Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

The boy just gaped at him. He had a mouthful of crooked teeth and a head too small for his gangly teenage body. He grinned stupidly, the mutt struggling in his arms. — He doesn't always come when I call. He needs to behave. —

— Can't even look after yourself, and you got a damn dog? —

— He's my friend. His name's Spot. —

Jack eyed the black mutt, who as far as he could see had no spots anywhere. — Now, there's a right clever name I've never heard before. —

— We're out lookin' for a bit o' milk. Babies need milk, y'know, and she drank up all I got for her last night. She'll be hungry this morning, and when they get hungry, they cry. —

What was the fool boy babbling about? — Get outta my way, — said Jack. — I got business to attend to. —

— All right, Mr. Burke! — The boy moved aside to let the horse pass. — I'm gonna get myself some business, too. —

Sure ya will, Billy. Sure ya will . Jack snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched forward. The horse took only a few paces before Jack abruptly pulled him to a stop. He turned to look back at Billy's spindly figure, half hidden in the mist. Though the boy had to be sixteen or seventeen, he was only bones and sinew, about as sturdy as some clackety wooden puppet. Still, he'd be an extra pair of hands.

And he'd be cheap.

— Hey, Billy! — Jack called. — You want to earn a ninepence? —

The boy hurried up to him, arms still in a stranglehold around his unfortunate pet. — What for, Mr. Burke? —

— Leave the dog and climb in. —

— But we need to find milk. —

— You want your ninepence or what? You can buy milk with it. —

Billy dropped the dog, who immediately trotted away. — You go home now! — Billy ordered it. — That's right, Spot! —

— Get in, boy. —

Billy scrabbled aboard the dray and settled his bony arse on the buckboard. — Where are we going? —

Jack snapped the reins. — You'll see. —

They rolled through drifting fingers of mist, past buildings where candlelight was starting to appear in windows. Except for the distant barking of dogs, the only noise was the horse's hooves and the sound of their wheels, rumbling down the narrow street.

Billy glanced back at the wagon. — What's under the tarp, Mr. Burke? —

— Nothing. —

— But there's somethin' there. I can see it. —

— You want your ninepence, then shut up. —

— All right. — The boy was silent for about five seconds. — When do I get it? —

— After you help me move something. —

— Like furniture? —

— Yeah. — Jack spat onto the street. — Just like furniture. —

They were almost to the Charles River now, rattling up North Allen Street. Daylight was gaining on them, but the fog still hung thick. As he neared his destination, it seemed to swirl ever closer, drifting in off the river to wrap them in its protective cloak. When at last they pulled to a stop, Jack could not see more than a few yards ahead of him, but he knew exactly where he was.

So did Billy. — Why are we at the hospital? —

— Wait here, — Jack ordered the boy. He jumped off the dray, his boots landing hard on the stones.

— When do we move the furniture? —

— Gotta see if it's here first. — Jack swung open the gate and walked into the hospital's rear courtyard. He needed to go only a few paces before he spotted what he'd been hoping to find: a coffin, with the lid newly nailed on. The name A. TATE had been scrawled on it. He lifted one end to test the weight, and confirmed that, yes, it was occupied and would soon be on its way. To potter's field, no doubt, judging by the rough pine.

He got to work prying up the lid. It did not take long, for there were only a few nails. No one cared if a pauper was properly secured in his coffin. He pulled off the lid, revealing the shrouded body within. Not so large, from the looks of it; even without Dim Billy, he could have dealt with this one.

He returned to the dray, where the boy was still waiting.

— Is it a chair? A table? — asked Billy.

— What're you babbling about? —

— The furniture. —

Jack went around to the wagon and whisked off the tarp. — Help me move this. —

Billy slithered off the buckboard and came around to the rear. — It's a log. —

— You are so clever. — Jack grabbed one end and dragged it from the wagon.

— Is it firewood? — asked Billy, grabbing the other end. — Don't it need to be split? —

— Just move it, eh? — They carried the log to the coffin and set it down. — Now help me lift this out, — Jack ordered.

Billy took one look into the coffin and froze. — There's somebody in there. —

— Come on, pick up that end. —

— But it— it's someone dead . —

— You want your ninepence or not? —

Billy looked up at him, eyes enormous in the wan and skinny face. — I'm afraid o' dead people. —

— They can't hurt you, idiot. —

The boy backed away. — They come after you. The ghosts do. —

— Ain't never seen a ghost. —

The boy was still retreating, moving toward the gate.

— Billy. You get your arse back here. —

Instead, the boy turned and fled from the courtyard, fading like a jerky marionette into the mist.

— Useless, — grunted Jack. He took a breath, hauled up the shrouded body, and rolled it out of the coffin. It thudded onto the cobblestones.

Daylight was brightening fast. He had to work quickly, before anyone saw him. He heaved the log into the coffin, positioned the lid, and with a few swings of the hammer nailed it back into place. May you rest in peace, Mr. Log, he thought with a laugh. Then he dragged the corpse, still sewn into its shroud, across the courtyard to his wagon. There he paused, panting, to glance around at the street. He saw no one.

And no one sees me .

Moments later he was back on the dray, guiding his horse down North Allen Street. Glancing over his shoulder, he checked his tarp-covered cargo. He had not laid eyes on the corpse itself, but he didn't need to. Whether young or old, male or female, it was fresh, and that's all that mattered. This time, the fee needn't be shared with anyone, not even Dim Billy.

He'd just saved himself ninepence. That was worth a bit of extra effort.

ROSE AWAKENED to find Meggie sleeping beside her, and she heard the clucking and flapping of chickens, the rustle of straw. None of these sounds was familiar, and it took Rose a moment to remember where she was.

To remember that Aurnia was dead.

Grief seized her in its fist, squeezing so hard that for a moment she could not breathe. She stared up at the barn's rough-hewn beams, thinking: This is more pain than I can bear.

Something nearby beat a steady tattoo, and she turned to see a black dog staring at her, its wagging tail slapping against a bale of hay. It shook itself, sending straw and dust flying, then trotted over to lick her face, leaving a trail of slime on her cheek. Pushing it away, she sat up. The dog gave a bored whine and headed down the stairs. Peering over the edge of the hayloft, she saw it trot past a stabled horse, moving purposefully as though late for an appointment, and it disappeared through the open barn door. In the distance, a rooster crowed.

She looked around the loft and wondered where Billy had gone.

So this was where he sheltered. She saw hints of him here and there, amid the bales of hay and the rusting implements. A depression in the straw marked where he had slept last night. A chipped cup and saucer and trencher were set upon an overturned crate, like a place setting for a fine meal. She had to smile at his resourcefulness. Last night, Billy had disappeared for a short time and returned with a precious cup of milk, no doubt squeezed furtively from someone's cow or goat. Rose hadn't questioned his source as Meggie had sucked on the milk-soaked rag; she'd been grateful for anything with which to satisfy the baby's hunger.