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

by Kurt B. Dowdle

  KAMP SAT with his back against the wall of the boxcar with his knees bent, and he watched the countryside pass as the train swayed side to side. He felt awake now, and relaxed. Yesterday’s events had floated to the far recesses of his mind, almost as if they’d never happened or had happened to someone else. He did, however, feel a distinct flicker of agitation above his right eye related to the events of the previous day. It bothered him that the train detective John Heist and then the High Constable Samuel Druckenmiller, then the Druggist E. Wyles and finally the Big Judge Tate Cain, all of them thought he was wrong about Daniel Knecht. Not just thought. They knew he was wrong. Heist knew Knecht was lying about starting a fire on the train to keep warm, and Druckenmiller knew Knecht was lying about his brother’s suffering so that the court would go easy on him and so that he would buy him morphine. And so on. How could they be so sure? And why would they doubt him? If the Judge thought his logic and discernment were incorrect, why would he want him to become a police detective?

  It angered Kamp that they knew without knowing, judged without any facts. So, in the tiny hours of the previous night, he’d determined that he would go to Knecht’s house himself, find Knecht’s brother, to verify the man’s plight. He’d even administer the morphine if necessary. Having confirmed the rationale and the plan in his mind, he let the matter drop, and he spent the remainder of the ride to Easton watching grey morning light turn to purple, pink, then gold and listening to the song of the wheels on the tracks.

  Easton proper was just as he remembered it, except that it had grown. More trains, canal boats, buildings and people. Relentlessly more. Kamp had last been to Easton on his trip home from the war, and hadn’t thought about going there again until now. He already wanted to leave. If Knecht hadn’t told him his street address, Kamp might have talked himself into hopping the next train back. But Knecht had said he lived on Ferry Street, a short walk from the train station where he got off. In fact, he could see Ferry Street from where he stood, and he headed off walking past drab, one-story houses and the occasional tenement building. The houses that were numbered counted down the closer he got to the river. Based on Knecht’s description of his family’s circumstances, he assumed that Knecht’s house would reveal itself as the drabbest, the most run-down on the block. And he was wrong.

  He found Daniel Knecht’s house by a brass “2” affixed to the front door. The property had a low wooden fence around it, unpainted but in good repair. No detritus in the front yard. He walked up and knocked. A girl, eight or nine years old, opened the door. She wore a plain gray dress, and her hair was pulled straight back and tied with a pink ribbon.

  Kamp said, “May I speak with your parents?”

  The girl stared at him and said nothing.

  “Is your brother here? Lawrence. Is he here? Can I see him?”

  The girl furrowed her brow. “Who are you?”

  “I need to speak with Lawrence. I have something for him.”

  “What is it? Show me.”

  “I’ll show it to your brother.”

  “I’ll give it to him.”

  Kamp pulled in a breath. “I need to give—”

  She said, “Whatever you have, he doesn’t need it.”

  “A minute or two, and then I’ll leave.”

  He saw the color rising in the girl’s face, and he saw her fists clench.

  Kamp persisted, “I want to help your brother Lawrence. Where can I find him?”

  “Try the cemetery!” As soon as she said it, the girl’s head dropped, and her shoulders began shaking. Large tears splattered on the floorboards. He heard another voice at the back of the house.

  “Mercy? Mercy? What’s wrong? Is someone there?” A taller girl rushed down the hall. She looked at him, then at the little girl.

  She said, “Who the hell are you? What did you do to my sister?” This girl wore the same kind of dress, though she was taller. She put her arm around the girl’s shoulder.

  “My name is Kamp. I spoke with your brother Daniel yesterday. He asked me to get some medicine for your brother Lawrence.”

  “Danny. Where is he?”

  “I didn’t mean to upset your sister. I’m just trying to help.”

  “Mr. Kamp, would you like to come in?”

  He realized he’d walked into a scenario of great complexity compounded by a pattern of grief that stretched across more than a single generation. He followed the girls into the house and into a small sitting room. The younger sister Mercy’s sobs had slowed and she sat beside her sister. He sat in a chair facing them.

  The older sister started, “My name is Margaret Knecht. This is my sister, Mercy. You said you’ve already met Danny. And our brother Lawrence died last week. Yesterday was the funeral. Danny wasn’t there. We didn’t know where he went, but it seems like you do.”

  “He was on a train. He caused some trouble. The train detective asked me to take him to the police station.”

  Margaret said, “It’s a good thing. No telling what he would have done.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t misunderstand, Mr. Kamp, more than anything he wants things to be good for us.”

  “How did your parents die?”

  “Our father was a steamboat captain. One day the engine exploded. Our mother did what she could after that. She worked in a dress factory, but it wasn’t enough.” Margaret Knecht looked at her sister whose eyes were still downcast and then at him.

  “Sometimes she had to do other things to make money. She died a few years after our father. And then it was up to Danny to take care of us. Once Lawrence was old enough, he went to work in the mines, too. That’s how we have this house, from them working. A month ago, Lawrence got hurt. The doctors tried to help him, and we took care of him the best we could. But he just died. It was probably too much for Danny. He didn’t go to our mother’s funeral either. Was gone for a few weeks then.”

  Kamp rubbed his left temple. He realized that words could not address the magnitude of their suffering or their fortitude in the face of it.

  “Well, girls, I’m very sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry to trouble you today.”

  Mercy Knecht, who had been silent and only stared up at the floor looked up and said, “At least you tried.”

  Margaret Knecht said, “Thank you, Mr. Kamp.”

  “Kamp.”

  “Thank you.” She stood up and walked him to the door.

  He trudged back to the train station, carrying the weight of the conversation and all its implications. He saw the faces of the girls in his mind’s eye. He imagined the lifetime of trouble they’d already seen, though their lives had just begun. He remembered the desperation and the fury in Danny Knecht’s eyes when they walked the road to Bethlehem. And now perhaps he’d glimpsed where the fire started. As he reached the train yard, he saw a passenger train pull in and disgorge its riders, a handful of railroad workers finishing their shift, a few soldiers in uniform. And businessmen. Dozens of businessmen, outfitted in tweed and watch chains, ready to do their part for the plunder.

  He recognized new arrivals, too, weary and wide-eyed, clutching suitcases and boxes. A bundle of fresh souls, fodder for the mines and mills. All in all, on one train, he witnessed more than enough people to replace every doomed clan that preceded them.

  Kamp knew that meditating on this kind of matter, as he’d started to do during the war and its aftermath, would engulf him soon enough and could bring on an unrelenting storm that could rage in his consciousness for weeks. In moments such as these, he’d learned to direct his thinking to the practical, the immediate and the corporeal. He noticed that he was hungry and bought a loaf of sourdough and a bottle of root beer from a street vendor outside the station. He caught another train out of the yard and headed back up the line. He settled in his empty boxcar for the ride home, unlacing his boots, slipping them off and letting out a long sigh. He tore off a piece of the sourdough and chewed it slowly in order to get all the flavor. He washed it d
own with a long pull of root beer. As the train swayed side to side, he fell into a rhythm of internal discourse, of clear logic and deduction, beginning, as usual, with questions. Why did Daniel Knecht lie about needing the medicine for his brother? What did Knecht think he'd do once he discovered the lie? How would Daniel Knecht’s sisters survive if their brother went to jail? He surmised that all of Daniel Knecht’s behavior pointed to a lack of forethought and an abundance of confusion. Knecht had been on the train that day because he was running away from his brother’s funeral, only the most recent event in a sad string of occurrences. He made up the story about getting medicine for his brother to garner sympathy. He didn’t think he’d be caught in the lie, because it would not have occurred to him that Kamp would go so far as to buy the morphine and then try to deliver it himself. He didn’t know whether Knecht intended to buy the morphine and use it himself, though Kamp decided it didn’t matter. He considered the mystery solved and his responsibility to Daniel Knecht and his family officially fulfilled.

  THE TRAIN NEARED THE POINT where he would have to jump. Getting off a moving train could be even more harrowing than getting on. He directed his full attention to the process. The easiest way to bail was also the most painful. It consisted of simply taking a running leap out of the boxcar, making sure to clear the gravel and larger rocks beside the rails. Hitting the rocks meant heavy scratches and bruises, at best. Even if he were to clear the rocks, he could hit any number of hard things upon impact, usually fallen tree boughs. He wanted to avoid crash landings entirely, and over the years he'd devised a way.

  The train crossed over Shawnee Creek at one point via an iron trestle. There was a bend in the creek directly beneath the trestle, and at the bend was a waterhole at least a few feet deep year round. When the creek ran higher, the water was easily six feet deep. So the waterhole was deep enough for what he wanted to do, but it wasn’t very wide, measuring only a few feet across. Missing the hole even by inches to one side or the other would spell disaster. With the right speed and the right angle, however, Kamp could jump straight from the train and plunge into the waterhole.

  Experience taught him that he didn’t want to make the walk back from the train soaking wet, so he removed all his clothing first. He tied up everything, including his boots, in the blanket he brought for this purpose. Seconds before the jump, he hurled the bindle out of the car and onto the bank. He took two steps back, then blasted ahead, leaping from the car, clearing the trestle by inches, fully airborne, and sailing naked through the air, an instant of pure freedom. He let out a huge “YEEOWWW!” and then splashed down, hitting nothing but cold water and the bubbles that spun inside it. He bobbed to the surface and luxuriated in the water hole for a few minutes. He ducked back underwater, held his breath and then floated on his back, fully bare to the late summer sunshine. Kamp pushed his chest toward the sky and let all the hurt, misery and trouble wash away, at least for that moment. He hauled himself out of the water and up the bank of the creek. He collected his bindle from deep in the brambles, an exercise in moving with great caution. Kamp put on his clothes and pulled on his boots. He felt new.

  He also felt like getting home. He wanted to see if she was feeling better and to tell her about the events of the day. As he turned from the road and onto the path to his farm, Kamp saw a horse tied up to the rail by the house. When he reached his porch, the front door swung open, and there stood the druggist, E. Wyles, who in addition to being an expert apothecary was known as the most capable midwife in the Lehigh Valley. He assumed that it was in this capacity that she visited his home, checking up on her to make certain that there were no problems. The look on E. Wyles’ face and her body language, that imperious stance that had confronted him a hundred times since their youth, suggested otherwise. She was effectively barring Kamp from getting in.

  E. Wyles said, “If an expectant mother is ill, you must never, ever leave her side until she’s better or until there’s someone who can provide assistance, such as me.”

  Oh, Jesus, he thought. Here we go.

  She continued, “You don’t understand the seriousness of the problem, I don’t believe, no. Not if you just took off this morning without saying where you were going or when you’d be back.”

  Even during moments such as this, he marveled at her certitude and her willingness to share it. He considered it the price of their friendship.

  Kamp said, “Well, is she all right, Emma?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I’d like to see her once and make sure for myself.”

  Wyles said, “I also got a message from the Judge, and he said–“

  “The Judge?”

  “Yes, the Judge was here earlier, and he found her on the floor. She had been ill. The Judge gave a message to your neighbor for me to come immediately, which I did.”

  “What neighbor?”

  “Bauer, I believe. Jonas Bauer is the man’s name. He did a good deed.” Kamp knew of the neighbor, a miner, but he’d never met him.

  He said, “Well, fine, but what was the Judge doing here in the first place?”

  “She’s been having fevers. You know that. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know that she must rest, in bed, as much as possible. None of this is good for the baby, either. You realize that.”

  “Christ, Emma, yes! But what was the Judge doing here?”

  He pushed past her and into the house.

  “Shaw!”

  E. Wyles grabbed him hard by the shoulder and hissed, “She’s sleeping!”

  He felt the fire starting to crackle at the base of his skull and the anger starting to thrum in his chest. He knew if he didn’t check his temper immediately, he would lose control. He closed his eyes and watched the demons swoop in. The cosmic battle was joined again. Kamp tried to focus on his breath and counted silently and slowly. Moment by moment, he pushed back the anger until it began to recede on its own. He opened his eyes and looked at E. Wyles.

  “Why was the Judge here in the first place?”

  “I don’t know. He only stayed a few minutes. I assume he was looking for you. He mentioned something about going hunting tomorrow. Believe it or not, he didn’t invite me.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “He said something about wanting to get a decision. I told him not to hold his breath.”

  “What else?”

  E. Wyles pursed her lips and looked at the ceiling. “Nothing else I recall, though there was a man with him.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Oh, fairly tall. Your height, thin. Black hair, curly. Kind of scroungy, hungry-looking.”

  “That’s the guy. Daniel Knecht. The guy I told you about who said he needed medicine for his brother.”

  “The fiend?” She cocked an eyebrow when she said it.

  “That’s him. But what in the hell was he doing here with the Judge?”

  “I don’t know, and it hardly matters. Shaw requires a few different medicines and remedies, some of which are not cheap. Most of all, she needs you. She needs you with her, to be there for her. Focus.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the vial of morphine and the syringe. “Well, anyway, Knecht’s brother won’t be needing these. He’s dead.”

  Wyles said, “Then keep the morphine. You never know when someone else might need it, god forbid.”

  Wyles packed up her medical gear in her satchel and headed for the door.

  He said, “What do I owe you for the visit?”

  Wyles called back over her shoulder, “Remember everything I told you, and take it to heart. I’ll be back tomorrow. For now, she must sleep. Let her sleep.”

  E. Wyles untied her horse, got into the saddle and rode at a canter down the path. When she got to the road, she kicked with both feet, snapped the reins and galloped away full tilt. He watched her go and then headed up the stairs. He cracked the bedroom door to look in on Shaw, who appeared, in fact, to be asleep
. He tiptoed into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed as carefully as he could. Kamp noticed there was a little color in her cheeks and no tension in her forehead. The light brown skin of her face was unblemished, save for the white scar in the shape of a crescent moon above her right eye. He brushed her straight, black hair from her face so that he could see her better and so that she would wake up. Shaw opened her eyes with her dreams still playing behind them.

  Kamp said, “You were right. He was lying.”

  She said, “People lie.”

  He knew that with all that had happened during the day, he would not sleep. It would be hours before his mind had worked through all the questions he had.

  Shaw said, “He was here, you know. That man Knecht. He’s troubled. I could tell.”

  “Yes, I know. He’s probably not all bad, though.”

  Shaw studied his face and said, “No one is.”

  FOUR

  KAMP WAS STILL AWAKE when he heard the hunting party coming for him and breaking the sacred silence of the stretch between midnight and dawn. When he first heard them, he'd been thinking about the nature of men and how the way they think and move and interact is akin to a great machine whose parts are all unknown to each other in a conscious sense but magically make the machine move in unison. But whose hand sets men in motion, he wondered, in such a way that their machinations are known only to themselves yet work in concert with the others? Whose hand drives the machine?

  The creak of carriage wheels, the yelp of a dog and the clatter of hooves told him that the party was on the road toward his farm. He’d pulled his gear together hours before and set his pack by the door. He checked on Shaw one last time and saw that she was sleeping soundly. He tiptoed back down the stairs, picked up his pack and walked to road, where the hunting party waited. Kamp couldn’t see any of the faces of the men, let alone make out who they were. But he knew the voices, some anyway. He made a picture of the scene in his mind, based on a myriad of smells that flooded his nose. Animals, men and gunpowder. Liquor and tobacco. He fought for a moment to hold the picture of this morning, this present scenario, lest these sensations reel him back into the past long gone.