The Bone Garden: A Novel

by Tess Gerritsen

  — There must have been more. —

  — There was nothing more. Mrs. Comfort can tell you. —

  — She explained nothing? She gave no details, not even his name? —

  — I tell you, that's all she wrote. —

  — Was there nothing about me? She must have said something! —

  Isaac said, quietly: — That's why I never showed it to you, boy. I didn't want you to know. —

  That his own mother hadn't even mentioned his name. Norris could not meet his father's gaze. Instead, he stared down at the scarred table, the table where he and Isaac had shared so many silent meals, listening only to the howl of the wind, the scrape of their forks against the plates. — Why now? — he asked. — Why did you wait all these years to tell me? —

  — Because of her. — Isaac looked toward the upstairs bedroom, where Rose was sleeping. — She has her eye on you, boy, and you have your eye on her. You make a mistake now, and you'll live with it for the rest of your life. —

  — Why do you assume she's a mistake? —

  — Some men can't see it, even when it's staring them in the face. —

  — Mother was your mistake? —

  — And I was hers. I watched her grow up. For years, I'd see her in church, sitting there in her pretty hats, always friendly enough to me, but always beyond me, too. And then one day, it's as if she suddenly sees me. And decides I'm worth a second glance. — He reached for the jug and refilled his glass. — Eleven years later, she's trapped on this stinking farm with a sick boy. Of course it's easier to run away. Leave this behind and take up a fancy life with a new man. — He set down the jug, and his gaze lifted toward the bedroom where Rose was sleeping. — You can't take 'em at their word, that's all I'm telling you. The girl comes with a sweet enough face. But what does it hide? —

  — 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.

  — Where is he? Do you see him? —

  — Call out the Watch! I want the riverbank searched! —

  — Both sides? —

  — Yes, you idiot! Both sides! —

  Norris dove back into icy darkness and let the current carry him. He knew he could not fight his way upstream, so he yielded to the river and let it abet his escape. It bore him past Lechmere Point, past the West End, bringing him ever eastward, toward the harbor.

  Toward the docks.

  Twenty-nine

  The present

  JULIA STOOD at the ocean's edge and stared out to sea. The fog had finally dissipated, and she could see islands offshore and a lobster boat, cutting across water so calm it might be tarnished silver. She did not hear Tom's footsteps behind her, yet somehow she knew he was there, and could sense his approach long before he spoke.

  — I'm all packed, — he said. — I'll be catching the four thirty ferry. I'm sorry to have to leave you with him, but he seems to be stable. At least he hasn't had any arrhythmias in the past three days. —

  — We'll be fine, Tom, — she said, her gaze still on the lobster boat.

  — It's a lot to ask of you. —

  — I don't mind, really. I'd planned to spend the whole week anyway, and it's so beautiful here. Now that I can finally see the water. —

  — It is a nice spot, isn't it? — He came to stand beside her. — Too bad it's all going to slide into the sea one of these days. That house is on borrowed time. —

  — Can't you save it? —

  — You can't fight the ocean. Some things are inevitable. —

  They were silent for a moment, watching as the boat growled to a stop and the lobsterman pulled up his traps.

  — You've been awfully quiet all afternoon, — he said.

  — I can't stop thinking about Rose Connolly. —

  — What about her? —

  — How strong she must've been, just to survive. —

  — When people need to, they usually find the strength. —

  — I never did. Even when I needed it most. —

  They walked along the ocean's edge, keeping away from the crumbling cliff.

  — You're talking about your divorce? —

  — When Richard asked me for it, I just assumed it was my fault that I couldn't keep him happy. That's what happens when day after day you're made to feel your job's not as important as his. That you're not as brilliant as his colleagues' wives. —

  — How many years did you put up with that? —

  — Seven. —

  — Why didn't you leave? —

  — Because I started to believe it. — She shook her head. — Rose wouldn't have put up with it. —

  — That's a good mantra for you from now on. What would Rose do? —

  — I've come to the conclusion that I'm no Rose Connolly. —

  They watched as the lobsterman tossed his trap back in the water.

  — I have to leave for Hong Kong on Thursday, — said Tom. — I'll be there for a month. —

  — Oh. — She fell silent. So it would be a whole month before she saw him again.

  — I love my work, but it means I'm not home half the time. Instead, I'm chasing epidemics, tending to other lives while forgetting I have one of my own. —

  — But you have so much to contribute. —

  — I'm forty-two and my housemate spends half the year at the dogsitter's. — He stared at the water. — Anyway, I'm thinking of canceling this trip. —

  She felt her pulse suddenly quicken. — Why? —

  — Partly because of Henry. He's eighty-nine, after all, and he won't be around forever. —

  Of course, she thought. It's all about Henry. — If he has problems, he can call me. —

  — That's a lot of responsibility. I wouldn't wish him on anyone. —

  — I've grown rather attached to him. He's a friend now, and I don't abandon my friends. — She looked up as a seagull soared past. — It's strange how something like a bunch of old bones can bring two people together. People who have absolutely nothing in common. —

  — Well, he certainly likes you. He told me that if he was just ten years younger —

  She laughed. — When he first met me, I think he could barely tolerate me. —

  — Henry can barely tolerate anyone, but he ended up liking you. —

  — It's because of Rose. She's the one thing we have in common. We're both obsessed with her. — She watched as the lobster boat motored away, leaving a white line etched on the bay's metallic gray surface. — I'm even having dreams about her. —

  — What sort of dreams? —

  — It's as if I'm there, seeing what she saw. The carriages, the streets, the dresses. It's because I've spent way too much time reading all those letters. She's seeping into my subconscious. I can almost believe I was there, it's all starting to seem so familiar. —

  — The way you seem familiar to me. —

  — I don't know why I should. —

  — Yet I keep having this feeling that I know you. That we've met. —

  — I can't think of any reason we would have. —

  — No. — He sighed. — I can't, either. — He looked at her. — So I guess there's no reason for me to cancel my trip. Is there? —

  There was more to that question than either one of them was acknowledging. She met his gaze, and what she saw in his eyes scared her, because at that instant she saw both possibility and heartbreak. She was ready for neither.

  Julia looked at the sea. — Henry and I will do fine. —

  That night, Julia once again dreamed of Rose Connolly. Except this time, Rose was not the girl with the patched clothes and the ash-smudged face, but a sedate young woman with upswept hair and wisdom in her eyes. She stood amid wildflowers as she gazed down a slope, toward a stream. It was the same gentle slope that would one day become Julia's garden, and on this summer day, tall grass rippled like water in the wind, and dandelion fluff swirled in the golden haze. Rose turned, and there was a grassy field, and a few tumbled-down stones marking the spot where another house had once stood, a house that was now gone, burned to the ground.

  F
rom over the crest a young girl came running, her skirts flying behind her, her smiling face flushed from the heat. She flew toward Rose, who swept her up in her arms and swung her around and around, laughing.

  — Again! Again! — the girl cried as she was set back on her feet.

  — No, your auntie's dizzy. —

  — Can we roll down the hill? —

  — Look, Meggie. — Rose gestured toward the stream. — Isn't this a lovely spot? What do you think? —

  — There are fish in the water, and frogs. —

  — It's a perfect place, isn't it? Someday, you should build your house here. Right here on this spot. —

  — What about that old house up there? —

  Rose gazed up at the charred stone foundation near the top of the crest. — It belonged to a great man, — she said softly. — It burned down when you were just two years old. Maybe someday, when you're older, I'll tell you about him. About what he did for us. — Rose inhaled deeply and gazed toward the stream. — Yes, this is a fine place to build a house. You must remember this spot. — She reached for the girl's hand. — Come. Cook's expecting us back for lunch. —

  They walked, the aunt and her niece, their skirts rustling through tall grass as they strode together up the slope, until they went over the crest, and only Rose's auburn hair could be seen glinting above the swaying grass.

  Julia woke up with tears in her eyes. That was my garden. Rose and Meggie walked in my garden.

  She climbed out of bed and went to the window, where she saw the pink light of dawn. At last all the clouds were gone and today, for the first time, she saw sunshine over Penobscot Bay. I'm so glad I stayed long enough to see this sunrise, she thought.

  She tried to be quiet and not wake Henry as she tiptoed down the stairs and into the kitchen to make coffee. She was about to turn on the faucet to fill the carafe when she heard the distinct sound of rustling paper in another room. She set down the carafe and peeked into the library.

  Henry was slumped in a chair at the dining table, his head drooping, a blizzard of paper spread out before him.