The Bone Garden: A Novel

— 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. —