The Bone Garden

by Tess Gerritsen

  “So he did become a poet after all,” said Julia.

  “With quite a reputation. They say he lost his hand in a duel over a lady. The tale made him quite popular with the fair sex. He ended up dying in his fifties. Of syphilis.” She gazed at the painting. “If this was his uncle, you can see that good looks certainly ran in the family.”

  As the librarian walked away, Julia remained transfixed by the portrait of Aldous Grenville, the man who had been Sophia Marshall’s lover. I now know what happened to Norris’s mother, thought Julia. On a summer’s evening, when her son lay feverish, Sophia had left his bedside and had ridden to Aldous Grenville’s country house in Weston. There she planned to tell him that he had a son who was now desperately ill.

  But Aldous was not at home. It was his sister, Eliza, who heard Sophia’s confession, who entertained her plea for help. Was Eliza thinking of her own son, Charles, when she chose her next action? Was it merely scandal she feared, or was it the appearance of another heir in the Grenville line, a bastard who’d take what her own son should inherit?

  That was the day Sophia Marshall vanished.

  Nearly two centuries would pass before Julia, digging in the weed-choked yard that was once part of Aldous Grenville’s summer estate, would unearth the skull of Sophia Marshall. For nearly two centuries Sophia had lain hidden in her unmarked grave, lost to memory.

  Until now. The dead might be gone forever, but the truth could be resurrected.

  She stared at Grenville’s portrait and thought: You never acknowledged Norris as your son. But at least you saw to the welfare of your daughter, Meggie. And through her, your blood has passed on, to all the generations since.

  And now, in Tom, Aldous Grenville still lived.

  Henry was too exhausted to come with her to the airport.

  Julia drove alone through the night, thinking of the conversation she had had with Henry a few weeks ago:

  “You’ve taken the wrong lesson from Rose Connolly’s life.”

  “What’s the right lesson?”

  “To grab it while you can. Love!”

  I don’t know if I dare, she thought.

  But Rose would. And Rose did.

  An accident in Newton had cars backed up two miles on the turnpike. As she inched forward through traffic, she thought about Tom’s phone calls over the past weeks. They’d talked about Henry’s health, about the Holmes letters, about the donation to the Athenaeum. Safe topics, nothing that required her to bare any secrets.

  “You have to let him know you’re interested,” Henry had told her. “He thinks you’re not.”

  I am. But I’m afraid.

  Trapped on the turnpike, she watched the minutes tick past. She thought of what Rose had risked for love. Had it been worth it? Did she ever regret it?

  At Brookline, the turnpike suddenly opened up, but by then she knew she would be late. By the time she ran into Logan Airport’s Terminal E, Tom’s flight had landed, and she faced a crammed obstacle course of passengers and luggage.

  She began to run, dodging children and carry-ons. When she reached the area where passengers were exiting customs, her heart was pounding hard. I’ve missed him, she thought as she plunged into the crowd, searching. She saw only strangers’ faces, an endless throng of people she did not know, people who brushed past her without a second glance. People whose lives would never intersect with hers. Suddenly it seemed as if she’d always been searching for Tom, and had always just missed him. Had always let him slip away, unrecognized.

  This time, I know your face.

  “Julia?”

  She whirled around to find him standing right behind her, looking rumpled and weary after his long flight. Without even stopping to think, she threw her arms around him, and he gave a laugh of surprise.

  “What a welcome! I wasn’t expecting this,” he said.

  “I’m so glad I found you!”

  “So am I,” he said softly.

  “You were right. Oh, Tom, you were right!”

  “About what?”

  “You told me once that you recognized me. That we’d met before.”

  “Have we?”

  She looked into a face that she’d seen just that afternoon gazing back at her from a portrait. A face that she’d always known, always loved. Norrie’s face.

  She smiled. “We have.”

  1888

  And so, Margaret, you have now heard it all, and I am at peace that the tale will not die with me.

  Though your aunt Rose never married or had children of her own, believe me, dear Margaret, you gave her enough joy for several lifetimes. Aldous Grenville lived only a brief time beyond these events, but he took such pleasure from the few years he had with you. I hope you will not hold it against him that he never publicly acknowledged you as his daughter. Remember instead how generously he provided for you and Rose, bequeathing to you his country estate in Weston, on which you have now built your home. How proud he would have been of your keen and inquisitive mind! How proud to know that his daughter was among the first to graduate from the new female medical college! What a startling world this has become, where women are allowed, at last, to achieve so much.

  Now the future belongs to our grandchildren. You wrote that your grandson Samuel has already shown a remarkable aptitude for science. You must be delighted, as you, better than anyone, know that there is no nobler profession than that of a healer. I dearly hope young Samuel will pursue that calling, and continue the tradition of his most talented fore-bearers. Those who save lives achieve a form of immortality of their own, in the generations they preserve, in the descendants who would not otherwise be born. To heal is to leave your stamp on the future.

  And so, dear Margaret, I end this final letter with a blessing to your grandson. It is the highest blessing I could wish upon him, or upon anyone.

  May he be a physician.

  Yours faithfully,

  O.W.H.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In March 1833, Oliver Wendell Holmes left Boston and sailed to France, where he would spend the next two years completing his medical studies. At the renowned École de Médicine in Paris, young Holmes had access to an unlimited number of anatomical specimens, and he studied under some of the finest medical and scientific minds in the world. He returned to Boston a far more accomplished physician than most of his American peers.

  In 1843, at the Boston Society for Medical Improvement, he presented a paper titled “The Contagiousness of Puerperal Fever.” It would prove to be his greatest contribution to American medicine. It introduced a new practice that now seems obvious, but which, in Holmes’s day, was a radical new idea. Countless lives were saved, and miseries avoided, by his simple yet revolutionary suggestion: that physicians should simply wash their hands.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TESS GERRITSEN is a physician and an internationally bestselling author. She gained nationwide acclaim for her first novel of medical suspense, the New York Times bestseller Harvest. She is also the author of the bestsellers The Mephisto Club, Vanish, Body Double, The Sinner, The Apprentice, The Surgeon, Life Support, Bloodstream, and Gravity. Tess Gerritsen lives in Maine. Visit her website at www.tessgerritsen.com.

  ALSO BY TESS GERRITSEN

  Harvest

  Life Support

  Bloodstream

  Gravity

  The Surgeon

  The Apprentice

  The Sinner

  Body Double

  Vanish

  The Mephisto Club

  Read on for an exciting preview

  of Tess Gerritsen’s next thrilling novel

  featuring Maura Isles and Jane Rizzoli

  THE SILENT GIRL

  ONE

  SAN FRANCISCO

  ALL DAY, I HAVE BEEN WATCHING THE GIRL. She gives no indication that she’s aware of me, although my rental car is within view of the street corner where she and the other teenagers have gathered this afternoon, doing whatever bored kids do to pass the time. She loo
ks younger than the others, but perhaps it’s because she’s Asian and petite at seventeen, just a wisp of a girl. Her black hair is cropped as short as a boy’s, and her blue jeans are ragged and torn. Not a fashion statement, I think, but a result of hard use and life on the streets. She puffs on a cigarette and exhales a cloud of smoke with the nonchalance of a street thug, an attitude that doesn’t match her pale face and delicate Chinese features. She is pretty enough to attract the hungry stares of two men who pass by. The girl notices their gazes and looks straight back at them, unafraid. It’s easy to be fearless when danger is merely an abstract concept. Faced with a real threat, how would this girl react? I wonder. Would she fight or would she crumble? I want to know, but I have yet to see her put to the test.

  As evening falls, the teenagers on the corner begin to disband. First one and then another wanders away. In San Francisco, even summer nights are chilly, and those who remain huddle together in their sweaters and jackets, lighting one another’s cigarettes, savoring the ephemeral heat of the flame. But cold and hunger eventually disperse the last of them, leaving only the girl, who has nowhere to go. She waves to her departing friends, and for a while lingers alone, as though waiting for someone. At last, with a shrug, she leaves the corner and walks in my direction, her hands thrust in her pockets. As she passes my car, she doesn’t even glance at me, but looks straight ahead, her gaze focused and fierce, as if she’s mentally churning over some dilemma. Perhaps she’s thinking about where she’s going to scavenge dinner tonight. Or perhaps it’s something more consequential. Her future. Her survival.

  She’s probably unaware that two men are following her.

  Seconds after she walks past my car, I spot the men emerging from an alley. I recognize them; it’s the same pair who had stared at her earlier. As they move past my car, trailing her, one of the men looks at me through the windshield. It’s just a quick glance to assess whether I am a threat. What he sees does not concern him in the least, and he and his companion keep walking. They move like the confident predators they are, stalking much weaker prey who cannot possibly fight them off.

  I step out of my car and follow them. Just as they are following the girl.

  She heads deep into the neighborhood south of Market Street, where too many buildings stand abandoned, where the sidewalks seem paved with broken bottles. The girl betrays no fear, no hesitation, as if this is familiar territory for her. Not once does she glance back, which tells me she is either foolhardy or clueless about the world and what it can do to girls like her. The men following her don’t glance back either. Even if they did, which I do not allow, they would see nothing to fear. No one ever does.

  A block ahead, the girl turns right, vanishing through a doorway.

  I slip into the shadows and watch what happens next. The two men pause outside the building that the girl has entered, conferring over strategy. Then they too step inside.

  From the sidewalk, I look up at the boarded-over windows. It is a vacant warehouse posted with a NO TRESPASSING notice. The door hangs ajar. I slip inside, into gloom so thick that I pause to let my eyes adjust as I rely on my other senses to take in what I cannot yet see. I hear the floor creaking. I smell burning candle wax. I see the faint glow of a doorway to my left. Pausing outside it, I peer into the room beyond.

  The girl kneels before a makeshift table, her face lit by one flickering candle. Around her are signs of temporary habitation: a sleeping bag, tins of food, and a small camp stove. She is struggling with a balky can opener and is unaware of the two men closing in from behind.

  Just as I draw in a breath to shout a warning, the girl whirls around to face the trespassers. All she has in her hand is the can opener, a meager weapon against two larger men.

  “This is my home,” she says. “Get out.”

  I had been prepared to intervene. Instead I pause where I am to watch what happens next. To see what the girl is made of.

  One of the men laughs. “We’re just visiting, honey.”

  “Did I invite you?”

  “You look like you could use the company.”

  “You look like you could use a brain.”

  This, I think, is not a wise way to handle the situation. Now their lust is mingled with anger, a dangerous combination. Yet the girl stands perfectly still, perfectly calm, brandishing that pitiful kitchen utensil. As the men lunge, I am already on the balls of my feet, ready to spring.

  The girl springs first. One leap and her foot thuds straight into the first man’s sternum. It’s an inelegant but effective blow and he staggers, gripping his chest as if he cannot breathe. Before the second man can react, she is already spinning toward him, and she slams the can opener against the side of his head. He howls and backs away.

  This has turned interesting.

  The first man has recovered and rushes at her, slamming her so hard that they both go sprawling onto the floor. She kicks and punches, and her fist cracks into his jaw. But fury has inured him to pain, and with a roar he rolls on top of her, immobilizing her with his weight.

  Now the second man jumps back in. Grabbing her wrists, he pins them against the floor. Here is where youth and inexperience have landed her, in a calamity that she cannot possibly escape. As fierce as she is, the girl is green and untrained, and the inevitable is about to happen. Already the first man has unzipped her jeans and he yanks them down, past her skinny hips. His arousal is evident, his trousers bulging. Never is a man more vulnerable to attack.

  He doesn’t hear me coming. One moment he’s unzipping his fly. The next, he’s on the floor, his jaw shattered, loose teeth spilling from his mouth.

  The second man barely has time to release the girl’s hands and jump up, but he’s not quick enough. I am the tiger and he is only a lumbering buffalo, stupid and helpless against my strike. With a shriek he drops to the ground, and judging by the grotesque angle of his arm, his bone has been snapped in two.

  I grab the girl and yank her to her feet. “Are you unhurt?”

  She zips up her jeans and stares at me. “Who the hell are you?”

  “That’s for later. Now we go!” I bark.

  “How did you do that? How did you bring them down so fast?”

  “Do you want to learn?”

  “Yes!”

  I look at the two men groaning and writhing at our feet. “Then here is the first lesson: Know when to run.” I give her a shove toward the door. “That time would be now.”

  I watch her eat. For such a small girl, she has the appetite of a wolf, and she devours three chicken tacos, a lake of refried beans, and a large glass of Coca-Cola. Mexican food was what she wanted, so we sit in a cafe where mariachi music plays and the walls are adorned with gaudy paintings of dancing señoritas. Though the girl’s features are Chinese, she is clearly American, from her cropped hair to her tattered jeans. A crude and feral creature who noisily slurps up the last of her Coke and crunches loudly on the ice cubes.

  I am beginning to doubt the wisdom of this venture. She is already too old to be taught, too wild to learn discipline. I should simply release her back to the streets, if that’s where she wants to go, and find another way. But then I notice the scars on her knuckles and remember how close she came to single-handedly taking down the two men. She has talent and she is fearless, and those are things that cannot be taught.

  “Do you remember me?” I ask.

  The girl sets down her glass and frowns. For an instant I think I see a flash of recognition, but then it’s gone, and she shakes her head.

  “It was a long time ago,” I say. “Twelve years.” An eternity for a girl so young. “You were small.”

  She shrugs. “Then no wonder I don’t remember you.” She reaches in her jacket, pulls out a cigarette, and starts to light it.

  “You’re polluting your body.”

  “It’s my body,” she retorts.

  “Not if you wish to train.” I reach across the table and snatch the cigarette from her lips. “If you want to learn, your
attitude must change. You must show respect.”

  She snorts. “You sound like my mother.”

  “I knew your mother. In Boston.”

  “Well, she’s dead.”

  “I know. She wrote me last month. She told me she was ill and had very little time left. That’s why I’m here.”

  I’m surprised to see tears glisten in the girl’s eyes, and she quickly turns away, as though ashamed to reveal weakness. But in that vulnerable instant, before she hides her eyes, she makes me think of my own daughter, who was younger than this girl’s age when I lost her. I feel my own eyes sting with tears, but I don’t try to hide them, because sorrow has made me who I am. It has been the refining fire that has honed my resolve and sharpened my purpose.

  I need this girl. Clearly, she also needs me.

  “It’s taken me weeks to find you,” I tell her.

  “Foster home sucked. I’m better off on my own.”

  “If your mother saw you now, her heart would break.”

  “My mother never had time for me.”

  “Maybe because she was working two jobs, trying to keep you fed? Because she couldn’t count on anyone but herself to do it?”

  “She let the world walk all over her. Not once did I see her stand up for anything. Not even me.”

  “She was afraid.”

  “She was spineless.”

  I lean forward, suddenly enraged by this ungrateful brat. “Your poor mother suffered in ways you can’t possibly imagine. Everything she did was for you.” In disgust, I toss her cigarette back at her. She is not the girl I’d hoped to find. She may be strong and fearless, but no sense of filial duty binds her to her dead mother and father, no sense of family honor. Without those ties to our ancestors, we are lonely specks of dust, adrift and floating, attached to nothing and no one.