaff. His own dear children, Jonas and Rachel, ever devout and stalwart in their faith, they were, they are, the wheat. They are like that lost silver coin that was found and over which there was great rejoicing. Yea, the wheat he kept, the coin he found, and even now in heaven there is great rejoicing.” The Reverend held his right hand gently aloft as if setting the lost coin on a high altar.

  “And know, too, that God most certainly did not withhold judgment from the evildoer, that vile reaper who delivered Jonas and Rachel unto the Lord.” The Reverend turned his gaze to Nyx, who stood up straight, eyes forward. “Know that the chaff was swept from that threshing floor.” From his vantage point, Kamp saw Nyx’s body stiffen, her fists clench into tight balls and her chest begin to heave.

  The Reverend continued, “Be assured that the chaff, that which he despises and must punish, the murderer, the most diabolical, he cast that foul fiend most expeditiously into the lake of fire, eternal torment, a fitting and well-deserved punishment!”

  As he made the proclamation, the Reverend pointed his right index finger forcefully down. Spittle formed at the corners of the Reverend’s mouth as he churned toward his crescendo.

  “Dear people, know that God’s judg
ment is perfect and just. I’m reminded of another para—”

  Nyx launched herself at the Reverend A.R. Eberstark. She flew at him with both arms outstretched, and when she reached him, she clenched both hands around his throat.

  She said, “Shut up! Shut up!”

  The Reverend, having no time to brace himself for the attack, fell backward next to Jonas Bauer’s coffin, the two of them nearly tumbling into his grave. Nyx held her grip which was tight enough to stop his breathing. Eberstark’s face went purple, and he made gurgling noises.

  “You don’t know anything you miserable son of a bitch!” Nyx punctuated her words by slamming the Reverend’s head against the ground. The undertaker Manfred Otis was the first to reach the entwined pair. He tried to hoist Nyx off the Reverend, to no avail. Her grip was too tight. The neighbor Charlotte Fogel knelt calmly beside Nyx and put her hands on Nyx’s hands.

  She said, “Sweetheart, let go. It’s all right. Let go.” Slowly, Nyx’s grip slackened, and she slumped to the side. The Reverend clambered to his feet, gasping for breath and rubbing his throat. His gown was splotched with grave dirt, his collar askew.

  He said, “This girl is unwell. The hex is on her too!”

  Nyx threw her arms over Jonas Bauer’s coffin and sobbed. “Daddy, daddy!”

  Anna and Heidi ran to Nyx and hugged her. Charlotte Fogel put her hand on Nyx’s head and said, “It’s all right, dear. It’s all right.”

  Nyx shrieked, “Of course, it’s not all right!” The sound scattered the crows from the trees that ringed the graveyard. “They’re gone, they’re gone, they’re gone.”

  KAMP SAW THE MAN whom he hadn’t recognized walk over to Nyx. He held out his hand to her. She took it, and he guided Nyx to her feet. After saying a few words to her, he tipped his hat to Charlotte Fogel, walked back to his carriage, and left.

  Kamp walked over to the undertaker and extended his hand. “Manfred.”

  The undertaker shook hands with him. “Hell of a thing, ain’t it? Terrible shame.”

  “You better believe it. Did you know him? Bauer?”

  The undertaker shook his head. “Can’t say that I knew him. Good man, though, from what all everyone tells me. I know he cheated death once before, though.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Do you remember that explosion? Mine explosion a while back?”

  “Which one?”

  The undertaker took off his hat and scratched his head. “Oh, Christ. It was in the summer. Six, seven months ago. Anyway, Bauer was down there, right in the room where it happened.”

  “How’d he make it out?”

  “Probably missed getting blown up by that much, by a hair, a blonde one, if you know what I mean.”

  “That close, huh?”

  “Yah, well, his buddy wasn’t as lucky. Head sheared clean off. It was Bauer himself who handed it to me when he come out of the shaft. Never forget it.” The undertaker shook his head to banish the memory. “Stuff doesn’t usually bother me.”

  “Do you remember that guy’s name? The guy who got killed?”

  Manfred Otis tilted his head back and opened his mouth. “Uhh…Kunkle. Roy Kunkle. Big bastard.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Just stories. By the way, Kamp, Oehler had me bury Knecht. My guys went and got him early this morning, sewed him up in a linen sack and put him in a communal plot, unmarked. It’s done.”

  “Much appreciated. Who was that man standing next to the Judge, the one who just left?”

  The Judge walked up behind Kamp and joined the conversation. He shook hands with the undertaker and then with Kamp.

  The Judge said, “That’s Silas Ownby. He owns Confederated Coal.”

  “Owns it?”

  “Correct.”

  Kamp said to the Judge, “Friend of yours?”

  The Judge said, “Whenever one of his miners passes away, he tries to attend the service.”

  “He must go to a lot of funerals.”

  The Judge focused on Kamp. “I need to—”

  “Yah, I know, you need to speak with me. Druckenmiller told me.” He saw the Reverend walking into the church next to the cemetery. “How ’bout tomorrow?”

  KAMP PICKED HIS WAY through the headstones until he reached the path to the church. He went in the same door where he’d seen Eberstark go. He smelled smoke and followed the scent to the back of the building, where he found Eberstark sitting next to a crackling fire in a potbellied stove. Atop the stove was a small frying pan, and in the pan was a little wire frame of a tipi.

  The reverend said, “Oh, hello, Kamp. Come in, come in,” as he placed a slice of bread on either side of the frame. Eberstark smiled. “I do like my bread toastich, especially on a cold day.”

  The Reverend had taken off his gown and wore a plain white shirt and wool pants. He’d also removed his shoes. He had a whiskey bottle at his side and poured a glass. He offered it to Kamp, who declined.

  Kamp said, “I’ll bet you never had a ceremony like that before.”

  Eberstark let out a laugh. “Well, no, but I’m sure Martin Luther himself suffered much worse. And more often.” He raised his glass. “To Luther.” The Reverend took a long sip, then tilted his head back, savoring it for a long moment.

  “Reverend, do you mind if I ask you some questions? Reverend? A few questions?”

  “Of course, of course.” Eberstark gulped the glass of whiskey, then poured another. “Please, my son, have a seat.” Kamp pulled a wooden chair from the corner of the room and sat a few feet away.

  “Tell me about Jonas and Rachel Bauer.”

  Eberstark pulled in a breath through his nostrils and let out a deep sigh. “Well, as godly a man and wife as you’ll ever find. Salz der Erde, you know? Salt of the earth. Salz und Licht. Here’s to salt and light!”

  He drained the glass. The bread on the stove had begun to turn brown. Eberstark carefully picked the slices of toast off the tipi, offering one to Kamp, which he accepted.

  “Reverend, why do you think Daniel Knecht would want to hurt Jonas Bauer?”

  Eberstark talked while he chewed his toast. “It couldn’t be more obvious, could it?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Lust. A deadly form of lust. More than once Jonas come to me, wondering what to do. I told him that gat-toothed fiend Knecht has lickerish eyes, like a wolf. And disagreeable intentions for the girl.”

  “Then why would he hurt Jonas? And why hurt Rachel?”

  Eberstark shook his head and leaned toward him. “You wonder what such a man sees when he looks at himself in the shpiggle. You hafta wonder how he lives with himself, say not?”

  “But why hurt them?”

  “Ach, I told Jonas, told him again and again. That fiend has disagreeable intentions. He wouldn’t listen.”

  “What I’m trying to understand, Reverend, is if Knecht wanted the girl, if it was a matter of lust, why would he kill her parents?”

  Eberstark leaned back and savored the bread in his mouth. “Why did Eve eat the apple?”

  “But does it make sense to you?”

  “You mean, does evil make sense? Why, does it make sense to you? Evil, Kamp. Evil. We live in a fallen world. All have sinned. And all have fallen short.” Eberstark refilled his glass. “Add to that the fact that someone put a hex on them all. That’s the tragedy. They were all cursed. Doomed.” The Reverend hung his head, and Kamp knew he’d soon lose his senses altogether.

  “Reverend, did you know a man named Roy Kunkle?”

  Eberstark lifted his head and sneered. “Oh, that guy.”

  “How did you know him?”

  “Good friend of Jonas. Worked alongside Jonas in the mines. I couldn’t stand him.”

  “Why not?”

  At this question, Eberstark became much more animated. His cheeks, already red from the fire and from the drink, blazed red, and the color bloomed into his forehead.

  “Wrong ideas! He started putting wrong ideas into J
onas’s head.”

  “Ideas about what?”

  “That goddamned guy was a Scharfmacher. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes.”

  “A real Schnickelfritz, you know. A rabble-rouser!”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, the things he was telling the men in the mines. He told them to disobey their supervisor. Told them outright! Disobey.” Eberstark leaned close enough that Kamp could smell his breath. “Just imagine!”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Ach, does it matter why? It’s a sin! Come to think of it, that might be the hex right there. Kunkle put that curse on Bauer and his whole family with them ideas. That’s why Jonas couldn’t see the truth about that fiend Knecht. Blinded by his horseshit!” Eberstark downed another glass. “Do you know what Jesus said about that? Render. Unto. Caesar. Do you know what that means? It means the peasants must do what they’re told. Do you know what Martin Luther said about this?”

  “No.”

  Eberstark sat up in his chair and cleared his throat. “Martin Luther himself said…I memorized this. He said, ‘I think there is not a devil left in hell. They have all gone into the peasants. Their raving has gone beyond all measure! Therefore let everyone who can, smite, slay, and stab, secretly or openly, remembering that nothing can be more poisonous, hurtful, or devilish than a rebel!’”

  “I appreciate your time, Reverend,” and he stood up, catching Eberstark off guard.

  “Did I say something wrong?” In an instant Eberstark’s expression changed from indignation to hurt. Just as quickly, his expression changed again.

  The Reverend squinted at him, “Say, what do you wanna know about all this for?” His words began to slur. “Why so many questions? They’re dead, and now they’re buried. What does it matter?”

  “I don’t know that it does.”

  “Now you’re twisting words. Yah, well, you’re not perfect neither. You’re not, I’m not.”

  “I didn’t—“

  Eberstark boomed, “All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of god! And god will not be mocked! Sit back down.”

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “Do you know what Eberstark means?”