Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

— You misjudge her. —

— I misjudged your mother. I only want to save you from the same heartache. —

— I love this girl. I plan to marry her. —

Isaac laughed. — I married for love, and see what came of it! — He lifted his glass, but his hand paused in midair. He turned and looked toward the door.

Someone was knocking.

They exchanged startled looks. It was deep into the night, not an hour for a neighborly visit. Frowning, Isaac picked up the lamp and went to open the door. The wind gusted in and the lamp almost went out as Isaac stood in the doorway, staring at whoever now faced him from his porch.

— Mr. Marshall? — a man said. — Is your son here? —

At the sound of that voice, Norris rose at once in alarm.

— What do you want with him? — asked Isaac. He suddenly stumbled backward as two men forced their way past him, into the kitchen.

— There you are, — said Mr. Pratt, spotting Norris.

— What is the meaning of this? — demanded Isaac.

Watchman Pratt nodded to his companion, who stepped behind Norris, as though to cut off his escape. — You're returning with us to Boston. —

— How dare you push your way into my home! — said Isaac. — Who are you? —

— The Night Watch. — Pratt's gaze remained on Norris. — The carriage is waiting, Mr. Marshall. —

— You're arresting my son? —

— For reasons he should already have explained to you. —

— I'm not going until you tell me the charges, — said Norris.

The man behind him shoved Norris so hard that he stumbled against the table. The jug of apple brandy toppled to the floor and shattered.

— Stop it! — cried Isaac. — Why are you doing this? —

— The charges are murder, — said Pratt. — The murders of Agnes Poole, Mary Robinson, Nathaniel Berry. And now, Mr. Eben Tate. —

— Tate? — Norris stared at him. Rose's brother-in-law murdered as well? — I know nothing about his death! I certainly did not kill him! —

— We have all the proof we need. It's now my duty to return you to Boston, where you will face trial. — Pratt nodded to the other Watchman. — Bring him. —

Norris was forced forward, and had just reached the doorway when he heard Rose cry out: — Norris? —

He turned and saw her panicked gaze. — Go to Dr. Grenville! Tell him what's happened! — he managed to shout just before he was shoved out the door and into the night.

His escorts forced him into the carriage, and Pratt signaled the driver with two hard raps on the roof. They rolled away and headed down the Belmont road toward Boston.

— Even your Dr. Grenville can't protect you now, — said Pratt. — Not against this evidence. —

— What evidence? —

— You can't guess? A certain item in your room? —

Norris shook his head, perplexed. — I have no idea what you're talking about. —

— The jar, Mr. Marshall. I'm amazed you'd keep such a thing. —

The other Watchman, sitting across from them, stared at Norris and muttered: — You're a sick bastard. —

— It's not every day one finds a human face sloshing about in a jar of whiskey, — said Pratt. — And in case there's any doubt left at all, we found your mask, as well. Still splattered with blood. Played it close to the edge with us, didn't you? Describing the same mask that you yourself wore? —

The mask of the West End Reaper, planted in my room?

— I'd say it's the gallows for you, — said Pratt.

The other Watchman gave a chuckle, as though he looked forward to a good hanging, just the sort of entertainment to enliven the dreary winter months. — And then your good doctor friends can have a go at you, — he added. Even in the gloom of the carriage, Norris could see the man run his finger down his chest, a gesture that needed no interpretation. Other dead bodies traveled secret and circuitous routes to the anatomist's table. They were dug from graves under cover of night, by resurrectionists who risked arrest with every nocturnal foray into the cemetery. But the bodies of executed criminals went directly to the autopsy table with the full approval of the law. For their crimes, the condemned paid not only with their lives, but with their mortal remains as well. Every prisoner who stood on the gallows knew that execution was not the final indignity; the anatomist's knife would follow.

Norris thought of old Paddy, the cadaver whose chest he had split open, whose dripping heart he had held in his hands. Who would hold Norris's heart? Whose apron would be spattered with his blood as his organs splashed into the bucket?

Through the carriage window, he saw moonlit fields, the same farms along the Belmont road that he always passed on his journeys into Boston. This would be the last time he saw them, his last view of the countryside he'd spent his boyhood trying to escape. He'd been a fool to believe that he ever could, and this was his punishment.

The road took them east from Belmont, and the farms became villages as they rolled ever closer to Boston. Now he could see the Charles River, glittering beneath moonlight, and he remembered the night he had walked along the embankment and stared across those waters, toward the prison. That night he had counted himself lucky compared with the miserable souls behind bars. Now he came to join them, and his only escape would be the hangman.

The carriage wheels clattered onto the West Boston Bridge, and Norris knew that their journey was almost finished. Once over the bridge, it would be a short ride up Cambridge Street, then north toward the city jail. The West End Reaper, captured at last. Pratt's associate wore a smile of triumph, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness.

— Whoa! Whoa, there, — their driver said, and the carriage came to a sudden stop.

— What's this now? — said Pratt, glancing out the window. They were still on the bridge. He called up to the driver, — Why have we stopped? —

— Got an obstruction here, Mr. Pratt. —

Pratt threw open the door and climbed out. — Blast it all! Can't they get that horse out of the way? —

— They're trying, sir. But that nag's not getting up again. —

— Then they should drag it off to the knacker. The beast is blocking the way for everyone. —

Through the carriage window, Norris could see the bridge railing. Below flowed the Charles River. He thought of cold black water. There are worse graves, he thought.

— If this takes much longer, we should go 'round to the Canal Bridge. —

— Look, there's the wagon now. They'll have the nag off in a minute. —

Now. I will have no other chance .

Pratt was opening the carriage door to climb back in. As it swung open, Norris threw himself against it and tumbled out.

Knocked backward by the door, Pratt sprawled to the ground. He had no time to react; nor did his compatriot, who was now scrambling out of the carriage.

Norris caught a glimpse of his surroundings: the dead horse, lying where it had collapsed in front of its overloaded wagon. The line of carriages, backed up behind it on the bridge. And the Charles River, its moonlit surface hiding the turbid water beneath. He did not hesitate. This is all that's left to me, he thought, as he scrambled over the railing. Either I seize this chance or I give up any hope of life. Here's to you, Rose!

— Catch him! Don't let him jump! —

Norris was already falling. Through darkness, through time, toward a future as unknown to him as the waters toward which he plummeted. He knew only that the real struggle was about to begin, and in the instant before he hit the water, he braced himself like a warrior for battle.

The plunge into the cold river was a cruel slap of welcome to a new life. He sank over his head, into a blackness so thick he could not tell up from down, and he thrashed, disoriented. Then he caught the glimmer of moonlight above and struggled toward it, until his head broke the surface. As he took in a gasp of air, he heard voices shouting above.