Tess Gerritsen: The Bone Garden: A Novel

— Are these actually precious stones? —

— Oh, no. They're probably just colored glass. The ring isn't engraved— it's just a mass-produced piece of jewelry. —

— Would there be burial records? —

— I doubt it. This appears to be something of an irregular interment. There's no gravestone, no coffin fragments. She was simply wrapped in a piece of hide and covered up. A rather unceremonious burial, if she was a loved one. —

— Maybe she was poor. —

— But why choose this particular location? There was never a cemetery here, at least not according to historical maps. Your house is about a hundred thirty years old, am I right? —

— It was built in 1880. —

— Regard rings were out of fashion by the 1840s. —

— What was here before 1840? — Julia asked.

— I believe this was part of a country estate, owned by a prominent Bostonian family. Most of this would have been open pasture. Farmland. —

Julia looked up the slope, where butterflies skimmed across blossoms of Queen Anne's lace and flowering vetch. She tried to picture her yard as it once must have been. An open field, sloping down to the tree-shaded stream, with grazing sheep meandering through the grass. A place where only animals would wander. A place where a grave would quickly be forgotten.

Vicky stared down at the bones with a look of distaste. — Is this— one body? —

— A complete skeleton, — Petrie said. — She was buried deep enough to be protected from scavenger damage. On this slope, the soil's quite well drained. Plus, judging by the fragments of leather, it looks like she was wrapped in some kind of animal hide, and the leaching tannins are something of a preservative. —

— She? —

— Yes. — Petrie looked up, sharp blue eyes narrowed against the sun. — This is a female. Based on dentition and the condition of her vertebrae, she was fairly young, certainly under the age of thirty-five. All in all, she's in remarkably good shape. — Petrie looked at Julia. — Except for the crack you made with your trowel. —

Julia flushed. — I thought the skull was a rock. —

— It's not a problem distinguishing between old and new fractures. Look. — Petrie dropped to a squat again and picked up the skull. — The crack you made is right here, and it doesn't show any staining. But see this crack here, on the parietal bone? And there's another one here, on the zygomatic bone, under the cheek. These surfaces are stained brown from long exposure to dirt. That tells us these are premor-bid fractures, not from excavation damage. —

— Pre-morbid? — Julia looked at her. — Are you saying… —

— These blows almost certainly caused her death. I would call this a murder. —

In the night, Julia lay awake, listening to the creak of old floors, the rustle of mice in the walls. As old as this house was, the grave was even older. While men were hammering together these beams, laying down the pine floors, only a few dozen paces away the corpse of an unknown woman was already moldering in the earth. Had they known she was here when they built on this spot? Had there been a stone marking the site?

Or did no one know she was here? Did no one remember her?

She kicked aside the sheets and lay sweating atop the mattress. Even with both windows open, the bedroom felt airless, not even a whisper of a breeze to dissipate the heat. A firefly flashed on and off in the darkness above her, its light winking forlornly as it circled the room, seeking escape.

She sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. The magical sparks overhead transformed to an ordinary brown bug flitting about near the ceiling. She wondered how to catch it without killing it. Wondered whether the fate of one lone bug was worth the effort.

The phone rang. At eleven thirty, only one person would be calling.

— I hope I didn't wake you, — said Vicky. — I just got home from one of those endless dinners. —

— It's too hot to sleep anyway. —

— Julia, there was something I wanted to tell you earlier, when I was there. But I couldn't, not with all those people around. —

— No more advice about this house, okay? —

— This isn't about the house. It's about Richard. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but if I were you, I'd want to know. You shouldn't have to hear this through the grapevine. —

— Hear what? —

— Richard is getting married. —

Julia clutched the receiver, gripping so tight her fingers went numb. In the long silence, she heard her own heartbeat pounding in her ear.

— So you didn't know. —

Julia whispered: — No. —

— What a little shit he is, — Vicky muttered with enough bitterness for them both. — It's been planned for over a month, that's what I heard. Someone named Tiffani with an i. I mean, how cutesy can you get? I have no respect for any man who marries a Tiffani. —

— I don't understand how this happened so quickly. —

— Oh, honey, it's obvious, isn't it? He had to be running around with her while you were still married. Did he suddenly start coming home late? And there were all the business trips. I wondered about those. I just didn't have the heart to say anything. —

Julia swallowed. — I don't want to talk about it right now. —

— I should have guessed. A man doesn't ask for a divorce right out of the blue. —

— Good night, Vicky. —

— Hey. Hey, are you okay? —

— I just don't want to talk. — Julia hung up.

For a long time, she sat motionless. Above her head, the firefly kept circling, desperately searching for a way out of its prison. Eventually it would exhaust itself. Trapped here without food, without water, it would die in this room.

She climbed up onto the mattress. As the firefly darted closer, she caught it in her hands. Palms cupped around the insect, she walked barefoot to the kitchen and opened the back door. There, on the porch, she released the firefly. It fluttered away into the darkness, its light no longer winking, escape its only objective.

Did it know she'd saved its life? One puny thing she was capable of.

She lingered on the porch, breathing in gulps of night air, unable to bear the thought of returning to that hot little bedroom.

Richard was getting married.

Her breath caught in her throat, spilled out in a sob. She gripped the porch railing and felt splinters prick her fingers.

And I'm the last to find out.

Staring into the night, she thought of the bones that had been buried just a few dozen yards away. A forgotten woman, her name lost to the centuries. She thought of cold earth pressing down as winter snows swirled above, of seasons cycling, the decades passing, while flesh rotted and worms feasted. I'm like you, another forgotten woman, she thought.

And I don't even know who you are.

November 1830

DEATH ARRIVED with the sweet tinkling of bells.

Rose Connolly had come to dread the sound, for she'd heard it too many times already as she sat beside her sister's hospital bed, dabbing Aurnia's forehead, holding her hand and offering her sips of water. Every day those cursed bells, rung by the acolyte, heralded the priest's arrival on the ward to deliver the sacrament and administer the ritual of extreme unction. Though only seventeen years old, Rose had seen many lifetimes' worth of tragedy these last five days. On Sunday, Nora had died, three days after her wee babe was born. On Monday, it was the brown-haired lass at the far end of the ward, who'd succumbed so soon after giving birth that there'd been no chance to learn her name, not with the family weeping and the newborn baby howling like a scalded cat and the busy coffin maker hammering in the courtyard. On Tuesday, after four days of feverish agonies following the birth of a son, Rebecca had mercifully succumbed, but only after Rose had been forced to endure the stench of the putrid discharges crusting the sheets and oozing from between the girl's legs. The whole ward smelled of sweat and fevers and purulence. Late at night, when the groans of dying souls echoed through the corridors, Rose would startle awake from exhausted slumber to find reality more frightful than her nightmares. Only when she stepped outside into the hospital courtyard, and breathed in deeply of the cold mist, could she escape the foul air of the ward.