Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

Dr. Sewall had split open the chest, and now he lifted out a lung for the audience to inspect. Only days ago, such a mutilation of the torso had shocked this group of medical students. Now these same men sat silent and unperturbed. No one looked away; no one lowered his head. They'd been introduced to the sights of the anatomy lab. They knew its smells, that unique mingling of decay and carbolic acid, and each had held the dissecting knife in his own hands. Glancing at his classmates, Norris saw a range of expressions from boredom to fierce concentration. Only a few weeks of medical study had stiffened their spines and steadied their stomachs so they could watch without disgust as Sewall excavated the heart and remaining lung from the chest. We've surrendered our sense of horror, thought Norris. It was the first step, a necessary step in their training.

There would be worse to come.

EARLY IN THE EVENING, Wall-eyed Jack had already singled him out. The sailor sat alone at a table, talking to no one, his gaze fixed only on the rum that Fanny set before him. Three drinks was all he had money for. He downed the last drink, and as Fanny waited, he rummaged through his pockets for more coins, but came up empty-handed. Jack could see Fanny's lips tighten, her eyes narrow. She had no patience for freeloaders. As far as she was concerned, if a man took up space at a table and enjoyed the feeble warmth of her hearth, he had better be able to afford to keep the rum flowing. Either you paid for another round, or you moved on. Even though the Black Spar was better than half empty tonight, Fanny allowed no exceptions. She didn't distinguish between the long-term patrons and the blowins; if they had no cash, they got no drinks, and out into the cold with them. That was the problem, thought Jack, watching Fanny's face turn ugly. That was why the Black Spar was a failing enterprise. Walk a ways down the street, into that new tavern, the Mermaid, and you'd find a laughing young barmaid and a generous fire that would put to shame the stingy flames in Fanny's hearth.

You'd also find a crowd, many of them Fanny's old regulars who'd fled the Black Spar. And no wonder; given a choice between a cheery barmaid and Fanny's scowl, any man in his right mind would head for the Mermaid. Already, he knew what she'd do next. First, she'd demand that the hapless sailor buy another round. And when he could not, she'd start in with her harangue. You think that table's free? You think I can afford to let you sit here all night, taking a paying customer's place ? As if a line of paying customers stood waiting for the table. I have the rent to pay and the tradesmen's bills. They don't work for free, and neither do I. He could see her jaw tighten, her stout arms flexing for battle.

Before she could speak, Jack caught her gaze. He gave her a warning shake of his head. Leave that one alone, Fanny .

She stared at Jack for a moment. Then, with a nod of comprehension, she went behind the bar and poured a glass of rum. She came back to the sailor's table and set the glass before him.

The drink did not last long. A few gulps and it was all down his throat.

Fanny set another drink before him. She did it silently, calling no attention to the man's bottomless glass. This was not a crowd that was likely to notice anyway. In the Spar, a wise man kept to himself and minded his own drink. No one counted the number of times Fanny whisked away an empty glass and replaced it with a full one. No one cared that the man began to slump forward, his head resting on his arms.

One by one, as their pockets emptied, the customers staggered out into the cold, until there was only one man left, the snoring seaman at the corner table.

Fanny crossed to the door, barred it shut, and turned to look at Jack.

— How much did you give him? — he asked.

— Enough to drown a horse. —

The seaman gave a great rattling snore.

— He's still plenty alive, — Jack said.

— Well, I can't very well pour it down his throat. —

They stared down at the sleeping man, watching drool spill from his lips in a long, slimy strand. Above the frayed coat collar, his neck was grimy with coal dust. A fat louse, swollen with blood, crawled through a tangled net of blond hair.

Jack gave the shoulder a nudge; the man snored on, unaware.

Fanny snorted. — You can't expect them all to keel over nice and easy. —

— He's a young one. Healthy looking. — Too healthy .

— I just poured him a fortune's worth of free liquor. I'll never get it back. —

Jack gave a harder shove. Slowly, the man tumbled out of the chair and thumped onto the floor. Jack stared at him for a moment, then bent down and rolled him onto his back. Damn it all. He was still breathing.

— I want my rum money out of this, — insisted Fanny.

— Then you do it. —

— I'm not strong enough. —

Jack looked at her arms, thick and muscular from hefting trays and barrels. Oh, she was strong enough to strangle a man, all right. She just didn't want the responsibility.

— Go ahead, then, — she insisted.

— I can't leave any marks on his neck. It'll raise questions. —

— All they want's a body. They don't care where it comes from. —

— But a man who's obviously been murdered— —

— Coward. —

— I'm just telling you, it has to look natural. —

— Then we'll make it look natural. — Fanny stared down at the man for a moment, her eyes narrowed. Oh, you never wanted a woman like Fanny to look at you that way. Jack wasn't afraid of many things, but he knew Fanny well enough to know that when she set her mind against you, you were doomed. — Wait here, — she said.

As if he was going anywhere.

He listened to her footsteps thumping up the stairs to their bedroom. A moment later she returned, carrying a threadbare cushion and a filthy rag. He understood at once what she had in mind, but even when she handed him the benign-looking instruments of death, he didn't move. He had dug up corpses with flesh falling off their bones. He had fished them out of the river, pried them out of coffins, shoved them into pickling barrels. But actually making a corpse was always a different matter. A hanging matter.

Still. Twenty dollars was twenty dollars, and who would miss this man?

He lowered himself onto creaking knees beside the drunken seaman and balled up the rag. The jaw had fallen slack, the tongue lolling to one side. He shoved the rag into the gaping mouth, and the man jerked his head and sucked in through his nostrils a whimpering breath. Jack lowered the cushion and pressed it over the mouth and nose. All at once the man came awake and clawed at the pillow, trying to tear it away, to breathe.

— Hold his arms! Hold his arms! — yelled Jack.

— I'm trying, damn it! —

The man bucked and twisted, boots pounding against the floor.

— I'm losing my grip! He won't lie still! —

— Then sit on him. —

— You sit on him! —

Fanny pulled up her skirts and planted her hefty bottom on the squirming man's hips. As he bucked and twisted, she rode him like a whore, her face red and sweating.

— He's still fighting, — said Jack.

— Don't let up the pillow. Press harder! —

Sheer terror had given the victim supernatural strength, and he clawed at Jack's arms, leaving bloody tracks with his nails. How long did it take a man to die, for pity's sake? Why couldn't he just surrender and save them all the trouble? A fingernail scraped across Jack's hand. With a roar of pain, Jack pressed down with all his weight, yet still the man fought him. Damn you, die!

Jack scrambled on top of the chest and sat on the ribs. Now they were both riding him, Fanny and Jack, she planted on his hips, Jack on his chest. Both of them were heavy, and their combined weight at last immobilized him. Only his feet were moving now, the heels of his boots battering the floor in a panicked tattoo. He was still clawing at Jack, but more feebly as the strength drained from his arms. Now the feet slowed their tempo, the boots flopping against the floor. Jack felt the chest give one last shudder beneath him, and then the arms went slack and slid away.