Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

— That hardly counts as a relationship. — Norris looked down at his hands again. This is the most intimate I will ever be with poor Mary, he thought. With her blood clinging to my skin.

Mr. Pratt turned to Dr. Grenville. — You have examined the body, sir? —

— I have. I should like Dr. Sewall to examine it as well. —

— But can you render an opinion? —

Norris said, softly: — It's the same killer. The same pattern. Surely you know that already, Mr. Pratt? — He looked up. — Two incisions. One cut straight across the abdomen. Then a twist of the blade and a slash straight up, toward the sternum. In the shape of a cross. —

— But this time, Mr. Marshall, — interjected Constable Lyons, — the killer has taken it a step farther. —

Norris focused on the senior officer of the Night Watch. Though he had never before met Constable Lyons, he knew of the man's reputation. Unlike bombastic Mr. Pratt, Constable Lyons was soft-spoken, and perhaps easily overlooked. For the past hour, he had allowed his subordinate Pratt complete control of the investigation. Now Lyons moved into the light, and Norris saw a compact gentleman of about fifty, with a trim beard and spectacles.

— Her tongue is missing, — said Lyons.

Watchman Pratt turned to Grenville. — The killer sliced it out? —

Grenville nodded. — It would not be a difficult excision. All it requires is a sharp knife. —

— Why would he do such a grotesque thing? Was it punishment? A message? —

— For that answer, you'd have to ask the killer. —

Norris didn't like the way Pratt immediately turned to look at him. — And you say you saw him, Mr. Marshall. —

— I saw something. —

— A creature with a cape? With a face like a skull's? —

— He was exactly as Rose Connolly described him. She told you the truth. —

— Yet the hospital groundsman saw no such monster. He told me he saw only you, bending over the body. And no one else. —

— It was standing there for only an instant. By the time the groundsman came upon me, the creature was gone. —

Pratt studied him for a moment. — Why do you think the tongue was taken? —

— I don't know. —

— It's a monstrous thing to do. But if one were a student of anatomy, it might make sense to collect a body part. For scientific reasons, of course. —

— Mr. Pratt, — cut in Grenville, — you have no grounds on which to suspect Mr. Marshall. —

— A young man who happened to be in the proximity of both murders? —

— He's a medical student. He would be found near this hospital. —

Pratt looked at Norris. — You grew up on a farm, did you not? Have you any experience slaughtering animals? —

— These questions have gone far enough, — said Constable Lyons. — Mr. Marshall, you're free to go. —

— Sir, — Pratt protested, indignant that his authority had just been usurped. — I don't believe we've pursued this far enough at all. —

— Mr. Marshall isn't a suspect, and he shouldn't be treated as such. — Lyons looked at Norris. — You may go. —

Norris stood and crossed to the door. There he paused and looked back. — I know you didn't believe Rose Connolly, — he said. — But now I've seen the creature, too. —

Pratt gave a snort. — The Grim Reaper? —

— He's real, Mr. Pratt. Whether you believe me or not, something is out there. Something that chilled my very soul. And I hope to God I never see it again. —

Again, someone was pounding on his door. What a nightmare I've had, thought Norris as he opened his eyes and saw daylight shining through his window. This is what comes from eating too many oysters, drinking too much brandy. It brings on dreams of monsters.

— Norris? Norris, wake up! — called Wendell.

Rounds with Dr. Crouch. I'm late.

Norris threw off his blanket and sat up. Only then did he see his greatcoat, draped over the chair, the fabric stained with broad smears of blood. He looked down at the shoes, which he'd left next to his bed, and saw mud-encrusted leather. And yet more blood. Even the shirt he was now wearing had splatters of brick red on the cuffs, the sleeves. It had not been a nightmare. He had fallen asleep with Mary Robinson's blood on his clothes.

Wendell pounded on the door. — Norris, we must talk! —

Norris stumbled across the room and opened the door to find Wendell standing in the dim stairway.

— You look awful, — said Wendell.

Norris crossed back to the bed and sat down, groaning. — It was an awful night. —

— So I've heard. —

Wendell stepped inside and shut the door. As he looked around at the wretched little garret, he did not say a thing, nor did he need to; his opinion was plain on his face as he took in the rotting beams and the sagging floor and the straw-filled mattress set atop the bed frame of weathered planks. A mouse darted from the shadows, claws skittering across the floor, and it disappeared beneath the desk where a stained copy of Wistar's Anatomy lay open. It was so cold on this late-November morning that a fan of ice had formed inside the window.

— I imagine you're wondering why I didn't turn up at rounds, — said Norris. He felt painfully exposed, sitting only in his shirt, and when he looked down, he saw his bare thighs stippled with goose bumps.

— We know why you didn't turn up. It's all they're talking about at the hospital. What happened to Mary Robinson. —

— Then you know that I'm the one who found her. —

— That's one of the versions, anyway. —

Norris looked up. — There's another? —

— There are all sorts of rumors flying. Hideous rumors, I'm sorry to say. —

Norris stared down again at his bare knees. — Would you hand me my trousers, please? It's bloody freezing in here. —

Wendell tossed him the pants, then turned and looked out the window. As Norris dressed, he noticed bloodstains on the cuff of his trousers. Everywhere he looked, he saw Mary Robinson's blood on his clothes.

— What are they saying about me? — he asked.

Wendell turned to face him. — What a coincidence it is that you came so soon upon both death scenes. —

— I wasn't the one who found Agnes Poole's body. —

— But you were there. —

— So were you. —

— I'm not accusing you. —

— Then what are you doing here? Come to take a peek at where the Reaper lives? — Norris rose to his feet, pulling on his suspenders. — It makes for good gossip, I imagine. Delicious tidbits to tell your Harvard chums over Madeira. —

— You don't really think that about me, do you? —

— I know what you think of me. —

Wendell crossed toward him. He was far shorter, and he stared up at Norris like an angry little terrier. — You've had a chip on your shoulder since the day you arrived. The poor farmer's boy, always on the outs. No one wants to be your friend because your coat isn't good enough, or you don't have enough spare change in your pocket. You really think that's my opinion of you? That you're not worthy of my friendship? —

— I know my proper place in your circle. —

— Don't presume to read my mind. Charles and I made every attempt to include you, to make you feel welcome. Yet you hold us at arm's length, as though you've already decided any friendship is destined to fail. —

— We're classmates, Wendell. Nothing more. We share a preceptor and we share old Paddy. Perhaps we share a round of drinks now and then. But take a look around this room. You can see we have little else in common. —

— I have more in common with you than I'll ever have with Edward Kingston. —

Norris laughed. — Oh, yes. Just look at our matching satin waistcoats. Name one thing we have in common, other than poor old Paddy on the table. —