Kamp said, “Where are we going with this?”
The Judge took another pull on his pipe. “We’re not going anywhere. It’s you who’s going.”
“That so.”
“Indeed.”
Kamp turned in his chair to address Grigg, who stood behind him, arms folded.
“Are you following this? Do you believe any of it?”
Grigg took in a sharp breath. “Alas, there’s a case.”
“What’s the charge?”
The Judge cut in, “Well, in addition to the crime of impersonating another man, there’s breaking and entering, assault, obstruction of justice, and of course, corrupting the morals of minors, and possibly kidnapping.”
“What?”
“The boy, Becket Hinsdale, you took him down a path that led to his disappearance, and to the destruction of his family. Incidentally, what do you know about where he is?”
“Nothing.”
A.R. Reid shook his head in disgust.
“The real Kamp was the finest soldier I ever commanded. You’re nothing but a fiend, a most foul fiend.”
The Judge said, “And that’s not even the worst of it. You took a young girl in her moment of greatest distress, a girl who’d lost both her parents at the hands of a killer, and you put murderous ideas into her very mind.”
As the Judge said it, another man strode theatrically into the room. He had flowing hair, wireframe glasses and a beard in the Van Dyke style. He wore a bespoke three-piece suit with watch and chain, shiny black brogans, and he carried a leather-bound folio under his arm. The man went directly to the Judge and extended his hand.
“Your honor, please accept my most humble apology for my tardiness. There was a problem with one of the horses and—”
The Judge banged the dead ashes from his pipe on the edge of his wide, mahogany desk. “It’s quite all right, doctor. Thank you for coming. Mr. Glock, may I introduce you to Dr. Alastair MacBride.”
Kamp took in the man—the suit, the tidy beard, the sheen. He said, “Doctor.”
MacBride’s gaze hardened. “Much obliged, Mr. Glock.”
The Judge said, “Dr. MacBride is the head of the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane, though I don’t believe the two of you have ever met.”
Kamp said, “I’ve enjoyed getting acquainted and everything, but I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
He stood up and put on his hat.
The Judge said to MacBride, “Show him.”
ALISTAIR MACBRIDE WENT TO THE DESK and opened the folio. He removed several 8x10 photographs and arranged them on the table.
The Judge gestured to Kamp, “Come see.”
Kamp said, “Yah, I’ve seen these already.”
MacBride removed the handwritten note clipped to the back of the photograph and said, “What about this? It proves W.W. Kamp perished in the war.”
Kamp looked at the Judge.
“What’s your point?”
The Judge packed the bowl of his cherry pipe again and struck the match on the desktop.
“Kamp is deceased. You’re here. That’s the point.”
He dipped the flame into the bowl then let it dance back out.
“So what.”
Druckenmiller cut in, “So, that there is Wendell Kamp. He was my friend, and he died right there.”
“No, Sam, that’s a picture. No one died right there.”
Druckenmiller took his pistol from the holster and raised it over his head. He said, “Ach, I oughtta clout you one.”
Grigg picked up the photograph, gave it a closer look and said to Kamp, “What do you make of it?”
“I don’t make anything.”
“Meaning what.”
Kamp sat back down in his chair and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Who’s to say who those men in the photograph are? And who’s to say who wrote that note. Or why.”
Grigg said, “Are you claiming these are forgeries?”
Kamp let out a sigh. “I’m not claiming anything. I’m just saying no one knows.”
A.R. Reid cleared his throat and said, “Yes, well, I know.”
“You do?”
Reid pulled on his lapels and straightened in his chair.
“Yes, I was there. I remember the day. Sad day.”
Kamp said, “What was sad about it?”
Reid’s tone turned somber. “The bloodshed, the carnage. Terrible loss of life in that battle.”
“What battle?”
Reid’s face twisted. “Is this some sort of inquisition? I’ll certainly brook none of your skepticism, you, you—”
“What battle?”
Grigg said, “Yes, colonel, what battle?”
Reid focused on Grigg, “Why, Fredericksburg! And how dare this man besmirch the memory of that sacred killing field. God will not be mocked, gentlemen. He will not be—”
“I didn’t besmirch anything,” Kamp said, “I asked a question.”
Druckenmiller said, “Yah, a question and another question and another. Until you go nuts from the questions. That’s how he does it.”
The color rose in Reid’s face as he turned to address the Judge.
“Your honor, this man is a fraud and a disgrace.”
“So he is,” the Judge said.
Kamp looked at Reid. “You were there?”
“I was.”
“And you saw that soldier, Kamp—”
“Finest soldier I ever commanded.”
“You saw him dead on that table.”
“Yes, I saw W. W. Kamp on the table. I saw the surgery, saw its grim conclusion, and I saw them take the body away.” At this point, Reid’s gaze drifted to the ceiling, as if he were lost in the memory.
“What was the surgeon’s name?”
“The surgeon?”
“Yes, you were there. You know all about it. What was the surgeon’s name?”
Reid’s face turned purple. “I’ve had quite enough with this, this—”
Kamp said in a flat tone, “He’s lying, Judge. You know he’s lying, and you know this is a farce.”
MacBride, who’d been watching the proceedings and thoughtfully stroking his chin beard now spoke.
“I assure you all that this is nothing of the sort. The colonel’s description is not only true, it’s verifiable.”
Reid sniffed, “Indeed.”
“And furthermore,” MacBride stood with a flourish, “I’ve seen many connivers and manipulators in my work as an expert psychiatrist, and this man, this Nickel Glock, is a master of the dark arts. He’ll do anything to keep us from getting to the heart of the matter.”
Grigg said, “And what is the heart of the matter?”
MacBride’s hard expression turned soft. He furrowed his brow and said, “Why, there’s a girl out there.”
“A girl.”
“Indeed, a young, frightened girl. Lost and alone. In desperate need of shelter and warmth. But even more than that, in need of love and understanding.”
Kamp said, “What are you talking about?”
MacBride’s lips curled into a snarl, and he said, “Pardon my language. You know damn well, sir, what I’m talking about. That girl, that precious flower you plucked. The girl whose face you turned toward evil, whose foot you put on that path of mendacity and malice.”
“Who?”
“Nadine Bauer!” MacBride’s voice thundered. “She needs help. She needs succor.”
“Succor?”
The Judge took a long pull on his pipe, then said, “I’ve often wondered, these past two years, what had become of the Kamp I knew before. I couldn’t believe the stories I was hearing. Of course, now I know the truth. Wendell Kamp was a fine young man, an even better soldier, and a hero of the War Between the States. That his identity has been co-opted and his legacy befouled speaks to the depravity into which our society is descending. What the doctor is saying, sir, is that we believe you know the whereabouts of Nadine Bauer and that it is your responsibility to
return her to the custody of the Commonwealth.”
“Nyx? This is all about you forcing me to tell you where she is?”
“Hardly.”
“Jesus Christ.”
MacBride slammed his fist on the desk.
“Dammit, man, redeem yourself. Find her, bring her back.” He took a dramatic pause and glowered at Kamp. “Nadine Bauer needs help.”
The Judge cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Glock, you have thirty days to find Nadine Bauer and return her to the custody of the Commonwealth, where she’ll be safe. If you fail to do so, you’ll be captured and remanded to the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane, where you’ll live out the remainder of your days.”
TWELVE
NYX PICKED UP THE NOTE on the kitchen table, written in pencil scrawl.
It read, “For you.”
Beside the note was a gun, a pepperbox pistol, and a box of bullets. She picked up the gun and stared into the swirling pattern on the Damascus steel barrels that reminded her of turgid grey river water. She hefted the gun in her shooting hand, and it felt cold and mean.
The weapon appeared to be well-used but had been expertly maintained. Nyx assumed Angus had spent untold hours restoring it.
Of all the secrets she kept, the one she cherished the most was that she was alone and needed help from no one. She held this belief so closely she couldn’t see it, and it was only at moments such as this—when someone tried to help her—that Nyx felt its presence.
Rather than gratitude or relief, Nyx felt resentment. It was up to her to help other people, if necessary, if that’s what she decided. She didn’t want charity. And if she needed something, she’d take it.
That’s how it went with the Hinsdale kid. She hadn’t needed him to break her out of jail, but since he did anyway, she’d returned the favor when the time came, setting the scales back to balance thereby.
Nyx didn’t mind that the Angus wanted to help. When the men from the city had seen her parents’ ruined bodies, they wanted to help. But they didn’t know that in the moment she learned of their fate—the moment she ran to her father’s corpse and clutched his cold, cloven chest—they didn’t know that the notion that she could be helped was absurd and rendered forever meaningless.
All of these memories and the feelings that accompanied them erupted when Nyx looked at the pistol and the note beside it. Angus meant well, and she left it at that.
That’s what she liked about Aodh. He never tried to help her. They worked side by side, and more often than not she was able to do him a good turn without him complaining. She didn’t feel his weight.
And if Nyx couldn’t admit to herself that his presence was all that enabled her to keep going in the mine in those moments she felt small and abandoned, that denial was necessary for the time being, too.
KAMP BECAME AWARE of the shouting and commotion that trailed after him as he exited the Judge’s chambers. When he hit the granite steps leading down to the street that flowed with the mid-morning mass of souls, he saw Shaw hurrying toward him with Autumn in tow.
Her expression, typically placid, now showed distress and irritation. Kamp hustled down the steps and put his arms around them. She put her hand over her eyes, the tears spilling down her cheeks.
“They threw us out,” she said.
“Who did?”
“The police. A group of them came. One of them had a paper that said we’re not allowed back in our home.”
He turned and raced back up the stairs and into the courthouse. He went straight for the door to the Judge’s chambers and hurled himself against it. The door didn’t give. He pounded the door with his fist.
“Let me in.”
No response.
Kamp kept pounding until two large, uniformed police officers grabbed him and hauled him out of the building.
He went to a side door and ran up three flights of stairs and down the hallway to an office door with freshly painted lettering on the window that read, “B.H. Grigg, District Attorney.”
He twisted the doorknob and went in before Grigg could look up from his desk. When he did, the district attorney said, “You can’t be here.”
Kamp put his palms on Grigg’s desk and leaned forward.
“Tell me what they’re doing.”
Grigg stood up and closed the blinds. He turned back to look at Kamp and said, “You already know.”
“How’s that?”
Grigg produced a silver snuff tin engraved with the letters “BHG” from the watch pocket of his vest, flipped open the lid and offered it to Kamp, who declined.
He then took a sizable pinch, placed it on the back of his right hand and gave it a powerful sniff.
“As you know, they need you gone. You’re an irritant, an impediment and a living testament to their misdeeds. But you’re also a war hero. Disposing of you would create problems for them. I’m afraid I can’t speak with you further. It would be most—”
“They want to throw us out of our house.”
“Correction, they threw you out.”
“You knew?”
Grigg took his seat behind his desk. “I saw the eviction notice, signed by the Judge.”
“And you did nothing.”
“It was a fait accompli.”
Kamp shook his head gripped the edge of the desk.
“Don’t you think it’s wrong?”
“It’s legal.”
“I understand you’re a lawyer, but Jesus, man.”
“Your judgment is clouded.”
“You’re goddamned right it’s clouded. They just—”
“Settle. Down. If they have to remove you from the building again, you’ll be taken to the jail. That won’t help your family.”
Kamp closed his eyes and waited for the flames to subside, then said, “Can you help me or not?”
Grigg shifted in his leather chair.
“As I said, you can see the case they’ve made against you. That you’re not who you claim to be. That you’re an impostor, that you’ve perpetrated a fraud.”
“What do you believe?”
Grigg raised his eyebrows and said, “I traffic in facts and in rationality. If you can’t prove who you are, it hardly matters what I believe.”
“In other words, you think this bullshit is wrong, but you don’t care. Is that it?”
“That’s not what I said. If you can’t prove your identity, you can’t win.”
“And they’ll make certain I can’t prove it.”
“Correct.”
Kamp stood up and let his shoulders relax. He went to the window that overlooked the steps, checking to make sure Shaw and Autumn were still there before turning back to look at Grigg.
“You still want to destroy Black Feather, though, right?”
“Of course.”
“And now that you’re the district attorney, you have more power.”
“In theory.”
“But you need facts. And if they know you’re building a case against them, they’ll destroy you first.”
Grigg nodded slowly.
“And if I provide you with facts, you’ll help me.”
“Behind the scenes, of course.” Grigg stood up and extended his hand. “Good luck to you, whoever the hell you are.”
“Kamp.” He shook Grigg’s hand.
“Good day, Kamp.”
KAMP HUSTLED OUT to the steps, where Shaw and Autumn waited. He put his arm around them and started moving in the direction of the Third Street Station. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw a uniformed officer following them.
When they reached the ticket window, Kamp said, “Two, please.”
He paid, and the three of them walked to the platform.
Kamp handed Shaw the tickets and said, “I’ll tell you everything when I get there.”
OFFICER FALKO STIER NEVER LIKED that asshole Kamp. He didn’t like him from the first time he’d heard the rumor of what Kamp had done to a fellow officer of the law, a hardworking and upright deputy
chief, no less.
Stier hadn’t met the deputy chief. He’d only heard stories and seen a photograph. But every time he passed the brass plaque in the station that read, “In honor of the fallen Markus Lenz,” Stier felt a sense of duty mixed with disgust for the murderer. Knowing that this fiend Kamp—or what was his name now—Glock? Knowing this fiend had murdered the upright Lenz sickened him.
That the whole shameful episode had been covered up and hidden from public view, well, that made it nearly unbearable.
Falko Stier had tangled with him before, when he found him aiding and abetting the fugitive Nadine Bauer at the pharmacy of one Emma Wyles.
Bauer had assaulted him when he arrested her in the commission of a crime. She was lucky he didn’t give her the bullet to the brain she deserved. Same with Kamp. He was fortunate that he was only roughed up and doused with kerosene.
Stier watched Kamp climbing aboard the train with his family, that Indian and their half-breed daughter. It turned Stier’s stomach. Kamp, Bauer, Wyles—the list of degenerates kept getting longer.
No wonder Bethlehem’s going down the shitter.
Officer Falko Stier intended to stand his ground until the train left the station. He wanted to make sure that Kamp and his lot were well and truly gone.
KAMP GUIDED Shaw and Autumn onto the passenger train and then climbed in himself.
“You have to get going.”
She said, “Get going where? What are you doing?”
He peeked out a window and saw Officer Falko Stier on the platform.
“Go to your father’s house. I’ll be there soon.”
The train lurched forward and started to roll as the conductor approached.
“Tickets.”
Autumn, who’d been silent until now, began to cry. Between sobs, she said, “Daddy, come with us,” and she hugged Kamp around both legs.
Shaw looked into his eyes.
“Yes, come with us.”
Kamp gently peeled Autumn from his legs, picked her up and handed her to Shaw. He kissed them both, then jumped out the other side of the train, ran across the yard and stood behind a steel beam. When the train left the yard, Kamp saw the officer watch the train depart and then turn and leave as well.
Kill the Raven: A Thriller (Raven Trilogy Book 3) Page 6