Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

Who is your client, Mr. Wilson? Who paid you to track down a baby, to terrify a friendless girl?

The door to Number Five suddenly opened.

Rose whispered: — It's him. It's Gareth Wilson. —

The man was warmly dressed in a black beaver hat and a voluminous greatcoat. He paused outside his front door to pull on black gloves, then began to walk briskly up Park Street in the direction of the State House.

Norris's gaze followed the man. — Let's see where he goes. —

They allowed Wilson to reach the end of the block of row houses before falling into step behind him. At the State House, Wilson turned west and began to make his way up into the maze of the Beacon Hill neighborhood.

Norris and Rose followed him past stately brick homes and winter-bare linden trees. It was quiet here, too quiet, and only an occasional carriage rattled past. Their quarry gave no indication that he realized he was being followed, and walked at a leisurely pace, leaving behind the fine homes of Chestnut Street to wend his way into more modest territory— not where a gentleman with an affluent Park Street address would normally be wandering.

When Wilson abruptly turned into narrow Acorn Street, Norris wondered if the man had suddenly realized he was being followed. Why else would Wilson visit this tiny alley, occupied by mere coachmen and retainers?

In the dim light of dusk, Wilson was almost invisible as he walked down the shadowy passage. He stopped at a door and knocked. A moment later the door opened, and they heard a man say: — Mr. Wilson! It's a pleasure to see you back in Boston after all these months. —

— Have the others arrived? —

— Not everyone, but they'll be here. This dreadful business has made us all quite anxious. —

Wilson stepped into the house, and the door swung shut.

It was Rose who made the next move, walking boldly up the alley as though she belonged there. Norris followed her to the doorway, and they stared up at the house. It was neither distinctive nor grand, just one in a row of anonymous brick houses. Above the doorway was a massive lintel, and in the fading light, Norris could just make out the symbols carved in the granite.

— Someone else is coming, — whispered Rose. Quickly she looped her arm in his, and they walked away, bodies pressed together like lovers, their backs turned to the man who had just entered the alley behind them. They heard a knock on the door.

The same voice that had greeted Gareth Wilson now said: — We wondered if you'd make it. —

— I apologize for the state of my apparel, but I came straight from a patient's sickbed. —

Norris came to a halt, too shocked to take another step. Slowly, he turned. Though he could not see the man's face through the shadows, he could make out a familiar silhouette, the broad shoulders filling out the generous greatcoat. Even after the man had stepped into the house, and the door swung shut, Norris stood rooted to the spot. It cannot be.

— Norris? — Rose tugged on his arm. — What is it? —

He stared up the alley at the doorway through which the new visitor had just entered. — I know that man, — he said.

Dim Billy is an apt name for the boy who now shambles down the alley, his shoulders hunched forward, his neck extended like a stork's as he stares at the ground, as though in search of some treasure that he's lost. A penny perhaps, or a stray bit of tin, something that no one else would give a second glance to. But Billy Piggott is not like anyone else, or so Jack Burke said. A useless half-wit, Burke called the boy, a stray who wanders the streets always in search of a free meal, just like the equally stray black mutt who so often trots at the boy's heels. A half-wit the boy might be, but he is not entirely useless.

He is the key to finding Rose Connolly.

Until recently, Billy had lodged with Rose in a rathole on Fishery Alley. The boy must know where to find her.

And tonight, Dim Billy will almost certainly talk.

The boy suddenly stops and his head jerks up. Somehow he's sensed the presence of another in his alley, and his gaze seeks out a face. — Who's there? — he calls out. But his attention isn't focused on the shadow in the doorway; instead he looks at the far end of the alley, where a silhouette has just appeared, backlit by the glow of a streetlamp.

— Billy! — a man calls.

The boy stands still, facing the encroaching intruder. — What d'ya want with me? —

— I just want to talk to you. —

— About what, Mr. Tate? —

— About Rose. — Eben moves closer. — Where is she, boy? —

— I don't know. —

— Come on, Billy. You do know. —

— No I don't! And you can't make me tell you! —

— She's my own family. I only want to speak to her. —

— You hit her. You're mean to her. —

— Is that what she told you? And you believe her? —

— She only tells me the truth. —

— That's what she'd have you believe. — Eben's voice turns smooth, coaxing. — There's money in it for you if you help me find her. Even more if you help me find the baby. —

— She says if I tell, they'll kill Meggie. —

— So you do know where she is. —

— She's just a baby, and babies can't fight back. —

— Babies need milk, Billy. They need tender care. I can buy it for her. —

Billy backs away. Idiot though he is, he can hear the insincerity in Eben Tate's voice. — I ain't talking to you. —

— Where is Rose? — Eben advances. — Come back here ! —

But the boy scrabbles away, quick as a crab. Eben makes a desperate lunge and stumbles in the dark. He goes sprawling facedown as Billy makes his escape, his footsteps receding into the darkness.

— Little bastard. Wait till I get my hands on you. — Eben grunts as he rises to his knees. He is still on all fours when his gaze suddenly fixes on the shadowy doorway right beside where he has fallen. On the gleam of two leather shoes, planted almost in front of his nose.

— What? Who? — Eben scrambles to his feet as the figure emerges from the doorway, black cape sweeping across the icy stones.

— Good evening, sir. —

Eben gives an embarrassed grunt and pulls himself up straight, swiftly reclaiming his dignity. — Well! This is not a place I'd expect to find— —

The thrust of the knife drives the blade so deep it strikes spine, and the handle transmits the impact against bone, a thrilling ache of ultimate power. Eben sucks in a breath as his body goes rigid, his eyes bulging in shock. He does not cry out; in fact, he makes no sound at all. The first stab is almost always met with the silence of the stunned.

The second slash is swift and efficient, releasing a gout of entrails. Eben collapses to his knees, hands pressed to the wound as though to hold back the waterfall of offal, but it spills from his belly and would have tripped him had he tried to flee. Had he been able to take even a single step.

Eben's is not the face the Reaper expected to stare down upon this night, but such are the vagaries of providence. Though it's not Billy's blood that funnels its way into the gutter and trickles between the cobblestones, there is a purpose yet for this harvest. Every death, like every life, has its use.

There is one more slice to make. Which part this time, which bit of flesh?

Ah, the obvious choice. By now, Eben's heart has ceased to beat. Only a little blood spills as the blade slits into the scalp and begins to peel away its prize.

— THESE ACCUSATIONS are extremely dangerous, — said Dr. Grenville. — Before you take them any further, gentlemen, I advise you to consider the possible consequences. —