Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

— Miss Connolly? —

She felt her own pulse throbbing in her neck as his gaze bore even deeper. She remained silent.

To her relief, he straightened and wandered to the other end of the room, where he casually ran a finger across a bookshelf and looked at the dust he'd picked up. — Mr. Tate tells me you're a clever girl. Is that true? —

— I wouldn't know, sir. —

— I think you're entirely too modest. — He turned and looked at her. — What a shame that a girl with your intelligence is forced to live so close to the edge. Your shoes look as if they're falling apart. And that cloak— when was it last washed? Surely, you deserve better. —

— So do many others. —

— Ah, but you are the one being offered an opportunity here. —

— Opportunity? —

— A thousand dollars. If you bring me the child. —

She was stunned. That much money could buy a room in a fine lodging house with hot meals every night. New clothes and a warm coat, not this cloak with its tattered hem. All the tempting luxuries she could only dream about.

All I have to do is surrender Meggie.

— I can't help you, — she said.

Eben's blow came so quickly that the other man had no time to intervene. The impact made Rose's head snap sideways and she cringed in the chair, her cheek throbbing.

— That was not necessary, Mr. Tate! —

— You see how she is, though? —

— You can get more cooperation with a carrot than with a stick. —

— Well, she just turned down the carrot. —

Rose lifted her head and stared at Eben with undisguised hatred. No matter what they offered her, be it a thousand or ten thousand dollars, she would never give away her own flesh and blood.

The Englishman now stood before her, eyeing her face, where a bruise was surely starting to form. She didn't fear a blow from him; this man, she guessed, was far more accustomed to using words and cash as his tools of persuasion, and left the violence to other men.

— Let's try again, — he said to Rose.

— Or you'll have him hit me again? —

— I do apologize for that. — He looked at Eben. — Leave the room. —

— But I know her better than anyone! I can tell you when she's— —

— Leave the room . —

Eben shot Rose a poisonous look, then walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The man reached for a chair and dragged it over to Rose's. — Now, Miss Connolly, — he said, sitting down to face her. — You know it's only a matter of time until we find her. Save us all the trouble and you'll be well rewarded. —

— Why is she so important to you? —

— Not to me. To my client. —

— Who is this client? —

— Someone who cares about the child's welfare. Who wants her to stay alive and healthy. —

— Are you saying Meggie's in danger? —

— Our concern is that you may be. And if something happens to you, we'll never find the child. —

— Now you're threatening me? — She forced a laugh, displaying a recklessness she did not really feel. — You've given up on the carrot, and you're back to the stick. —

— You mistake my meaning. — He leaned forward, his face deadly serious. — Both Agnes Poole and Mary Robinson are dead. You do know that? —

She swallowed. — Yes. —

— You were a witness the night Agnes Poole died. You saw the killer. And he certainly knows that. —

— Everyone knows who the killer is, — she said. — I heard it yesterday, on the streets. Dr. Berry has fled town. —

— Yes, that's what the newspapers have reported. Dr. Nathaniel Berry lived in the West End. He knew the two victims. He tried to kill a third— a prostitute, who claims she had to flee for her life. Now Dr. Berry's gone missing, so of course he must be the Reaper. —

— Isn't he? —

— Do you believe everything you hear on the street? —

— But if he isn't the killer… —

— Then the West End Reaper may still be in Boston, and he could very well know your identity. After what happened to Mary Robinson, I'd be looking over my shoulder if I were you. We were able to find you, and so could anyone else. Which is why I'm so concerned about your niece's welfare. You're the only one who knows the baby's whereabouts. If anything happened to you… — He paused. — A thousand dollars, Miss Connolly. It would help you leave Boston. Help you find a comfortable new home. Give us the child, and the money's yours. —

She said nothing. Mary Robinson's last words to her kept echoing in her head: Keep her hidden. Keep her safe.

Weary of her silence, the man finally stood. — Should you change your mind, you can find me here. — He placed a calling card in her hand, and she stared down at the printed name.

Mr. Gareth Wilson

5 Park Street, Boston

— You'd do well to consider my offer, — he said. — And to consider, too, the welfare of the child. In the meantime, Miss Connolly, do be careful. You never know what monster might be searching for you. — He walked out, leaving her alone in that cold and dusty room, her gaze still fixed on the card.

— Are you insane, Rose? —

She looked up at the sound of Eben's voice, and saw him standing in the doorway.

— That's more money than you'll ever see! How dare you refuse it? —

Staring into his eyes, she suddenly understood why he cared. Why he was involved. — He promised you money, too, didn't he? — she said. — How much? —

— Enough to make it worth it. —

— Worth giving up your child? —

— Haven't you figured it out? She's not my child. —

— Aurnia would never— —

— Aurnia did. I thought it was mine, and that's the only reason I married her. But time tells the truth, Rose. It told me what kind of woman I really married. —

She shook her head, still not willing to believe it.

— Whoever the father is, — said Eben, — he wants that child. And he has enough to pay whatever it takes. —

Money enough for a lawyer, she thought. Money enough to buy his mistress a fine necklace. Maybe even enough to buy silence. For what fine gentleman wants it known that he's fathered a child with a poor seamstress only a year out of Ireland?

— Take the money, — said Eben.

She stood. — I'd starve before I give her up. —

He followed her out of the room, to the front door. — You don't have much choice! How're you going to feed yourself? Keep a roof over your head? —

As she stepped outside, he yelled: — This time they were gentle with you, but next time you won't be so lucky! —

To her relief, Eben didn't follow her. The night had grown even colder, and she shivered as she retraced her steps to Fishery Alley. The streets were deserted, and invisible fingers of wind swept the snow in swirling furrows before her feet. Suddenly she halted and looked back. Had she just heard footsteps? She peered into the stinging mist, but saw no one behind her. Don't go near Meggie, not tonight. They may be watching you. Quickening her pace, she continued toward Fishery Alley, eager to escape the wind. What a fool she'd been to let Eben lure her from the relative comfort, poor though it was, of her lodging house. Poor Dim Billy was a better man, a truer friend, than Eben would ever be.

She made her way into the maze of South Boston. The cold had swept all sensible people off the streets, and as she passed a tavern, she heard the voices of men who'd gathered inside to escape the cold. Through the steamed windows she saw their silhouettes against the firelight. She did not linger, but walked on, hoping that old Porteous and his daughter had not already barred the door. Even her poor pile of straw, her patch of floor among the unwashed bodies, seemed a luxury this night, and she should not have so easily surrendered it. The sounds of the tavern faded behind her and she heard only the whistle of the wind through the narrow passage and the rush of her own breath. Fishery Alley was just around the next corner, and like a horse who has sighted its stable and knows that shelter lies ahead, she quickened her pace and almost skidded across the stones. She caught herself against a wall, and was just straightening when she heard the sound.