Kill the Raven: A Thriller (Raven Trilogy Book 3)

by Kurt B. Dowdle

  Nyx took the man’s measure while he talked. She noticed no extraneous movements, nothing to indicate that he was nervous, or unduly concerned.

  “So you’ll forgive the interruption, and I appreciate and esteem your willingness to pause, and to listen.”

  A voice boomed from the back of the group. “Yah, well then go the hell home, and leave us to work.”

  A laugh rippled through the miners, though none dared to speak openly. The man showed no reaction and waited for the silence to descend again.

  When it did, he said, “As you are well aware, a grievous wrong was committed here yesterday. All of you know of what I speak, and most of you saw it happen. Be certain that as employees of this firm, your safety and security is our utmost priority. Furthermore, we must not and will not allow such a grave injustice to stand. As such, the responsible party must come forward.”

  An old hewer named Bruno at the edge of the group said, “Or else what?”

  The man turned to face him. “Or else every man’s pay will be reduced by five per cent each day.”

  The miners erupted.

  “Ach, you goddamned louse.”

  “Yah, and I’ll reduce your mother’s pay, too.”

  “Who is this goddamned guy anyway?”

  Someone hurled half a brick from behind where Nyx stood. Without flinching the man let the brick sail past, inches from his face. The guard nearest the man raised a rifle and pointed it at the miners. Nyx felt the urge to run but stifled it.

  Again, the man waited for quiet, then said, “I appreciate your cooperation in this sad matter.”

  As he said it, he let his gaze settle on Nyx.

  More bricks flew, and now there was loud jeering. The crowd of miners was transforming into a mob.

  The guard behind the man said, “Fix bayonets.”

  “Enough!”

  The shout silenced the miners. Nyx heard a shuffling of feet, as the group parted in the middle, starting from the back.

  Dis Padgett made his way to the front and stepped out into the bright sunlight. He stared at the man in the suit.

  “Tha’s what you say, lad, that you can steal our pay. An’ that may even be what you think. But tha’s not what’s gonna happen.”

  “While I respect your opinion, Mr. Padgett, you are mistaken.”

  Another round of jeers and whistles went up, and Padgett waited for them to subside.

  “Well, you know who I am. But I donna know who you are, and I sure as hell donna respect your opinion.”

  The miners cheered in unison, and some spat on the ground. Nyx stole a glance at Aodh’s face. His expression was flat, as he twisted a lock of his beard between his thumb and first finger.

  The man said, “My name is Thaler. Joachim S. Thaler. I’m the managing director for your employer, Black Feather Extraction. Mr. Padgett, you work for me.”

  Padgett raised his eyebrows slightly and winced. “You donna have authority to take what’s ours, mister director. An’ you donna have the balls.”

  Joachim S. Thaler scanned the miners once more, then focused on Padgett and said, “Good day.”

  He set his hat back on his head, turned on his heel and left the way he’d come, black leather boots crunching the gravel down Sleeping Bear Mountain.

  Once Thaler had disappeared, all eyes turned to Padgett, who spat on the ground and hissed, “Feckin’ Germans.”

  TEN

  KAMP OPENED THE ENVELOPE and read the message, written in a precise hand that he recognized. He would have asked the strange girl for a ride to Bethlehem on her horse, but she was already long gone. So Kamp put on his thin work jacket and slouch hat and hit the road.

  The sign over the door read, “Pure Drugs & Chemicals,” and the little brass bell jingled when Kamp entered. The pharmacist, Emma Wyles, stood behind the counter, finishing the preparation of a compound that she measured and then deposited in a vial.

  She didn’t look up until she was finished, and when she did, Kamp said, “Wie bischt, Emma?”

  E. Wyles brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. “As I said in my note, you have to go, Kamp. Immediately.”

  “I just got here.”

  “There’s nothing funny, and this isn’t a joke.”

  “What isn’t?”

  She wiped her hands with a clean towel and said, “They’re still after you.”

  “Who is?”

  “Black Feather. They’ve concocted a story about you, about your real identity.”

  “Yah, I’m aware of that. They sent someone to my house and he—”

  “Who was it?”

  “Said his name’s Reid, A. R. Reid. Said he was my commanding officer in the war, said I have to go to a hearing this morning with the Judge.”

  “You mustn’t.”

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning—”

  “They mean to hurt you, Kamp. You and your family.”

  He pulled in a long breath. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Well, sending that girl with the message. Kind of, you know, dramatic.”

  “Think of Shaw and Autumn. Take care of them.”

  He leveled his gaze at Wyles. “What else did you want to tell me?”

  Wyles laid her hands flat, palms down, on the counter and let out a sigh.

  She said, “I know where Nyx Bauer is.”

  “And?”

  “But you can’t go there, Kamp.”

  “Then don’t tell me where.”

  “Well, I thought you should know, considering you and I are the only ones who—”

  “But if I say I’m going there, you’ll say I can’t save her, right?”

  Rarely, if ever, did Kamp bring Wyles up short, but it appeared he’d done so now. He watched his words register on her, and instead of plowing him under as she typically did, Wyles looked at him and then back down at her hands.

  Kamp looked around the pharmacy. Everything was in order, bottles neatly lined along four shelves, but E. Wyles wasn’t right.

  “Emma, what does this have to do with you?”

  “She’s working in a mine. Mount Yakweha. Sleeping Bear Mountain. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Yah, that’s where—”

  “They know she’s there already, or they soon will. It’s remarkable that she’s been able to evade capture for as long as—”

  “You sent that girl to come fetch me. You said it’s urgent.”

  “It is urgent. They intend to harm you.”

  He rubbed his left temple with his first two fingers and said, “I appreciate your concern, but that doesn’t exactly qualify as news.”

  She gripped the edge of the counter until the blood drained from her knuckles.

  “You can be flippant and cynical, but you might show some actual gratitude, or at least some grace.”

  “What do you need from me, Emma?”

  “To warn you.”

  He stepped forward and placed his hands on hers, and when he did, she looked straight at him.

  He said slowly, “What do you need from me?” As he said it, a memory, long submerged, burst into his consciousness, and he felt a stab of grief in his throat.

  Kamp saw the faintest quiver of Wyles’ bottom lip.

  She let out a long sigh and tilted her head to the side and said, “They want to shut me down.”

  “Who does?”

  “The men who run this town.”

  “Including the Judge?”

  One corner of her mouth turned up. “What do you think?”

  E. Wyles came out from behind the counter and locked the front door.

  “What are they doing?”

  “It’s what they’re doing, and what they’re not doing. The shop has been vandalized, as you know. Bricks through the window. And they’ve harassed me. Young toughs coming in, miscreants bothering me, trying to frighten me. And no help from the police, of course.”

  “You�
�ve told them?”

  “I told Druckenmiller.”

  “And?”

  “And he laughed.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Boys will be boys.”

  “But you think it’s more than that.”

  Her eyes flared. “I’m accustomed to the obnoxiousness. I expect it. I’m very good at my job, I’m outspoken, and I’m a woman. But what’s happening now—”

  “Is different.”

  “That’s right. And it’s been unrelenting.”

  “Why now?”

  Wyles walked to the front window and pointed. “Because of that.”

  He looked across the street and saw a sign on a storefront window that read, “Native Plants & Medicine.”

  “Competition,” he said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with another pharmacy. Bethlehem is growing. There’s a need.”

  Wyles walked to the back of the shop, boot heels clicking off the wood floor, and came back carrying two green bottles.

  “I have no problem with competition, as you know.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “Two, actually. The first is that because of me, they can’t get any business. People know and trust me.”

  As she spoke, Wyles began mixing a new compound in a mortar fashioned from a maple burl with the pattern in the wood that looked, to him, like an explosion. The burl had been polished so that it blazed.

  He gestured to the bowl and said, “I remember where that comes from.” He waited for her to glance at it. “From that tree you cut down.”

  She pulled in a breath through her nostrils and said, “The second problem is Black Feather. They own Native Plants. See?”

  Wyles pointed to the upper right corner of the store’s window, and he saw the unmistakable symbol painted there.

  “They want control of everything, every business, every facet of people’s lives. What they say and do, eat and drink, what medicines they take.”

  “Cradle to grave.”

  “And then some.” She finished grinding the compound and put her fists on her hips. “And I’m in their way.”

  Kamp put on his slouch hat and said, “I’ll take care of it.”

  Wyles’ expression hardened. “Meaning what?”

  He tipped his hat and headed for the door. “That’s why you told me, right? You want me to take care of it.”

  “I want you to help Nyx Bauer, if that’s possible. As for me, I can handle my own—”

  As he left, he said, “Machs gute, Emma,” and he closed the door behind him.

  KAMP REMEMBERED THE LAST TIME he’d seen that expression on E. Wyles’ face, the only other time he’d seen her frightened, and now the memory returned in its entirety.

  She’d stared up into the branches and said, “You first.”

  He knew that this was her tree, the maple tree she’d climbed every day in the summer when they were nine years old.

  Kamp had accepted her challenge to see which of them could climb higher, and he leapt to grasp the first sturdy bough with both hands and then swinging his torso onto it. He climbed as quickly and as high as he could, at least seventy-five feet off the ground.

  Before he could even steady himself and call down to taunt his friend, she was already past him. Wyles sprang from branch to branch, barefoot in a blue and white gingham dress and climbing as if on stairs.

  Kamp’s belly, already tight from fear, churned as he watched her moving closer to the canopy where the branches might not support a person, even a slender kid like Wyles.

  She paused to look back at him, smiled and said, “Eat shit, Wendell.”

  “Fine, you win. Come down.” He felt afraid for her.

  “Hell, no. I’m doing it.” She turned, looked up and continued her climb.

  They’d talked all summer about going to the very top, and the person who made it all the way, who actually stuck their head all the way out of the canopy would be the winner, once and for all. Kamp himself had never actually considered trying.

  Wyles knew that if she waited much longer, the leaves would begin to fall, and the challenge would be null and void. If she waited until next year, she’d definitely be too big to even try.

  And Kamp knew she wouldn’t be persuaded to stop and that if he spoke now he might break her concentration. He watched, unable to help and unable to look away. She went higher, moving slowly now, testing every branch, taking her time.

  Nearing the top, each bough bent under her weight, but she only had a few feet to go. She stepped up, then again, staying as close as possible to the trunk. But in order to get all the way to the top, she’d have to depart the trunk and shin out on a limb.

  Wyles paused but soon made her move out onto the branch and then seconds later popped her head out of the canopy. Kamp expected her to start crowing in triumph, but instead, she went silent. He waited a minute, then another, and there was no movement from his friend.

  “Emma?”

  Nothing.

  “Emma, hey.”

  “Yah.”

  Her voice sounded thin and far away.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Um.”

  He knew she wouldn’t admit to being afraid, would never ask for help. But she was frozen now, treed. He worked his way as high as he could, much higher than he wanted.

  He said, “I’m right here. Don’t look down. Just follow my voice. Reach back with your right foot.”

  She followed his instructions, and he caught a glimpse of her face, tight with panic and stained with tears.

  “Now, slide back. Good. One more and—”

  “Fine, but I don’t need your—”

  When she snapped her head around and down to scold him, the branch gave a loud crack, and Wyles tumbled past him, cartwheeling through the branches, bouncing down through the boughs until she hit the ground with a thud.

  He climbed down, heart pounding and eyes fixed on his friend who lay face down and motionless next to the large burl at the base of the trunk. He knelt beside her and placed his hand on her back.

  “Emma, wake up.”

  Just as he tensed to start his run to get help, she rolled onto her back with a groan, eyes closed.

  “Kamp? Is, is that you?”

  “Yes, I’m here, I’m here.”

  She let the ruse play out a moment longer, then opened her eyes and grinned.

  “I win,” she said.

  THE BROKEN RIBS AND THE BLACK EYE had only made Wyles prouder of the accomplishment. But Kamp had seen her face the instant before the fall, the moment she knew she’d gone well past the limit and that the reckoning was certain. He reflected on that look on her face. And he still wished he could have kept her from falling. The relief he’d felt upon realizing she would be okay didn’t erase the terror he’d felt when he watched her tumble through the branches, when he felt certain he’d lost his friend. He couldn’t save her that day from the weakness of those upper boughs or from the strength of her will.

  ELEVEN

  KAMP MADE A FIST AND COCKED IT BACK, but before he could rap knuckles on the door with the brass sign that read “Strictly No Admittance,” it swung open. He saw the unsmiling face of the High Constable, Samuel Druckenmiller.

  Kamp said, “It’s here, isn’t it?”

  “Is what here?”

  “The hearing.”

  Druckenmiller screwed up his face, tilted his head to the side and said, “Who are you?”

  He felt the flames of anger spring to life at the base of his skull.

  “Sam, knock it off.”

  “I don’t know you, and I don’t like your tone.”

  “Christ, Sam, it’s me. Kamp.”

  Druckenmiller’s hand went to the pistol at his side.

  “No…no, you ain’t. You ain’t Kamp. You must be that son of a bitch Nickel Glock.”

  With his hand still on the gun, Druckenmiller gestured for Kamp to enter the Judge’s chambers. Kamp saw the Judge, seated behind his desk a
nd wearing traditional court dress.

  Next to him sat the man who called himself A. R. Reid. When Druckenmiller closed the door, Kamp realized another man stood behind him. The man wore a bespoke suit in brown wool. At a glance, he recognized him as the prosecutor, Grigg.

  The Big Judge said, “You recall the district attorney.”

  “District attorney?”

  Grigg said, “Indeed. Good to see you again.”

  The Judge turned to Reid and said, “Last year, Glock tried to lead Mr. Grigg, among others, to the conclusion that one of the leading figures in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, a captain of industry named Raymond Hinsdale, was guilty of a most heinous murder.”

  A.R. Reid said, “Good lord.”

  The Judge let the sentiment hang as he packed the bowl of his cherry pipe with Turtle Island Smoking Tobacco and lit up.

  Exhaling a great cloud of smoke, the Judge said, “Indeed. Shameful. But that’s not what brings us here this morning. High Constable, before we proceed, would you kindly inspect Mr. Glock?”

  Druckenmiller stood facing Kamp and said, “Arms out.”

  Kamp stared at the Judge, then turned to look at Grigg who gave a small nod. Kamp raised his arms to shoulder height.

  The Judge said, “Boots, too.”

  Druckenmiller knelt and reached inside Kamp’s left boot, then the right before his hands traveled up Kamp’s leg. When he reached the crotch, Kamp gave Druckenmiller a hard slap on the side of his face.

  The High Constable cried out in pain and said, “Ach, why ya hafta be so ugly?”

  The Judge said, “Mr. Glock, do that again and you’ll be remanded to the city jail posthaste. Kamp raised his arms again and let Druckenmiller finish.

  “He don’t have no gun.” The High Constable stood up, rubbing his jaw and muttering under his breath. “Goddamn louse.”

  The Judge cleared his throat. “Yes, well, Mr. Glock, if you’ll have a seat.” He gestured to an open chair, and Kamp sat down. “As you know, we’re of the belief that you are one Nickel Glock and that for the past nine years you’ve been pretending to be Wendell W. Kamp.”

  Kamp raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

  The Judge said, “Naturally, you’ll continue to perpetuate this charade unless and until it no longer suits your nefarious purposes.”