Tess Gerritsen: The Bone Garden: A Novel

I will not let you defeat me .

With the trowel, she hacked at the soil beneath the rock, trying to free up enough space to pry the shovel underneath it. Her hair slid into her face, strands clinging to sweaty skin as she reached deeper into the hole, scraping, tunneling. Before Richard saw this place, she'd turn it into a paradise. She had two months before she'd have to face another classroom of third graders. Two months to uproot these weeds, nourish the soil, put in roses. Richard had told her that if she ever planted roses in their Brookline yard, they'd die on her. You need to know what you're doing, he'd said— just a casual remark, but it had stung nevertheless. She knew what he'd really meant.

You need to know what you're doing. And you don't.

She dropped onto her belly and hacked away. Her trowel collided with something solid. Oh, God, not another rock. Shoving back her hair, she stared down at what her tool had just hit. Its metal tip had fractured a surface, and cracks radiated from the impact point. She brushed away dirt and pebbles, exposing an unnaturally smooth dome. Lying belly-down on the ground, she felt her heart thudding against the earth and suddenly found it hard to take a breath. But she kept digging, with both hands now, gloved fingers scraping through stubborn clay. More of the dome emerged, curves knitted together by a jagged seam. Deeper and deeper she clawed, her pulse accelerating as she uncovered a small dirt-filled hollow. She pulled off her glove and prodded the caked earth with a bare finger. Suddenly the dirt fractured and crumbled away.

Julia jerked back onto her knees and stared down at what she had just revealed. The mosquitoes' whine built to a shriek, but she did not wave them away and was too numb to feel their stings. A breeze feathered the grass, stirring the sweet-syrup smell of Queen Anne's lace. Julia's gaze lifted to her weed-ridden property, a place she had hoped to transform into a paradise. She'd imagined a vibrant garden of roses and peonies, an arbor twined with purple clematis. Now when she looked at this yard, she no longer saw a garden.

She saw a graveyard.

— You could have asked for my advice before you bought this shack, — said her sister, Vicky, sitting at Julia's kitchen table.

Julia stood at the window, staring out at the multiple mounds of dirt that had sprung up like baby volcanoes in her back garden. For the past three days, a crew from the medical examiner's office had practically camped out in her yard. She was now so accustomed to having them tramp in and out of her house to use the toilet that she'd miss having them around when the excavation was done, and they finally left her alone again, here in this house with its hand-hewn beams and its history. And its ghosts.

Outside, the medical examiner, Dr. Isles, had just arrived and was crossing toward the excavation site. Julia thought her an unsettling sort of woman, neither friendly nor unfriendly, with ghostly pale skin and Goth-black hair. She looks so calm and collected, Julia thought, watching Isles through the window.

— It's not like you to just jump into something, — said Vicky. — An offer on the first day you saw it? Did you think anyone else would snatch it up? — She pointed to the crooked cellar door. — That doesn't even shut. Did you check the foundation? This place has got to be a hundred years old. —

— It's a hundred and thirty, — Julia murmured, her gaze still on the backyard, where Dr. Isles stood at the edge of the excavation hole.

— Oh, honey, — Vicky said, her voice softening. — I know it's been a tough year for you. I know what you're going through. I just wish you'd called me before you did something this drastic. —

— It's not such a bad property, — Julia insisted. — It's got an acre of land. It's close to the city. —

— And it's got a dead body in the backyard. That'll really help its resale value. —

Julia massaged her neck, which was suddenly knotted with tension. Vicky was right. Vicky was always right. Julia thought: I've poured my bank account into this house, and now I'm the proud owner of a cursed property. Through the window, she saw another newcomer arrive on the scene. It was an older woman with short gray hair, dressed in blue jeans and heavy work boots— not the sort of outfit one expected for such a grandmotherly type. Yet one more queer character wandering through her yard today. Who were these people, converging on the dead? Why did they choose such a profession, confronting every day what most people shuddered to even contemplate?

— Did you talk to Richard before you bought it? —

Julia went still. — No, I didn't talk to him. —

— Have you heard from him at all lately? — Vicky asked. The change in her voice— suddenly quiet, almost hesitant— made Julia at last turn to look at her sister.

— Why are you asking? — said Julia.

— You were married to him. Don't you call him every so often, just to ask if he's forwarding your mail or something? —

Julia sank into a chair at the table. — I don't call him. And he doesn't call me. —

For a moment Vicky said nothing, just sat in silence as Julia stoically stared down. — I'm sorry, — Vicky finally said. — I'm so sorry you're still hurting. —

Julia gave a laugh. — Yeah, well. I'm sorry, too. —

— It's been six months. I thought you'd be over him by now. You're bright, you're cute, you should be back in circulation. —

Vicky would say that. Suck-it-up Vicky who, five days after her appendectomy, had charged back into a courtroom to lead her team of attorneys to victory. She wouldn't let a little setback like divorce trip up her week.

Vicky sighed. — To be honest, I didn't drive all the way over here just to see the new house. You're my baby sister, and there's something you should know. Something you have a right to know. I'm just not sure how to— — She stopped. Looked at the kitchen door, where someone had just knocked.

Julia opened the door to see Dr. Isles, looking coolly composed despite the heat. — I wanted to let you know that my team will be leaving today, — Isles said.

Glancing at the excavation site, Julia saw that people were already packing up their tools. — You're finished here? —

— We've found enough to determine this is not an ME case. I've referred it to Dr. Petrie, from Harvard. — Isles pointed to the woman who had just arrived— the granny in the blue jeans.

Vicky joined them in the doorway. — Who's Dr. Petrie? —

— A forensic anthropologist. She'll be completing the excavation, purely for research purposes. If you have no objection, Ms. Hamill. —

— So the bones are old? —

— It's clearly not a recent burial. Why don't you come out and take a look? —

Vicky and Julia followed Isles down the sloping yard. After three days of digging, the hole had grown to a gaping pit. Laid out on a tarp were the remains.

Though Dr. Petrie had to be at least sixty, she sprang easily to her feet from a squat and came forward to shake their hands. — You're the homeowner? — she asked Julia.

— I just bought the place. I moved in last week. —

— Lucky you, — Petrie said, and she actually seemed to mean it.

Dr. Isles said, — We sifted a few items from the soil. Some old buttons and a buckle ornament, clearly antique. — She reached into an evidence box sitting beside the bones. — And today, we found this. — She pulled out a small ziplock bag. Through the plastic, Julia saw the glint of multicolored gemstones.

— It's a regard ring, — said Dr. Petrie. — Acrostic jewelry was quite the rage in the early Victorian era. The names of the stones are meant to spell out a word. A ruby, emerald, and garnet, for instance, would be the first three letters in the word regard. This ring is something you'd give as a token of affection. —