The Bone Artists (8 page)

The bridge. I saw them follow me.

O
liver drove as far as he could, stopped within half a mile of turning onto the Causeway. A blockade went up as he watched, disobeying the police officer who stood in the downpour, directing with his hands for cars to turn around. Another set of police cars began the process of shutting down the traffic trying to flow toward the Causeway, preventing anyone from even approaching that lane of the bridge.

His breath had caught long before he turned off the ignition. Beyond the blockade he could make out the remains of a shitty old white pickup truck. It had been pancaked into the side of the Causeway, one tire teetering precariously over the edge, a gentle nudge from dropping into the lake.

Oliver parked wherever, leaving the door to his car open as he drifted out of it, wiping the rain from his eyes only as a formality, only because he needed to see. Flares cracked to life on the road, neon red fires kindling on the pavement, doing nothing to cut through the raincloud darkness. The officer directing traffic didn’t see him as he approached the yellow tape. Oliver ducked under, sneakers colliding with debris and crystalline chunks of glass that sparkled, reflecting the red flare light.

His mind tricked him into thinking it was a different white pickup truck. Of course it was. Nothing was for sure until it
was for sure. Nothing could convince him it was his dad’s truck until there was absolute proof. This was a coincidence until it was a tragedy. But he still couldn’t breathe. His pulse knew what his mind refused to accept.

“Whoa, hey kid, you have to get back in your vehicle and turn around.” An officer intercepted him, a tall, thin woman with cowlike, sympathetic eyes and yellow hair. She ducked and took a closer look at him. “Hey? Sir? Can you hear me? Did you hear what I said?”

“My dad,” Oliver murmured, staring past her. “That’s . . . that’s my dad’s truck.”

“What? Are you sure about that?” She glanced around, at the truck and then at the ambulance and fire truck parked horizontally across the lane. “I need to see some ID, kid.”

Oliver pulled his wallet out of his jeans and handed her the whole thing. He handed her his keys. He didn’t trust his hands to hold anything anyway. Her grip on him loosened and Oliver continued forward, as if he had no control over his own momentum, as if the twisted-up truck had caught him in a tractor beam. Something caught on his shoe and stuck, gluey. Oliver wiggled his leg but it wouldn’t come off. He stopped, watching as three drenched firemen cut away and wrenched off the truck’s folded-up door.

What was it they called that thing? The Jaws of Life?

A pale, limp hand slid into view, curled up on what was left of the passenger’s side seat. The flares crackled. The sirens all around him flickered and flickered, dying that single hand blue and then red. The officer behind him barked into her radio, asking for help, more help, more assistance, for Christ’s
sake the guy’s kid had shown up, could she get some damn help already?

Someone grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back. That same officer.

“It’s my dad,” Oliver said, tugging against her. “It’s my dad!” He panicked, but she was strong, holding him, and soon two more officers jogged over to help her, restraining him as the EMTs hurried in after the firemen, a stretcher folded out and waiting behind them.

He didn’t know what he was screaming anymore, just that he was screaming. He didn’t know what he was seeing, only that his father was being taken away in pieces.

They carried him away. Forced him away. Wet through and freezing, Oliver couldn’t feel any of it. His throat felt raw, and when they sat him down in the back of an open ambulance, dry, brown blanket draped over his shoulders, he couldn’t even grasp the edges of the fabric with his trembling fingers.

“How did you know to come here?” an officer was asking, gently. They were all perfectly nice to him now that he had stopped shrieking.

Oliver didn’t answer. What did it matter? He couldn’t save his dad, and the reasons why seemed pointless to consider. He shifted, his sneaker scraping the pavement. That damn gluey bullshit was still stuck to his foot. Suddenly it was the only thing worthy of his attention. How dare it. How dare it annoy him right then? How dare anyone touch him or look at him or ask him anything at all?

He bent down and blindly groped at the bottom of his shoe, tearing away the plasticky strip with a ferocious tear of his fist.
He almost tossed it away, but the dark green color snagged on a memory. Unrolling the wad of torn plastic, Oliver stared down at the sticker. A bumper sticker.

He couldn’t breathe again, and the cold and the rain and the officer touching his shoulder felt a million miles away.

PROUD PARENT OF AN HONOR ROLL STUDENT

His phone buzzed in his pocket, the one item he hadn’t handed over to the police for safekeeping. The officer sighed and wandered away, giving up on Oliver and his dazed silence. When she was gone, Oliver retrieved his phone, realizing he should call Sabrina, call Micah, call anyone at all who could make sense of this for him.

He had deleted her number, but he recognized the odd area code. Briony.

Come back to work for us, Oliver. Your debt is not repaid.

S
abrina had fallen asleep hours ago. For her sake, Oliver let her think he had done the same. Small comforts, she’d said. That was what had helped her after Diane died. A warm mug of tea. A hot shower. A familiar bed. Home. Friends. He had let her do all those things for her, culminating in the two of them cuddled up watching
The Princess Bride
on repeat until they both fell asleep.

Well,
she
fell asleep. Oliver stared at the muted film, the actors mouthing lines he knew by heart.

You killed my father. Prepare to die.

At least the tears had stopped. Oliver hadn’t realized a person could just keep crying and crying with no sound or anything else coming out, just relentless tears that triggered at the smallest, stupidest thing. They almost triggered again when he picked his half-dead phone up and shrugged out of the blanket covering him and Sabrina. She snored lightly while he dialed Micah again. His entire call log for the past three hours was filled with that one number.

Where the hell was that kid? Why now, of all times, did he decide to disappear? Micah had ditched out on the Bone Artists and Briony just as much as Oliver had, and now Oliver believed with every sinew in his body that his friend had been run off the
road intentionally, just like his dad.

He almost yelped in shock when the other end livened up and Micah’s face greeted him groggily.

“Micah? Jesus Christ, dude, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all night!”

“What? What is . . . Is everything all right?” He sounded more awake at least.

“It’s my dad.” That was it. That was all he could manage. The tears started again and Oliver smothered them in the neck of his tee, trying not to wake Sabrina. “His truck. The Causeway. It’s just like . . . just like you said it happened to you.”

Micah breathed heavily on the other end. “Can we meet somewhere to talk about this, man?”

“What?
No
. No, it’s . . . I can’t think about driving anywhere. I’m with Sabrina.” He squeezed his eyes shut, pulling off the blankets, suddenly much too warm. Pinpricks crawled over his forearms. “I got a message from Briony,” he hissed. “More than one. One after your accident and one tonight. It’s not a coincidence, Micah. They’re watching me. They’re watching
us
.”

His friend gave a cold bark of laughter. “That’s insane, Ollie. That’s . . . That all ended months ago.”

“Maybe for you,” Oliver muttered. “She’s not texting you? She’s not threatening you?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, man.”

“That’s
bullshit
.” He winced, lowering his voice again. “That’s not an answer. My dad is dead. Diane is dead. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Me? Nothing is wrong with me. Shit. I’m waking up Grams with this. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

“Micah, wait—”

“I said I’ll be in touch.”

Oliver stayed with the phone stuck to his ear for a moment, stunned. He had never heard that voice come out of his friend. Vicious. Detached. It cut. Oliver lowered the phone, dragging his eyes from Sabrina’s huddled silhouette to the open and half-packed duffel bags in the corner. In the morning he would unpack them. He couldn’t leave now, and maybe he couldn’t leave ever.

Ollie—

I know it’s been a few days since I said I’d be in touch. Okay, scratch that, a few weeks, but I needed time. I think you did, too. But I’ve been thinking about you and your dad, and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am and that I know what you must be going through. It sucks to feel alone. It sucks even worse to think you’re alone because of something you did or didn’t do.

I’m not emailing to tell you how to live your life, but it helped me to go forward. Juvie was shit at first, then I realized it could be fine. It could be whatever I wanted it to be. So I kept my head down and I worked hard and that got me friends where it counted. Good behavior. That’s all it takes—in life, in work, in juvie, in whatever.

I heard through the grapevine that you’re not going to Austin. That’s a mistake, Ollie. You have to move forward. It’s the only thing that helped me. Look, I’m moving forward, okay? Part of that means coming to grips with the truth. The truth is, I was drunk and irresponsible that night with Diane and she died because of it. That’s my burden, and I accept it. I don’t know how your dad got into that collision, but it was an accident and that’s what killed him. Mistakes happen. Accidents happen. You have to let all this conspiracy shit go. Sometimes it’s hard to just accept that the world isn’t fair, that it’s a screwed-up place.

But it can be a good place, too. Hell, I’m going to college. Me! Can you believe it? A decent one, too. The dean at this fancy-pants New Hampshire college reached out, heard some nice things about me from an old boss. See? Good things can and will fall in your lap, Ollie. I can help them fall in your lap if you want me to, but I know you’re probably still sore and that’s fine.

Think about what I said, okay? I miss you, man.

You take care of yourself, Oliver.

Micah

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
his novella wouldn’t have been possible without the inspiration and guidance provided by Andrew Harwell. Additional thanks to Kate McKean and Olivia Russo for all their hard work, and to the Wilder family in Frankfort for showing me all the haunted locals for inspiration. Claudia Gray provided valuable insight into local hangouts in New Orleans. As always, the creative team and HarperCollins deserve heaps of praise. And finally, none of my work would exist without the continued love and support of my family and friends.