Joe adjusted Kamp’s weight on his shoulders and began walking again. Kamp drifted in and out of consciousness, each time waking to the sound of Joe’s feet on the trail and fresh pain in his body. When they reached the far side of the mountain, the sky was dark except for the light of the sliver of moon. Joe pointed the way to the wagon he’d left on the road on the far side of the mountain. The horse nickered and stamped her hoof when she saw Nyx, who climbed in the wagon. Joe loaded Kamp next to her and then calmed the horse by rubbing the spot in the middle of her forehead and whispering a song. Once the horse had settled down, Joe clambered onto the seat, took the reins and instructed the horse to run.
KAMP HEARD RAVENS calling to each other in the chestnut tree outside the window. He scanned the room and saw that he lay in a bed in a clean, spare room of a wooden building, probably a cabin. Apart from the bed and a chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room was a dresser. On the dresser was a large bowl of steaming water and a silver tray containing metal implements, a syringe and a green, ribbed bottle. Kamp felt excruciating pain in his hip and elbow, as well as in his head. He focused on the warm yellow sunlight slanting in the window and the blue sky outside. He also heard voices through the bedroom door and assumed they belonged to Joe and Nyx. A moment later, however, the door opened and E. Wyles entered the room.
“Good morning.”
“You’re here.”
“Indeed, I am.” She smiled at him.
She looked exactly as she always did, with one exception. She wore a starched, white cotton blouse with the sleeves rolled up and a long, grey skirt and boots. But her hair, which was normally pulled back and tied up, was now loose and fell past her shoulders.
He said, “Where are they?”
“They’re not here. But they’re fine. They’re safe.”
“Where are they!”
Wyles crossed the room and stood facing him. “Settle down. I’ll explain everything later. Right now, I have to take care of you.”
“Take care of me?”
Wyles looked Kamp straight in the eye. “Your injuries are severe, life-threatening. I’m going to try to save your left arm, if that’s possible, by performing surgery. And I’m going to reset your right arm so that it can heal properly.”
“Reset it how?”
“By breaking it.”
“I thought you were a midwife.”
“I’m a lot of things.” Wyles walked to the dresser. “And lucky for you, I’m also a druggist.” She inserted the tip of the syringe in the green bottle and filled the barrel. “Make a fist.”
TWENTY-THREE
SILAS OWNBY STOOD at the head of the table and took his wife’s hand with his left and his oldest daughter’s hand with his right. He surveyed the other faces at the table, his mother and father, the two younger girls. All bowed their heads, and Silas Ownby used the moment to listen for the Inward Voice, and as he often did, heard silence. In times past Ownby took the silence to mean that all was well with him and that he was walking in the light. But he’d begun to doubt the meaning of this quiet, if not the purity of his walk. The moment passed quickly enough, and the family sat down to their typical Sunday feast, served on ornate dishes and from silver bowls. Silas had never been one to worry, placing all his faith in the divine grace and providence that guaranteed the rightness of his purpose. One had to look no further than the warmth of his home, the bounty on the table and the happiness of the people gathered around it, he assured himself, to be certain that his path was true.
And yet he did not feel certain. In fact, Silas Ownby felt greatly troubled. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow and upper lip. His heart began to thud in his chest, and he stood up abruptly from the table.
His wife said, “Silas, what is it?”
“Nothing. I just remembered something. Excuse me.”
Silas Ownby exited through the back door of his large home and stepped out onto the stone patio. He looked back in through the dining room window and watched his youngest daughter, Jennie, talking to her sister and laughing. Ownby felt an overwhelming sadness in his chest and struggled to push down a sob. Earlier that morning, the girl had come to him and said she’d found something mysterious.
She’d held it up to him and said, “Look, papa, it’s a beautiful, shiny treasure.” The object was an eight-sided silver coin, newly-minted. On the coin Ownby saw the face of a smiling figure wearing a cap.
“I love him. I think he’s funny. And there’s a picture on the other side, too.” She flipped the coin over to reveal a picture of a locomotive inside a circle. Around the circle were the words “Ex Fratrum Ordine, Et in Corvo.”
Jennie said, “Where do you think it came from?”
“Where did you find this?”
“I wonder who wanted me to have such a beautiful thing. Was it you, papa?”
Ownby snapped, “Where did you find it?”
Jennie looked at him, puzzled. “Where?”
“Yes, where did you find the coin?”
“I didn’t find it. It was under my pillow when I woke up this morning.”
“Give it to me.” Ownby reached for the coin, and Jennie pulled back.
“No, papa. It’s mine. I think he wanted me to have it.”
“Who?”
“The little man on the coin.”
Ownby had grabbed his daughter by the arm and pried the coin from her fingers. She’d begun sobbing, but he’d kept the coin. He took it out of his pocket now and turned it over in his trembling hand. That someone had entered his home and gone in his daughters’ room terrified him. Ownby also felt certain that the person intentionally put it under Jennie’s pillow, because she was the youngest and most vulnerable. The message was not subtle. Ownby had heard stories, especially in recent weeks, regarding the actions of this alleged group, the Order of the Raven. In particular, any crime whose perpetrator was unknown was assumed to have been committed by a member of this organization. Ownby knew that dozens of secret societies operated in Bethlehem, nearly all of them in plain view. However, he’d also heard of genuinely clandestine groups whose membership rolls were known only to their own leadership and whose members were, in fact, sworn to secrecy.
In particular, it was Ownby’s understanding that this shadowy cabal worked to undermine the authority of the management structure in industrial settings, such as coal mines. He’d heard a rumor–darkly fantastical it seemed to him at the time–that the group orchestrated an explosion in one of his own mines. Another tale made this Order of the Raven responsible for the recent death of the former district attorney, Philander Crow. Ownby had dismissed these rumors out of hand. It never occurred to him that he’d have reason to fear such a group. He never felt threatened, because his walk was upright. The labor practices in his collieries were considered to be, by a wide margin, the safest and most humane in the region, if not the world. He paid his workers the highest wages. The anger and violence between management and labor that plagued other operations in the area did not exist in his. So Silas Ownby had no real reason to fear any secret society, especially one that might not even be real.
Nevertheless, he’d heard that when the Order of the Raven intended to exact punishment, they invariably delivered a silver coin, without explanation. It was said that if the victim tried to get help, in particular, if the person told anyone or showed anyone the coin, their wrath was swift and terrible. Upon completion, the Order retrieved the coin. It was this detail that initially had made Silas Ownby most skeptical, for it seemed that the lack of physical proof, the lack of the mythical coin, somehow proved to the gullible that the Order was behind the crime. But now the coin had appeared, and he held it in his own hand. It could be a fake, a joke at his expense. But judging by the quality of the coin, the design, execution and overall craftsmanship, it would have had to be an extraordinarily elaborate ruse. Someone had taken considerable time and great expense to mint the coin. And someone had actually broken into his home to deliver it. Silas Ownby w
anted to believe that the threat wasn’t real or that it was meant for someone else. The fear in his chest told him otherwise.
KAMP DIDN’T FEEL BETTER when morning came. Though his body was numb, he knew that the pain was there underneath it and ready to storm back when the drug wore off. But he felt as if he had rested, and perhaps best of all, he wasn’t cold. Judging by the stillness outside, he knew it was the middle of the night. By the moonlight coming through the window, he looked at his arms, both heavily bandaged. The first twinge of feeling came in the form of an itch in his left ear. He tried to scratch it, first with his left hand and then with his right. The efforts were futile, as Wyles had immobilized both arms. He lay in bed and waited for the itch to depart of its own accord, and when it did, he fell back asleep.
When the morning came, he awoke to the raw pain of his convalescence and also to the smell of breakfast. His stomach growled loudly, announcing the return of his appetite. The bedroom door opened and Nyx Bauer came in carrying a tray of food that included scrambled eggs, bacon and a large mug of hot coffee.
She said, “Guten tag, herr detektiv.” Nyx carried the mug of coffee to the bedside. As soon as he tried to reach for it, Kamp realized he had no way of getting the mug to his lips. He couldn’t bend either elbow.
“Morning, Nyx. Do me a favor and take the splint off my left arm.”
“Sorry, can’t do it.”
Kamp felt the blood rising in his face. “I have to eat.”
Nyx shook her head. “Nope. Wyles said so.”
He let the fury wash over him, looked out the window, took a few deep breaths and then looked back at Nyx.
Nyx said, “Finished?”
He gave her a hard stare and then focused on the coffee mug. Nyx guided the mug toward his lips. He inhaled the steam, as she tipped the mug gently so that the liquid trickled into his mouth. Kamp closed his eyes and savored a moment of bliss.
“Too hot?”
“More.”
Nyx poured the coffee down his throat, and he felt warmth spreading in his chest. Soon, the caffeine started working, too. The fog receded, and his mind began to engage.
“Where’s Wyles?”
“In the other room.”
Nyx got the tray of food from the dresser and set it on his chest. He breathed in the smell of the food as deeply as his lungs would allow. She fed him a strip of bacon and some of the eggs.
Between bites, he said, “What about Joe? Where’s he?”
“Don’t know. Not here.”
“Where’s here?”
She shook her head. “Don’t know that, either. Joe said something about a hunting camp. That we’re close to where that is. He said you’d know what hunting camp.” She continued feeding him while she talked. “I like it here. Emma and Joe are teaching me more about shooting. Different stances. How to hit a moving target. A lot more than you taught me.”
“Good for them.”
“I’m a good shot, too. You should see me.”
“What about your sisters? Do they know you’re here?”
“Before I came and found you and Joe, I told them I’d be going for a while anyway. They’re fine. They’re at the Fogels.” Nyx finished feeding him. “Let me guess, you want more.”
He nodded. “And tell Emma to come here, and bring me that canvas bag.”
Nyx said, “Yawohl, herr detektiv” and got up to leave.
As she reached the door, Kamp said, “Oh, and Nyx, thank you.”
She turned back and raised an eyebrow. “Gern gshehne, Kamp.”
A moment after Nyx had gone, E. Wyles strode into the room, purposeful as ever.
She walked to the bedside, studied his face and put her hand on his forehead. “Feeling better?”
“A little.”
“You look better. No fever, which probably means no infection.”
He looked at his arms. “How’d it go?”
Wyles said, “Very well. We took proper care of the wounds to your left arm and reset the bone in your right.”
“We?”
“Yes, Nyx assisted me throughout both procedures. She’s remarkable.”
Kamp said, “What about my hip?”
“It’s severely bruised but probably not broken. No way to know for certain, except to wait and see how it heals.”
“Where’s my family, Emma?”
Wyles inhaled deeply. “They’re not here, and they’re not close. Shaw and the baby went with Joe to stay with their people.”
“You didn’t go?”
“I stayed here and waited for Joe to get back. And as soon as he did, he went looking for you.” Wyles unwrapped the bandages on his left arm. “This is healing properly. I’m going to keep it immobilized for the time being so that you can’t disturb it.”
“I need to use it.”
“Tough.” Wyles applied clean bandages to the wounds. “The dressings will need to be changed. I’m leaving. Now that you’re on the mend, I need to get back to work.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea, considering?”
“People are depending on me. I need to be there.”
“Tell me about the night the house burned.”
“Another time. The only thing that matters is that we made it out.” Wyles packed up her medicine and moved toward the door. “Shaw wanted me to tell you she started calling your daughter by a name. She wanted me to be certain to tell you it’s not her real name, but that’s what she’s calling her.”
“What’s the name?”
“Autumn.”
Kamp said, “Works for me.”
SILAS OWNBY PACED back and forth on the patio, breathing the cold air in gulps, waiting for the panic to subside so that he could begin to assess the situation and to plot a course of action. He never imagined the world to be a peaceable kingdom, but neither did he envision that evil would be unleashed on him for no earthly reason. He searched his memories of the recent past for some turn of events or perhaps a comment or decision of his that could have given offense or otherwise run him afoul of a member of the Order of the Raven. He recalled nothing. Ownby then brought to mind all the individuals he could remember with whom he’d interacted in the previous year. Since he was the owner of a significant enterprise, that list of people ran to the hundreds. Ownby flashed each of them before his mind’s eye, and once again, he recalled no ill feelings and certainly no conflict, apart from the expected friction generated by business dealings.
The fact that he couldn’t identify enemies led Silas Ownby to the conclusion that an individual or, it appeared, group intended to do great harm to him for reasons unbeknownst to him. As such, he concluded, any person, known to him or unknown, might be a malefactor. Still, Ownby knew that he had to trust someone or else simply suffer the consequences of his fate. He assembled a new list in his mind, men he felt certain would not wish to harm him, because they didn’t know him personally and, more importantly, would gain nothing from his demise. In addition, Ownby knew he needed someone who had information regarding the Order of the Raven and would have a motive for helping him. Under normal circumstances, Silas Ownby viewed police officers as agents of coercion. But intuition told him that the police detective he’d seen at the funeral of Jonas and Rachel Bauer, was the man in whom he should confide. He’d heard this man Kamp had become an irritant to his peers and superiors. Ownby also recalled hearing a story that, against overwhelming public sentiment and at the risk of his own life, he’d attempted to intervene to prevent the speedy and ultimate punishment of the alleged fiend, Daniel Knecht. Silas Ownby now saw himself as the condemned, doomed to a swift execution, and as such, Kamp was his man.
Two thoughts trailed Silas Ownby as he stepped from the stone patio and back into the warm house. The first was that he hadn’t a clue as to the whereabouts of the detective. The second, more troubling, was that despite Kamp’s best efforts, Daniel Knecht had gone straight to his grave.
AS SOON AS E. WYLES left the room, Kamp began removing the splint from his
left arm. An hour later, and as the sun went down over Blue Mountain, he managed to wiggle nearly all the way out of it. With a final twist, it dropped to the floor with a thud. He breathed a deep sigh as he slowly bent his elbow back and forth. The splint on his right arm remained, and he was happy to leave that one in place. If he tried to hurry the recovery, or if he reinjured it, he knew the arm would never work the right way again. He allowed himself to fall back onto the mattress and relax for the first time that day and fell asleep immediately. When he awoke, Joe was sitting in the wooden chair next to the bed, smoking his pipe. A single candle on the table next to the bed lit the room.
“Evening, Joe.”
Joe puffed his pipe and exhaled. “Anixit gulaqueen.” He handed the pipe to Kamp, who took a puff and handed it back.
“Me too.”
Joe noticed the splint lying on the floor. He let a long moment pass and said, “These things can’t be rushed.”
“Emma worries too much.”
“Does she?”
He sat upright in bed. “Where are they, Joe? I need to see them.” Joe looked at the candle flame and said nothing. “They’re my family.”
Joe settled his gaze on Kamp. “They’re up the line. Close to Mauch Chunk.”
“I’m going.”
“They’re my family as well. Our people.”
“You don’t trust me.”
Joe inhaled a long breath. “When I visited you, I told you about a dream. And I told you to leave so that my daughter, my granddaughter and you would not be harmed.”
“And I didn’t listen.”
“You decided to stay in your home and to protect your family there. But what was foretold in the dream came to pass, and is coming to pass.”
“I won’t make the same mistake again, Joe. Just tell me where they are.”
Joe shook his head gently. “Even now you don’t see.”
“See what?”
“If I tell you where they are, you’ll go there. And you’ll take this trouble with you. Everyone there will be killed. If you’re not followed there, soon you will try to return to your home, and then you will all be killed.”
Ax & Spade: A Thriller (Raven Trilogy Book 1) Page 22