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

by Kurt B. Dowdle

  Ax & Spade

  Kurt B. Dowdle

  This work is fiction.

  Ax & Spade Copyright © 2014 by Kurt B. Dowdle.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design and image by Sarah Howard

  We will now discuss in a little more detail the struggle for existence.

  ― Charles Darwin, On the Origin of Species (1859)

  CONTENTS

  ONE• TWO• THREE• FOUR• FIVE• SIX• SEVEN• EIGHT• NINE• TEN• ELEVEN• TWELVE• THIRTEEN• FOURTEEN• FIFTEEN• SIXTEEN• SEVENTEEN• EIGHTEEN• NINETEEN• TWENTY• TWENTY-ONE• TWENTY-TWO• TWENTY-THREE• TWENTY-FOUR• TWENTY-FIVE• TWENTY-SIX• TWENTY-SEVEN• TWENTY-EIGHT• TWENTY-NINE• EPILOGUE

  ONE

  BETHLEHEM, PENNSYLVANIA - 1870

  KAMP WALKED OUT of the slaughterhouse, wiping the blood from his hands and forearms with icy brine from the barrel and drying them on his apron. He surveyed the land downhill from his small farm. He focused on the tree line that stood between his property and the road. Kamp could only see the road here and there, and he made out the shapes of two people, one shouting and chasing the other.

  The commotion pulled Kamp from a reverie in which he’d been musing on a fragment of a poem he heard as a boy, a particular line. He often went somewhere like that in order to stave off ruminating on whether madness had overtaken him or if it were merely approaching. But one distraction being just as salutary as another, he fixed his attention on what might have been a man’s voice in the distance and coming closer. Kamp also thought it permissible to listen because he had just finished putting the last parts of the butchered pig in a barrel. If he’d heard the shouts even thirty seconds prior, he would not have paid attention, as doing so would have taken him from his butchery and thus spoiled not only so much hard labor on his part but also the supreme sacrifice of the pig. Kamp thought it best to finish all important matters, once started.

  “Come back here!”

  He could tell the man doing the shouting was also doing the chasing. Additionally, he determined that the man who was running away was not inclined to stop on the basis of the first man’s entreaties. And yet, the shouting continued.

  “Stop, you son of a bitch! STOP!”

  He saw that the man in the lead made the turn up the path toward Kamp’s farm, and he also noticed that the man behind him wore a uniform of some kind. The first man started to pull farther ahead, barreling straight for him, though Kamp realized that the man did not seem to notice him. He watched the man in the uniform slow his run and raise a pistol.

  Kamp gently picked up a spade shovel leaning against the side of the slaughterhouse. The first man, still running full speed, head down, approached him. By this point, Kamp had cocked the spade back, and swung it hard, connecting squarely with the man’s gut. The man doubled over and spun to the ground, gasping hard and clutching his stomach.

  Kamp said, “Just stay there once.”

  The man grunted, “Ach, you didn’t have to hit me,” and he sat up.

  By this point the second man reached them, also out of breath and gasping, gun back in the holster. He saw that the man indeed wore a uniform of brown wool, bearing the insignia of the Lehigh Valley Railroad, badge askew. The trio of figures regarded each other for a moment, the perpetrator gazing up at the railroad detective, the railroad detective staring back at him hard and Kamp looking at the detective and then at the man on the ground. The moment ended when the detective gave the man on the ground a sharp kick to the leg.

  “Hey!”

  “Hey, yourself.”

  With that, the detective straightened up, righted his badge and leveled his gaze at Kamp.

  “He lit a fire on the train. On the train! You just wouldn’t believe it!”

  The man on the ground said, “It was cold this morning. And that boxcar was empty.”

  “You shut up!”

  “It didn’t hurt nobody. And I was cold!”

  The train detective said, “It ain’t cold in August!” As he said it, he kicked the man in the ribs.

  Kamp set the shovel against the side of the building and turned to go back into the slaughterhouse.

  The detective called after him, “Hey, Kamp.”

  “Yah.”

  “The train is stopped. They’re waiting for me.”

  “Then go back.”

  “Ach, I will. But someone must take this, this fiend to the police.”

  Kamp turned back around. “John, I don’t really know what this man did, or why.”

  The man on the ground said, “That’s true! He don’t!”

  The detective persisted, “I’ll see to it you get fair compensation from the railroad.”

  “That’s not my point.”

  “Ach, I know. Just do this for me, and I’ll settle it up with you later.”

  Kamp glanced up to a window on the second floor of his house, where he knew that by now, she’d be watching. And she was. He looked back to the men and took off his bloodstained apron.

  “I’ll walk him to the police station.”

  The train detective breathed a sigh and grabbed the man on the ground roughly under his arm and hauled him to his feet. He pulled handcuffs from his belt.

  Kamp said, “He doesn’t need those.”

  “Oh, yes, he does.”

  “Leave them off.”

  “Ach, you don’t know this man.”

  “Then take him yourself.”

  “Christ! Well, at least take this.” The train detective pushed his pistol toward Kamp, who shook his head.

  “Goddammit! He’s a fiend. Ach, he is!”

  Kamp looked at the man, now standing and said, “Maybe.”

  SINCE IT WAS STILL MORNING, Kamp thought he could get the man to town and be back before sundown. He let the man walk slightly ahead of him, and they turned onto the road that ran past the farm. Having taken the man’s measure, he felt certain that the man posed no threat. Kamp noticed the man’s rough, dirty hands, plain clothing, black hair and sturdy boots. The man had broad shoulders and hollow cheeks. He reminded Kamp of a stray dog, tough but scared. The man turned out to be much more talkative than Kamp preferred. Immediately upon commencing their walk, the man began asking questions.

  “If you wouldn’t let him put the manacles on me, why not just let me go? How do you know I’m not just going to run away? How do you know the train detective? Who was that lady in the window? Was that your wife up there in the window?”

  Kamp thought it best in these kinds of situations to allow the sounds to pass through his ears and let them not mean anything. He’d taught himself this ability a long time ago out of dire necessity and found that he could do it now almost without effort.

  The man said, “You’re not going to say anything?”

  Kamp had already traveled a great distance in his mind from the conversation and from the situation. In an instant, he could snap back into the scene and take any action necessary, but the other man’s words drifted into the background, miles away. Kamp preferred to slip into the rhythm of walking, to listen only at first to the sound of his footfalls. He let other sensations fill his consciousness, the greens and yellows of the leaves, the feel of the sun’s rays on his face. He looked straight ahead as he walked, but as he allowed his senses to flood, his sight turned inward. Radiant pictures, scenes from the past and from imagination played behind his eyes. The separation between what he felt and saw and understood began to vanish.

  “Hey, do you hear a word I’m saying? How come we’re walking instead of taking a carriage? My feet are tired. Let’s hitch a ride. Hey, are you listening at all?”

&n
bsp; Kamp moved back into the scene.

  “What?”

  “I said, are you listening?”

  Kamp took in a breath through his nostrils. “No.”

  The man stopped walking and blocked Kamp’s way. He was the same height as Kamp, and now he stared straight at him. Kamp studied the man’s face, which shifted from jocularity to agitation in a flicker. He saw the man’s body tensing and his hands curling into fists. He stepped around him and began walking again.

  “Hey! Hey! What’s your name, anyway?” the man shouted after him. Kamp heard the man running up behind him and then in front of him, blocking his path.

  He jabbed a finger in Kamp’s chest. “What’s to keep me from running away? Tell me. Tell me!”

  Kamp said, “Nix.”

  “All right then, I’m goin’. Just tell me one thing. One thing before I go.”

  Kamp waited for the question.

  “What did you hit me for? I didn’t do nussing to you. Nussing! And you walloped me with that shpawd. If you hadn’ta done that, neither of us would hafta be here right now.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So then what did you hit me for?”

  Kamp tilted his head back and looked at the clouds. “Well, John Heist isn’t much of a runner, and he probably isn’t much of a detective either. But he’s a good shot.”

  “So?”

  “If I hadn’t knocked you down, you’d be dead.” Kamp started walking again, and the man followed.

  “Well, none of this is right. None of it. You know why I was on that train? You wanna know?”

  Kamp kept walking ahead of the man.

  “I was on the train, so I could go to the druggist in town and get medicine for my brother. My kid brother. Lawrence. He got hurt bad in the mines. Can’t walk. Can’t even think straight. The pain is terrible. Only thing he needs now is medicine.”

  He heard rage in the man’s voice. “Where are your parents?”

  “Nowhere.”

  Kamp said, “Tell them to get the medicine.”

  “They’re dead, all right?”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Easton. Say, now that you know where I come from and where I was going and all this shit about me, how about you let me go? Forget about this.”

  “No.”

  “What do you want to do their work for? Ach, this ain’t your problem. This ain’t about you at all.”

  He heard the anger in the man's voice turning to exasperation. “What kind of medicine?”

  “What?”

  “For your brother. What kind of medicine?”

  The man hung his head and spit on the ground. “Ach, it don’t matter.”

  The town came into plain view under the thin afternoon sunlight as they crested the hill that overlooked Bethlehem. Kamp noticed the crisscrossing streets and the neat rows of buildings that lined them. He saw smoke rising from chimneys, drifty columns of black and grey that floated up and then diffused. It occurred to him that a man might consider the town’s geometric patterns to be beautiful, as long as he could forget the rank brutalities, perversions and all the other new world syndromes that forced it into being.

  Kamp walked into town with the man following. He called back over his shoulder, “What’s your name?”

  The man said, “What do you care?”

  TWO

  “HIS NAME IS KNECHT,” the High Constable said. “Daniel Knecht. Oh, we know each other, don’t we, Danny?”

  Kamp and Daniel Knecht stood in front of the desk of the High Constable Samuel Druckenmiller, who sat comfortably, hands folded across his wide belly and looking up at the two men.

  Knecht said, “I didn’t do nussing wrong, constable.”

  “Of course you didn’t, Daniel. Of course you didn’t.”

  Kamp said, “Heist found him.”

  Druckenmiller said something in response, but Kamp wasn’t listening. A war had erupted in his mind, a war between a million phantasms, ghouls and angels with sharp claws that meant to shred each other. He tilted his head back and let the grisly scene play out.

  “…and anyway we don’t want him here, Kamp. Kamp?”

  Druckenmiller snapped his fingers twice, and he clicked back into the scene.

  Kamp said, “That’s between you and Heist.” He tried to stand still as a demon soared in front of his mind’s eye. On these occasions, he’d taught himself not to duck.

  Druckenmiller shifted in his chair and pursed his lips. He studied Knecht for a moment, then stood up and took Knecht by the arm.

  Knecht yelped, “Ach, no, constable!” Druckenmiller led him to a cell with iron bars at the back of the room. The war scene behind his eyes assumed the form of a great tornado, swirling upward and vanishing in an instant. Kamp put his hand on the corner of Druckenmiller’s desk and let out a deep breath.

  Druckenmiller walked back and sat down heavily. “You okay?”

  “Yah, yah. Sure.”

  “Listen, we don’t want this guy. He’s trouble. He belongs in Easton.”

  “He doesn’t seem all bad, Sam.”

  “He ain’t all good, neither. Fighting, theft. What’s he here for, anyhow?

  “Heist said he started a fire on a train.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Druckenmiller opened a desk drawer and pulled out a whiskey bottle and two shot glasses. He poured two shots and slid one across the desk to Kamp.

  Druckenmiller held up the glass said, “To law and order,” and they downed the whiskey. For the first time in months, Kamp felt his mind slow down. The last of the demons departed the battlefield. Druckenmiller immediately poured two more shots.

  Kamp said, “I need to go.”

  “Ach, where?” The High Constable’s face twisted in disgust.

  “Druggist.”

  “What for?”

  “Knecht told me he was on his way there to get medicine for his brother. He can’t do that if he’s locked up in here.”

  Druckenmiller cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. “What kind of medicine?”

  Knecht said, “Morphine.”

  Druckenmiller downed another shot and said, “You aim to buy morphine for a criminal? For a drug fiend?”

  “I’ll buy it and bring it back here. When he gets out, you can give it to him.”

  “You must be shittin’ me. You can’t tell me you believe he’s gonna give that medicine to his poor, dying brother. Jesus Christ!”

  Kamp turned and walked to the door.

  Druckenmiller called after him, “You’re still going with us to the hunting camp, say not?” He tossed back both shots.

  “What?”

  “The hunt. Saturday. You’re going.”

  Kamp called over his shoulder, “Yah, yah. I’m going” and closed the door behind him. He left the constable’s office believing there was probably something wrong with him besides melancholia. He looked across the town to the stacks of Native Iron and was hit by a bolt of sadness so powerful he nearly crumpled to the ground, all torn down and broken. The drink must have triggered it, he thought, but from what height or, more likely, from what profound depth had it been loosed? And who had thrown it? He rubbed his left temple, took a breath, and walked to the storefront across the street.

  THE SIGN OVER THE DOOR READ, “Pure Drugs & Chemicals, E. Wyles, Druggist,” and when he entered Kamp stepped into a box whose walls were lined with row upon row of transparent bottles, shop rounds with gilded labels and black lettering. Some bottles held powder, some liquid while others contained plant or animal matter. Square in the center of the room, behind a counter stood the druggist herself, E. Wyles. She wore a white dress, her long hair pulled back from her face. She stood facing him directly, hands on the glass countertop. He removed his hat.

  “Wie bischt, Emma?”

  “Good, good. How are you, Kamp?”

  “Oh, you know.”

  Wyles said, “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s good.”

  “H
ow much longer?”

  “Three months.”

  “You take good care of her.”

  “You too. Say, Emma. I need a favor once.” Wyles straightened up and pulled back her shoulders.

  “Morphine.”

  Wyles studied his face. “No.”

  “Emma, it’s not for me.”

  “Anything else I can help you with?”

  Kamp felt a spark at the base of his skull, sensed the kindling start to smolder and then the first tiny flames of rage. He spoke slowly, “I said, it’s not for me.”

  Wyles eyed Kamp. “Then who’s it for?”

  He fought back an eruption of anger that he knew would derail the process. Prone as he’d become to fits of pique, he preferred to interact with people he knew well, people who understood his patterns, contours and boundaries, who knew when to give way and when not to give an inch. Such was the case with E. Wyles.

  Kamp said, “It’s for someone who needs it. I don’t know the man, exactly. Story’s already too long to tell.”

  Wyles stiffened. “No.”

  He gripped his hat in his right hand hard enough to squeeze the blood from his knuckles.

  “You know you can’t just saunter in here and ask for something like that.”

  “I told you twice already. It’s not for me. It’s to help someone else.”

  Wyles stared at him for another moment. “On one condition,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You must go see the Judge. Today.”

  He slammed his fist on the edge of the counter. “Goddammit, Emma!”

  “He said he needs to talk to you.”

  Wyles pulled a key from a drawer, turned and walked to the back of the room. He noticed that her hair was done in a single long braid that reached nearly to her waist. Her hair was black except for a few wavy, gray strands. A feather was affixed near the bottom of the braid. Wyles unlocked a cabinet, removed a few items and walked back to him. On the counter, she placed a syringe and a small vial.

  “There you go.”

  Wyles put the vial and the syringe in a paper bag, folded the top and handed it to him.