Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

Stubborn? Irascible?

— She died where she wanted to, — he said. — At home, in her garden. —

— I just find it sad that she was lying there for days before anyone found her. —

— No doubt, so will I. My grandnephew will probably find my old carcass sitting right here in this chair. —

— That's a horrible thought, Henry. —

— It's a consequence of liking one's privacy. You live alone, so you must know what I mean. —

She stared at her glass. — It isn't my choice, — she said. — My husband left me. —

— Why? You seem like a pleasant enough young woman. —

Pleasant enough. Right, that would bring the men running. His remark was so unintentionally insulting that she laughed. But somewhere in the middle of that laugh, the tears started. She rocked forward and dropped her head in her hands, struggling to get her emotions under control. Why was this happening now, why here, in front of this man she scarcely knew? For months after Richard left, she hadn't cried at all, and had impressed everyone with her stoicism. Now she could not seem to hold back the tears, and she fought them so hard her body was shuddering. Henry didn't say a word and made no attempt to comfort her. He simply studied her, the way he'd studied those old newspapers, as if this outburst was something new and curious.

She wiped her face and abruptly stood. — I'll clean up, — she said. — And then I think I'll go to bed. — She swept up the dinner plates and turned toward the kitchen.

— Julia, — he said. — What's his name? Your husband. —

— Richard. And he's my ex-husband. —

— Do you still love him? —

— No, — she said softly.

— Then why the hell are you crying over him? —

Leave it to Henry to so logically cut straight to the heart of the matter. — Because I'm an idiot, — she said.

Somewhere in the house, a phone was ringing.

Julia heard Henry shuffle past her bedroom door, his cane thunking as he walked. Whoever was calling knew that he required extra time to reach the phone, because it rang more than a dozen times before he finally picked it up. Faintly she heard his answering — Hello? — Then, a few seconds later, — Yes, she's here right now. We've been going through the boxes. To be honest, I haven't decided yet. —

Decided what? Who was he talking to?

She strained to make out his next words, but his voice had dropped, and all she could hear was an indistinct murmur. After a moment his voice fell silent, and she heard only the sea outside her window, and the creaks and groans of the old house.

The next morning, by the light of day, the call did not seem at all disconcerting.

She rolled out of bed, pulled on jeans and a fresh T-shirt, and went to the window. She saw no view today, either. If anything, the fog looked even thicker, pressed so densely against the glass that she thought, if she poked her hand outside, it would sink into something that felt like gray cotton candy. I drove all the way up to Maine, she thought, and I never even saw the sea.

There was a sharp rap on her door, and she turned, startled.

— Julia! — Henry called. — Are you awake yet? —

— I'm just getting up. —

— You must come downstairs at once. —

The urgency in his voice made her immediately cross the room and open the door.

He was standing in the hall, his face alight with excitement. — I've found another letter. —

1830

A HAZE OF CIGAR SMOKE hung like a filmy curtain over the dissection room, the welcome odor of tobacco masking the stench of the cadavers. On the table where Norris worked, a corpse lay with its chest split open, and the resected heart and lungs rested in a foul-smelling mound in the bucket. Even the frigid room could not slow the inevitable process of decomposition, which had already been well under way by the time the corpses had arrived from the state of New York. Two days ago, Norris had watched the delivery of the fourteen barrels, sloshing with brine.

— New York is where we have to get them now, I've heard, — Wendell commented as their four-student team hacked their way into the abdomen, bare hands diving into the ice-cold mass of intestines.

— There aren't enough paupers dying here in Boston, — said Edward. — We coddle them and they stay too damn healthy. Then when they do die, you can't get at them. In New York, they just scoop the bodies out of potter's field, no questions asked. —

— That can't be true, — said Charles.

— They keep two different burial pits. Pit two is for the discards, the corpses no one's likely to claim. — Edward looked down at their cadaver, whose grizzled face bore the seams and scars of many hard years. The left arm, once broken, had healed crooked. — I'd say this one was definitely from pit two. Some old Paddy, don't you think? —

Their instructor, Dr. Sewall, paced through the dissecting room, past tables of cadavers where young men worked four to a corpse. — I want you to complete the removal of all the internal organs today, — he instructed. — They spoil quickly. Leave them too long, and even those of you who believe you possess strong stomachs will soon find the stench unbearable. Smoke all the cigars you wish, drown yourselves in whiskey, but I guarantee that a whiff of intestine left to decompose for a week will bring low even the hardiest among you. —

And the weakest among us is already in trouble, thought Norris as he glanced across the table at Charles, whose pale face was wreathed in smoke while he frantically puffed on his cigar.

— You have seen the organs in situ, and witnessed for yourself some of the hidden gears of this miraculous machinery, — said Sewall. — In this room, gentlemen, we illuminate the mystery of life. As you take apart God's masterpiece, examine the workmanship, observe the parts in their proper places. Witness how each is vital to the whole. — Sewall paused at Norris's table and examined the organs lying in the bucket, lifting them out with bare hands. — Which one of you resected the heart and lungs? — he asked.

— I did, sir, — Norris said.

— Fine job. Finest I've seen in the room. — Sewall looked at him. — You've done this before, I take it. —

— On the farm, sir. —

— Sheep? —

— And pigs. —

— I can tell you've wielded a knife. — Sewall looked at Charles. — Your hands are still clean, Mr. Lackaway. —

— I— I thought I'd give the others a chance to start. —

— Start? They are already finished with the thorax and are into the abdomen. — He looked down at the corpse and grimaced. — By the smell of this one, it's going bad fast. It'll rot before you even pick up your knife, Mr. Lackaway. What are you waiting for? Get your hands dirty. —

— Yes, sir. —

As Dr. Sewall walked out of the room, Charles reluctantly reached for the knife. Staring down at their prematurely rotting Paddy, he hesitated, his blade poised over the bowel. As he gathered his nerve, a chunk of lung suddenly flew across the table and smacked him in the chest. He gave a yelp and jumped back, frantically brushing away the bloody mass.

Edward laughed. — You heard Dr. Sewall. Get those hands dirty! —

— For pity's sake, Edward! —

— You should see your face, Charlie. You'd think I'd thrown a scorpion at you. —

Now that Dr. Sewall was out of the room, the students turned boisterous. A flask of whiskey began making its rounds. The team at the next table propped up their corpse and shoved a lit cigar in its mouth. Smoke curled past sightless eyes.

— This is disgusting, — said Charles. — I can't do this. — He set down the blade. — I never wanted to be a doctor! —