Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

Julia sighed. — I don't know what to think. I'm sorry I ever bought the house. I haven't had a good night's sleep since I moved in. —

— You haven't been living there very long. It's stressful, moving into a new place. Give yourself some time to get used to it. There's always an adjustment period. —

— I've been having dreams, — Julia said.

Isles didn't look impressed, and why would she? This was a woman who routinely sliced open the dead, a woman who'd chosen a career that would give most people nightmares. — What sort of dreams? —

— It's been three weeks now, and I've had them almost every night. I keep hoping they'll go away, that it's just from the shock of finding those bones in my garden. —

— That could give anyone nightmares. —

— I don't believe in ghosts. Really, I don't. But I feel as if she's trying to talk to me. Asking me to do something. —

— The deceased owner? Or the skeleton? —

— I don't know. Someone. —

Isles's expression remained utterly neutral. If she believed Julia was unhinged, her face didn't reveal it. But her words left no doubt where she stood on the matter. — I'm not sure I can help you with that. I'm just a pathologist, and I've told you my professional opinion. —

— And in your professional opinion, murder is still a possibility, isn't it? — insisted Julia. — You can't rule it out. —

Isles hesitated. — No, — she finally conceded. — I can't. —

That night, Julia dreamed of crows. Hundreds of them were perched in a dead tree, staring down at her with yellow eyes. Waiting.

She startled awake to the noise of raucous caws and opened her eyes to see the light of early morning through her uncurtained window. A pair of black wings glided past like a scythe wheeling through the sky. Then another. She climbed out of bed and went to the window.

The oak tree they occupied was not dead, as in her dream, but was fully leafed out in the lush growth of summer. At least two dozen crows had gathered there for some sort of corvid convention, and they perched like strange black fruit among the branches, cackling and rattling their glossy feathers. She had seen them in this tree before, and she had no doubt that these were the same birds who had feasted on Hilda Chamblett's corpse last summer, the same birds who had pecked and pulled with sharp beaks, leaving behind leathery shreds of nerve and tendon. Here they were again, looking for another taste of flesh. They knew she was watching them, and they stared back with eerie intelligence, as if they knew it was only a matter of time.

She turned away and thought: I have to hang some curtains on this window.

In the kitchen, she made coffee and spread butter and jam on toast. Outside, the morning mist was starting to lift, and it would be a sunny day. A good day to spread another bag of compost and dig in another bale of peat moss in the flower bed by the stream. Though her back still ached from laying bathroom tiles the night before, she did not want to waste a single day of good weather. You are allotted only a limited number of planting seasons in your lifetime, she thought, and once a summer is gone, you'll never get it back. She'd wasted too many summers already. This one is for me .

Outdoors, there was a noisy eruption of cawing and flapping wings. She looked out the window to see the crows suddenly lift simultaneously into the air and fly away, scattering to the four winds. Then she focused on the far corner of her yard, down near the stream, and she understood why the crows had fled so abruptly.

A man stood on the edge of her property. He was staring at her house.

She jerked away so he couldn't see her. Slowly, she eased back toward the window and peeked out. He was lean and dark-haired, dressed against the morning chill in blue jeans and a brown pullover sweater. Mist rose from the grass in feathery wisps, weaving sinuously about his legs. Trespass any farther on my property, she thought, and I'll call the police.

He took two steps toward her house.

She ran across the kitchen and snatched up the cordless phone. Darting back to the window, she looked out to see where he was, but could no longer glimpse him. Then something scratched at the kitchen door, and she was so startled, she almost dropped the phone. It's locked, right? I locked the door last night, didn't I? She dialed 911.

— McCoy! — a voice called out. — Come on, boy, get away from there! —

Glancing out the window again, she saw the man suddenly pop up from behind tall weeds. Something tapped across her porch, and then a yellow Labrador trotted into view and crossed the yard toward the man.

— Emergency operator. —

Julia looked down at the phone. Oh, God, what an idiot she was. — I'm sorry, — she said. — I called you by mistake. —

— Is everything all right, ma'am? Are you certain? —

— Yes, I'm perfectly fine. I hit speed dial by accident. Thank you. — She disconnected and looked outside again. The man was bending down to clip a leash onto the dog's collar. As he straightened, his gaze met Julia's through the window, and he gave a wave.

She opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the yard.

— Sorry about that! — he called out. — I didn't mean to trespass, but he got away from me. He thinks Hilda still lives there. —

— He's been here before? —

— Oh, yeah. She used to keep a box of dog biscuits just for him. — He laughed. — McCoy never forgets a free meal. —

She walked down the slope toward him. He no longer frightened her. She could not imagine a rapist or murderer owning such a friendly animal. The dog was practically dancing around at the end of the leash as she approached, eager to make her acquaintance.

— You're the new owner, I take it? — he said.

— Julia Hamill. —

— Tom Page. I live right down the road. — He started to shake her hand, then remembered the plastic bag he was holding and gave an embarrassed laugh. — Oops. Doggy doo. I was trying to pick up after him. —

So that's why he'd crouched momentarily in the grass, she thought. He was just cleaning up after his pet.

The dog gave an impatient bark and jumped up on his hind legs, begging for Julia's attention.

— McCoy! Down, boy! — Tom yanked on the leash, and the dog reluctantly obeyed.

— McCoy, as in real McCoy? — she asked.

— Um, no. As in Dr. McCoy. —

— Oh. Star Trek. —

He regarded her with a sheepish smile. — I guess that dates me. It's scary how many kids these days have never heard of Dr. McCoy. It makes me feel ancient. —

But he was certainly not ancient, she thought. Maybe in his early forties. Through her kitchen window, his hair had appeared black; now that she was closer, she could see threads of gray mingled there, and his dark eyes, squinting in the morning sunlight, were framed by well-used laugh lines.

— I'm glad somebody finally bought Hilda's place, — he said, glancing toward the house. — It was looking pretty lonely there for a while. —

— It's in rather bad shape. —

— She really couldn't keep it up. This yard was too much for her, but she was so damn territorial, she'd never let anyone else work in it. — He glanced toward the patch of bare earth, where the bones had been exhumed. — If she had, they might've found that skeleton a long time ago. —

— You've heard about it. —

— The whole neighborhood has. I came by a few weeks ago to watch them digging. You had a whole crew out here. —

— I didn't see you. —

— I didn't want you to think I was being too nosy. But I was curious. — He looked at her, his eyes so direct it made her feel uneasy, as though she could feel his gaze probing the contours of her brain. — How do you like the neighborhood? — he asked. — Aside from the skeletons? —