The Bone Artists (4 page)

O
liver dragged his feet as he went to the back room. Six forty-five p.m. Briony would be there any minute to pick up the package. He shouldered the curtain aside near the register of the shop, vaguely aware of his dad trying to sell a customer on a refurbished coffee table. Ugh. Coffee. He could use a gallon right about then.

He hadn't slept. Not at all. When he'd closed his eyes he'd heard Micah's trowel hitting the coffin lid. He'd heard the fingers separating from the hand, so much severed meat. He'd heard that man shouting and the rattle of the iron fence. He'd seen the shadow watching them, right by the grave. Too close to the grave.

Sirens sounded all the time during the night in the city, but each siren that blared last night he'd been certain was coming for him.

Stifling a yawn, Oliver caught a glimpse of himself in an antique mirror in the supply room. Yikes. He looked dire. Scruffy was usually a good word to describe him, but this was something else. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. His hair stuck up, unwashed and oily, greased from the night spent roasting in his hoodie and sprinting for safety. He had stuffed his messenger bag next to a cabinet, hyperaware of what was inside of it.

Micah was teaching martial arts until close, leaving Oliver to do the hand-off. The first time around had been so much easier. Micah had deciphered the coded ad for fences on craigslist and then they'd gone to the designated drop-off area to pick up an assignment in an old mailbox. That time they'd just had to pick up some watches, a pair of spectacles, and some other old junk that nobody would miss. Then they'd done the delivery in the same anonymous way.

The next time they answered an ad, Briony was there to meet them and showed them to what she called “an office,” which turned out to be little more than an old garage in Bywater. Oliver had gotten the feeling that Briony certainly didn't live there and maybe didn't even spend much of her time in the dingy hovel. It gave him a distinct serial killer vibe, but a dozen or so people were there, busily working away at cramped desks. Oliver couldn't get close enough to see just what they were doing. At any rate, Briony had announced she was pleased with their work, and thought they might be good for something a bit more challenging.

Challenging enough to be worth two grand.

Oliver knelt and grabbed his bag, running his hand listlessly back and forth through his hair. It was over. They had done the work. He'd give the package to Briony and that, he decided, would be that. No more jobs. He didn't care how good the money was, it wasn't worth this stress.

It only remained to be seen if he could actually say all of that to Briony's face.

The bag vibrated in his hands and he fished out his cell phone. His dad never liked him to have it in his pocket while “on the
floor.” Two messages. One had come from Sabrina, another offer to celebrate his big news. The other was from Briony. He clutched the phone harder, a reflex.

Change of plans. Meet me by 8.

Directions followed. Oliver knew the place. It wasn't far at all. An easy walk, in fact. He debated taking the car, but figured he'd be able to get in and out faster if he made up some excuse to Briony about needing to pop right back to work, that this was his break and he needed to finish his shift.

He shouldered the bag and ducked by the curtain again, stepping out into the showroom of the shop. His dad was still working an old lady by the postcards. A few Tulane kids had showed up to set up tables and chairs for a poetry reading they were having later. Oliver mumbled hello to everyone, waving bye to his dad.

“Just gone for a minute,” Oliver said, hoping it was true.

His father was almost a carbon copy of Oliver, longer in the face and with a few more wrinkles, but with the same shaggy dark hair and thick brows, same dark blue eyes and crooked smile.

“Where you headed?” Nick Berkley asked, jotting down a price offer for the customer on his little lined notepad.

“Just around the block. Didn't sleep much, need a coffee.”

“We've got a pot in the back—”

“
Real
coffee.”

His father shot him a mock-scandalized look and tucked his pencil behind his ear. “All right. Get back soon, okay? I want to talk about that big news of yours.”

Oliver nodded, the door jangling shut behind him, the bells
tacked to the frame announcing his exit. He wasn't sure that his sleep-deprived brain was ready for that talk with his dad. It had been a mistake to mention that he had news at lunch, but his mind hadn't been firing on all cylinders.

The city lamps had come on, washing the cobbled streets in pretty, welcoming light. Vintage light. It gave the sidewalks a surreal glow, something meant to give tourists that sense that they were stepping back in time, that none of this was real, that anything they said or did in their drunken journeys down Bourbon Street would be left behind in another world altogether.

No such luck, Oliver mused darkly. He'd be fortunate if he ever managed to scrub the night before from his mind. And even if he picked up and left for university, New Orleans would still be his home. That would never change. It had been a misstep to get wrapped up in this
Part-Time Job
with Micah.

For God's sake, this was his city, his
neighborhood
, and now he was traipsing across it with a guilty hunch to his shoulders, human bones rattling around in his bag.

Just as he thought, the GPS brought him to Briony's chosen spot after a ten-minute walk. A flashy, polished black luxury car was parked by itself on the block, the license plate reading PRNCPL1. A forest-green sticker with white type covered the bottom right of the bumper.

PROUD PARENT OF AN HONOR ROLL STUDENT

The rest of the street was mostly empty save for the odd lost, drunk tourist. By then the clammy evening humidity clung heavy to his shirt, and he plucked at it to keep it off his damp skin as he double-checked the address, loitering outside of a
wooden door down a soggy, sour alley.

He began to grow nervous as the minutes crawled by. Did he knock? Did he text Briony? Then the hinges of the door squealed and a face appeared in the gloom beyond, the stark white face of a painted mask.

O
liver turned in a slow circle, gazing at the shelves upon shelves lining the walls of the facility. Facility? Office? He had no idea what to call it, but it was just like the last place Briony had told him to go, only this time it wasn't a crappy garage but a larger, multiroom apartment with tobacco stains yellowing the ceilings. The smell of cigarettes and cheap booze had steeped into the walls and floor, a scent that some kind of powerful cleaner or chemical was trying to overtake.

It was not a place that ought to be brightly lit, he thought, every sign of water damage, age, and decay showing starkly under the near-medical lighting. The Dragon Lady's crisp, cornflower-blue pantsuit was the cleanest thing in the room by far.

But just like in the garage, Briony didn't hang around the place alone. At the edges of the room, men and women bent over desks. These were sturdier and shinier than those at the garage. Oliver blinked, anxious, rocking on his heels while he waited for Briony to finish a phone call. The distinct buzz of a bone saw came screaming through a closed door to his left. The screech was like nails on a chalkboard, a cold sting zinging down his spine.

He couldn't overhear Briony's conversation, but he could hear the soft lilt of her voice. Not the tone she ever used with
him, not in person and not on the phone. He pulled off his backpack, and the weight of it—of what was inside of it—felt like a barrel of lead bricks.

Casting an eye around the room again, he tried to peer at what the closest desk person was doing. It was a man, and he wore rubber gloves, but that was the extent of his professionalism. His leather jacket and skinny jeans had him looking right at home among the grunginess.

Under the sound of Briony's voice ran a constant murmur of soft sounds. These were the Bone Artists—the actual ones—Micah had been going on about. He wondered if the fingers in his backpack would end up on one of those desks soon.

But for what?

Don't ask questions. This is the last time, remember?

Briony spun on one high heel, giving him an acid smile while she hid her phone in both hands, cupping her palms around it and taking a few clicking steps toward him.

Without prompting, Oliver thrust the backpack at her. He had already taken out his phone and anything valuable. She could keep the bag. He didn't want it.

“Eager to be rid of me?” Briony smiled. She didn't take the bag, however, waiting until the man in the leather jacket paused his work to stride over and grab the backpack for himself.

“I heard there were complications.” She drew out the word, watching Oliver intently.

The bone saw next door grew louder. Oliver clicked his teeth together, clenching.

“We got what you asked for. Isn't that what matters?”

“Yes, but you were seen.” She lifted a thin, arched brow. “Or
do you not read the news, Mr. Berkley?”

Shit. He hadn't. Just getting down to the shop without dropping to sleep on his feet had been a chore.

He swallowed and gave his best nonchalant shrug. “We got away, nobody saw our faces.”

“Are you certain of that?” The other brow went up.

Was this a trick question?

“Positive,” Oliver said, beginning to sweat. “We took off before the guy could get close.”

She nodded, her brows returning to a neutral position. Her entire face iced over, unreadable. He wished that damn saw would stop screeching next door, it was putting him on edge.
More
on edge. “So?” he prompted. “It's all there, right? We're square now.”

“
Are
we?” She turned her head to the leather-jacket guy, who gave a quick nod. “Very good, Mr. Berkley. I think I like you.” Leather Jacket disappeared for a moment into the room with the saw, the sound growing so loud with the door open that Oliver had to fight to keep from covering his ears. Muffled voices joined the racket and then Leather Jacket returned, replacing Oliver's backpack with a wad of bills held together with a rubber band.

“Try not to get into the papers next time, mm?”

Oliver blinked. “I don't think there will be a next time.”

“No?” She stared at him steadily, a tiny muscle quivering in her chin. Then she smiled, but there was nothing behind it. Just teeth. Just a bright, white sliver carved across her face. “Not even, say . . . five thousand dollars could tempt you?”

Five thousand . . . ?
Jesus
.

“I can't,” Oliver ground out.

She turned away, wandering with Leather Jacket toward the room with that infernal bone saw still whirring away. “Your friend might say otherwise.”

“He might,” Oliver allowed.

Briony's cold laughter chorused with the high-pitched saw, and Oliver's spine went rigid again. Her pale eyes caught him and snagged as she glanced over her shoulder. “I think you'll change your mind, Mr. Berkley. In fact, I
know
so.”