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.
Oliver 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.”
He tapped out a manic rhythm on the steering wheel as he careened toward the dojo. His phone chirped every now and again on the passenger seat, alerting him to an unread text message from his father. Whatever guilt trip awaited him in that message could be kept on hold.
He didn’t have the balls to face his father, not when he felt sick to his stomach. Five thousand dollars. That was more money than he had ever possessed at one time. Who was he kidding? The two grand in his dash compartment was hard to wrap his mind around, too. But this was grave robbing. It had to be way more illegal than taking a few family heirlooms. That made him feel crappy enough, but taking bones? Taking parts of people?
What were they doing in that creepy place anyway? So busy, bent over their desks, little worker ants going about their business so single-mindedly. His skin tightened just thinking about the possibilities. But that five grand would get him so much closer to his goals. . . . His fingers beat faster on the wheel as he waited for the light to turn. One more block and he’d be at the dojo. Micah might not have answers, but he would at least have sympathy and maybe a bottle of booze to make the whole thing easier to bear.
Micah’s place of work didn’t actually look anything like a dojo. It looked like the kind of blah storefront in a strip mall that might have once been a furniture warehouse or a doughnut shop. All but two windows were frosted over, but you could walk by and peer inside at whoever was chopping or kicking the air. Oliver was early—well, technically he wasn’t anything, since Micah wasn’t expecting him—and so two rows of little kids, swimming in their starchy white outfits, were still doing their best to punch at nothing under Micah’s instruction.
Oliver pulled into the narrow parking lot and stopped the car under a flickering streetlamp. The electric glow of the strip mall was plenty, but some well-meaning city planner had tried to gussy up the place with cutesy benches and lamps, green, quaint, like there weren’t a grimy tobacco store and an AutoZone in plain view.
He grabbed his phone and blanked out the message. He’d read it later, when he wasn’t feeling so scattered. Sighing, he pulled open the dash compartment and took out the roll of cash, just holding it. Just feeling it. It felt heavy, and he knew exactly why. He shoved it back in the compartment and glanced up at Micah, wondering what two grand meant to the guy. Of course he had applied to colleges, too, some heavy hitters, in fact, but everything in Micah’s life just seemed so breezy. So easy. His grades weren’t the best but he usually got them bumped up by magical extra-credit projects wheedled out of exasperated teachers. He volunteered. He worked. His teachers could hardly blame him for missing an assignment now and again. Didn’t make much money so he found a way to get more. Wink and a smile. Sure, they were essentially grave robbers now but it was two grand. Things would work themselves out.
Maybe Oliver could fix his attitude and whistle a merry tune for five thousand dollars.
Maybe.
A hard, quick tapping came at the driver’s side window. Oliver jumped and shrieked, not in a manly fashion, feeling his heart jam into his throat as he turned and saw a silhouette at the window. His pulse calmed a little when he found it was Diane, Sabrina’s older sister, leaning over and peeking in at him.
“Hey, stranger,” she said as he rolled down the window to talk to her. “You waiting on Micah?”
“Yeah. Hey, let me get out of this thing. Stuffy in here.”
Great. Diane. Not someone he was hoping to meet here. He grabbed his phone and ducked out of the car, locking up and following her to the sidewalk outside the dojo. She leaned against the glass, smirking as she watched the mini martial artists inside. Taller and leaner than her sister, Diane also had way more hair. Sabrina tended to keep hers shaved or incredibly short, and she had piercings where Diane kept a neutral, almost preppy look. Diane was pretty, smart . . . Exactly Micah’s type.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Diane said, sipping from a half-empty diet soda.
“Been busy. Shop gets crazy this time of year. Dad gets me to take just about every shift I can,” he replied. “Aren’t you taking classes up at City Park?”
“Culinary stuff, uh-huh.” She pulled her attention away from the kids. “Sabrina says you got into the school you wanted. That’s big. Congrats.”
“Hey, thanks.” He grinned. “You know, it’s nice to hear that. Haven’t gotten to tell my old man yet. He was a wreck when I was filling out applications. I only got him to calm down because I said the whole thing was a long shot. Not sure he believed me.”
“Ugh. I hear that. It’s always the same with that family business bullcrap,” Diane said with a roll of the eyes. “Mom woulda never gotten out of Baton Rouge if Granny hadn’t died. Family business? More like family cult.”
Oliver nodded, feeling a little less like a tense mess with each chuckle. “Amen.”
“Just see you don’t go takin’ my sister off to Texas with you. I like her where she is.”
“No, ma’am, wouldn’t take her anywhere, not unless she wanted to come along.”
Diane shook her head, reaching over to slug him playfully in the shoulder. “Who would keep me honest if she went off with you?”
“I thought you and Micah were, you know . . .” Oliver cleared his throat. Lord, but this was not his favorite subject. He didn’t want to police his friend, even if Sabrina was asking him to do it. “Maybe he could look out for you.”
“Yeah, ’cause we all know that boy’s just full of good choices.” She smirked and reached toward him again, but this time she just put her hand lightly on his arm. “I know Sabrina’s been giving you shit about this whole thing. Don’t you worry. I know who Micah is. I know what I’m getting myself into. It’s just for fun, a
nyway. He’ll go off to college, too, and then you won’t have to worry about me getting mixed up with his crazy ass.”
Well, that at least was a relief.
“Who are you calling crazy, woman?”
Micah roared toward them from the door, pouncing on them both, pulling them in close for a hug with each arm.
“Man, you stink,” Oliver muttered, wrestling out of his friend’s grip.
“Didn’t have time to shower, all right? Saw you two dawdling outside and thought it might be polite to hurry myself along.” He stuck out his tongue, still holding Diane with one arm. “And what are you doing here? Did I miss a text or somethin’?”
Micah’s gaze sharpened, the hard set of his jaw asking the silent question. Did something go wrong with the drop-off?
“Just bored is all,” Oliver said with a shrug, shaking his head just the littlest bit for Micah’s benefit. No, everything went fine.
“Ha. Don’t let Sabrina hear you say that. She’s spittin’ mad that you haven’t taken her out to celebrate your university thing.”
“I know. I need to call her, but do you think I could borrow Micah for a sec? Just something I need to run by him real quick.”
Just a little thing called five thousand dollars.
“Sure, but see you don’t keep him too long, we had plans tonight.”
“Plans. Yeah. It won’t take but a moment.” With that, Oliver tugged Micah aside, his arm damp with sweat through his shirt. They paused outside the auto parts store and the manager inside watched them while he closed up for the day, probably worried they were two no-good kids come to rob him.
Don’t you worry, sir, we only rob the dead.
Ugh.
“What is it? You look like you been running all over hell’s half acre.” His gray eyes darkened and he glanced quickly toward Diane. “Everything okay with the, ya know, with our friend?”
The Bone Artists Page 3