Tess Gerritsen: The Bone Garden: A Novel

Edward Kingston's carriage disappeared around the corner, bearing the three men to a fire and a convivial evening of gossip and spirits. While they sit warm in the Hurricane, thought Norris, I shall be engaged in quite a different activity. One I would avoid, if only I could.

He braced himself for the cold, then stepped into the downpour and splashed resolutely toward his lodgings, there to change into old clothes before heading out, yet again, into the rain.

The establishment he sought was a tavern on Broad Street, near the docks. Here one would not find dapper Harvard graduates sipping rum flips. Should such a gentleman wander accidentally into the Black Spar, he would know, with just a glance around the room, that he'd be wise to watch his pockets. Norris had little of value in his own pockets that night— indeed, on any night— and his shabby coat and mud-spattered trousers offered little enticement to any would-be thieves. He already knew many of these patrons, and they knew his impoverished circumstances; they merely glanced up as he stepped in the door. One look to identify the newcomer, and then their disinterested gazes dropped back to their cups.

Norris moved to the bar, where moonfaced Fanny Burke was filling glasses with ale. She looked up at him with small, mean eyes. — You're late, and he's in a foul mood. —

— Fanny! — one of the patrons yelled. — We gettin' those drinks this week or what? —

The woman carried the ale to their table and slammed down the glasses. Pocketing their money, she stalked back behind the bar. — He's around back, with the wagon, — she said to Norris. — Waiting for you. —

He had not had time for supper, and he glanced hungrily at the loaf of bread she kept behind the counter but didn't bother to beg a slice. Fanny Burke gave nothing away for free, not even a smile. With stomach rumbling, he pushed through a door, walked down a dark hall crammed with crates and trash, and stepped outside.

The rear yard smelled of wet straw and horse dung, and the interminable rain had churned the ground into a sea of mud. Beneath the stable overhang, a horse gave a nicker, and Norris saw that it was already harnessed to the dray.

— Not going to wait for you next time, boy! — Fanny's husband, Jack, emerged from the shadows of the stable. He carried two shovels, which he threw in the back of the wagon. — Want to be paid, get here at the appointed hour. — With a grunt, he hoisted himself onto the buckboard and took the reins. — You comin'? —

By the glow of the stable lantern, Norris could see Jack staring down at him, and felt the same confusion he always did, about which eye he should focus on. Left and right skewed in different directions. Wall-eyed Jack was what everyone called the man, but never to his face. No one dared.

Norris scrambled up into the dray beside Jack, who didn't even wait for him to settle onto the bench before giving the horse an impatient flick of his whip. They rolled across the muck of the yard and out the rear gate.

The rain beat down on their hats and ran in rivulets down their coats, but Wall-eyed Jack seemed scarcely to notice. He sat hunched like a gargoyle beside Norris, every so often snapping the reins when the pace of the horse flagged.

— How far we going this time? — asked Norris.

— Out of town. —

— Where? —

— Does it matter? — Jack hacked up a gob of phlegm and spat into the street.

No, it didn't matter. As far as Norris was concerned, this was a night he simply had to endure, however miserable it might prove to be. He wasn't afraid of hard work on the farm, and he even enjoyed the ache of muscles well used, but this sort of work could give a man nightmares. A normal man, anyway. He glanced at his companion and wondered what, if anything, gave Jack Burke nightmares.

The dray rocked over the cobblestones, and in the back of the cart the two shovels rattled, a continuous reminder of the unpleasant task that lay ahead. He thought of his classmates, no doubt sitting that moment in the warmth of the Hurricane, enjoying a last round before heading off to their respective lodgings to study Wistar's Anatomy . He'd prefer to be studying, too, but this was the bargain he'd struck with the college, a bargain he'd gratefully agreed to. This is all for a higher purpose, he thought, as they rolled out of Boston, moving west, as the shovels rattled and the dray creaked in rhythm to the words running through his head: A higher purpose. A higher purpose .

— Came by this way two days ago, — said Jack, and spat again. — Stopped at that tavern there. — He pointed, and through the veil of falling rain, Norris saw the glow of firelight in a window. — Had me a nice chat, I did, with the proprietor. —

Norris waited, saying nothing. There was a reason Jack had brought this up. The man did not make pointless conversation.

— Said there's a whole family in town, two young ladies and a brother, ailing from the consumption. All of 'em doing quite poorly. — He made a sound that might have been a laugh. — Have to check in again tomorrow, see if they're getting ready to pass on. Any luck, we'll have three at once. — Jack looked at Norris. — I'll be needing you for that one. —

Norris gave a stiff nod, his dislike of this man suddenly so strong he could scarcely abide being seated next to him.

— Oh, you think you're too damn good for this, — said Jack. — Don't you? —

Norris didn't answer.

— Too good to be around the likes of me. —

— I do this for a greater good. —

Jack laughed. — Some high-and-mighty words for a farmer. Think you're going to make a fine living, eh? Live in a grand house. —

— That's not the point. —

— Then the more fool, you. What's the point if there ain't money in it? —

Norris sighed. — Yes, Mr. Burke, of course you're right. Money is the only thing worth laboring for. —

— You think this will make you one of those gentlemen? You think they'll invite you to their fancy oyster parties, let you court their daughters? —

— This is a new age. Today, any man can rise above his station. —

— Do you s'pose they know that? Those Harvard gentlemen? Do you s'pose they'll welcome you? —

Norris went silent, wondering if perhaps Jack had a point. He thought once again of Wendell Holmes and Kingston and Lackaway, sitting in the Hurricane, sleeve to well-tailored sleeve with others of their kind. A world away from the filthy Black Spar, where Fanny Burke reigned over her foul kingdom of the hopeless. I, too, could have been at the Hurricane tonight, he thought. Wendell had asked, but was it out of courtesy or pity?

Jack snapped the reins, and the dray jolted ahead through mud and ruts. — Still a ways to go, — he said and gave a snorting laugh. — I hope the gentleman here enjoys the ride. —

By the time Jack finally pulled the rig to a stop, Norris's clothes were soaked through. Stiff and shaking from the cold, he could barely make his muscles obey as he climbed out of the cart. His shoes splashed ankle-deep in mud.

Jack thrust the shovels into his hands. — Make quick work of it. — He grabbed trowels and a tarp from the cart, then led the way across sodden grass. He did not light the lantern yet, as he did not want to be seen. He seemed to know the way by instinct, weaving among the headstones until he stopped at bare earth. There was no marker, only a mound of dirt turned muddy in the rain.

— Buried just today, — said Jack, taking a shovel.

— How did you know about this one? —

— I ask around. I listen. — Eyeing the grave, he muttered, — Head should be at this end, — and scooped up a shovelful of mud. — Came through here a fortnight ago, — he said, flinging the mud aside. — Heard this one was near to giving up the ghost. —