It did not take long for him to locate a fresh grave. The lantern light revealed a mound of turned soil not yet crusted over by ice. He glanced at the headstones on adjoining graves, to confirm which way the body would be oriented. Then he sank his shovel in the soil where the head would be. After only a few scoops of dirt, he was short of breath. He had to pause, wheezing in the cold, regretting that he had not brought along that young Norris Marshall. But damned if he'd relinquish even a dollar to another man when he could do the job himself.
Once again he sank the shovel into the dirt and was about to lift the next scoop when a shout made him freeze.
— There he is! Get him! —
Three lanterns were bobbing toward him, closing in so fast that he had no time to extinguish his light. In panic, he abandoned the lamp right there and fled, carrying only the shovel. Darkness hid his path, and every gravestone was an obstacle waiting to trip him like bony hands, preventing his escape. The cemetery itself seemed to be taking its revenge on him for all his past outrages. He tripped and fell to his knees, onto ice that cracked like glass.
— Over there! — came a shout.
A gun fired, and Jack felt the bullet hiss past his cheek. He lurched to his feet and scrambled over the stone wall, abandoning the shovel wherever it had fallen. As he climbed into the dray, another bullet whistled by so close he felt it flick his hair.
— He's getting away! —
One crack of the whip and the horse took off, the dray rattling wildly behind it. Jack heard one last gunshot, and then his pursuers fell behind, their lights fading into the darkness.
By the time he finally pulled the horse to a stop, it was wheezing, and he knew that if he did not let it rest he would lose it, too, as he had his shovel and his lantern. And then where would he be, a tradesman without his tools?
A trade he was getting too old for.
Tonight was a complete loss. And what of tomorrow, and the night after? He thought of the cash box under the bedroom floor, and the money he had saved. Not enough, it was never enough. There was the future to think of, his and Fanny's. If they could hold on to the tavern, they would not starve. But that was a bleak old age, if the best you could look forward to was at least we will not starve.
Even that was not assured. A man can always starve. A chimney fire, a stray hot cinder from the hearth, and the Black Spar, the establishment that Fanny's father had left them, would be gone. Then it would be up to Jack to keep them fed, a burden he was less and less able to bear as the years went by. It was not just that his knees were bad and his back ached; it was the business itself. New medical schools were springing up everywhere, and students needed corpses. Demand was up, bringing new snatchers into the trade. And they were younger, quicker, and more daring.
They had strong backs.
A week ago, Jack had shown up at Dr. Sewall's with a sadly deteriorated specimen the best he could find that night. He'd seen six barrels in the courtyard, each stamped with the labeclass="underline" PICKLES.
— Those were just delivered, — Sewall had told him as he counted out the money. — In good condition, too. —
— This is only fifteen dollars, — Jack had complained, looking at the money Sewall handed him.
— Your specimen's already rotting, Mr. Burke. —
— I expect twenty. —
— I paid twenty apiece for the ones in the barrels, — Sewall said. — They're in much better shape, and I can get them six at a time. All the way up from New York. —
To hell with New York, thought Jack as he huddled, shivering, in the dray. Where do I find a source in Boston? Not enough people were dying. What they needed was a good plague, something to clean out the slums in Southie and Charlestown. No one would miss that rabble. For once, let the Irish be good for something. Let them make him rich. To get rich, Jack Burke would sell his soul.
Maybe he already had.
By the time he got back to the Black Spar, his limbs were stiff, and he could barely climb out of the wagon. He stabled the horse, stamped the frozen clods from his boots, and walked wearily into the tavern, wanting nothing more than a seat by the fire and a glass of brandy. But as soon as he sank into a chair, he felt Fanny eyeing him from behind the counter. He ignored her, ignored everyone, and stared into the flames, waiting for the feeling to return to his numb toes. The establishment was almost empty; the cold had kept away their few regulars, and tonight only the most wretched of wanderers had been swept in from the streets. One man stood at the bar, digging desperately in filthy pockets for filthy coins. Nothing could dull the sting of a night this cold like a few precious ounces of rum. At a corner, another man had laid down his head, and his snores were loud enough to rattle the empty glasses that littered his table.
— You're back early. —
Jack looked up at Fanny, who stood over him, her gaze narrow with questions.
— Not a good night — was all he said. He drained his glass.
— You think I've had a good night here? —
— Least you've spent it by the fire. —
— With this lot? — She snorted. — Not worth the trouble of unlocking the door. —
— Another flip! — the man at the bar yelled.
— Show me your coins first, — shot back Fanny.
— I have 'em. They're somewhere in these pockets. —
— Haven't come up with 'em yet. —
— Have a little pity, missus. It's a cold night. —
— And you'll be out in it straightaway if you can't pay for another drink. — She looked back at Jack. — You came back empty-handed, didn't you? —
He shrugged. — They had watchers. —
— You didn't try some other place? —
— Couldn't. Had to leave behind the shovel. And the lamp. —
— You couldn't even bring home your own tools? —
He slammed down his glass. — That's enough! —
She leaned in closer. Said, softly: — There are easier ways to make money, Jack. You know that. Let me put out the word, and you'll have all the work you need. —
— And get hanged for it? — He shook his head. — I'll stick to my own profession, thank you. —
— You come home empty-handed more often than not these days. —
— The picking's aren't good. —
— That's all I hear you say. —
— Because they aren't. They just get worse. —
— You think my trade is doing any better? — She jerked her head toward the nearly deserted room. — They've all moved on to the Mermaid. Or the Plough and Star, or to Coogan's. Another year like this and we won't be able to keep it. —
— Missus? — the man at the bar called. — I know I have the money. Just one more, and I promise I'll pay you next time. —
Fanny wheeled around at him in fury. — Your promise is worthless! You can't pay, you can't stay. Get out. — She stomped toward him and grabbed him by the jacket. — Go on, get out! — she roared.
— Surely you can spare one drink. —
— Not one bloody drop! — She hauled the man across the room, yanked open the door, and shoved him out into the cold. She slammed the door, then turned, panting and red-faced. When Fanny was angry, it was a terrifying sight to behold, and even Jack shrank into his chair, quailing at what might happen next. Her gaze landed on the lone customer still remaining, the man who had fallen asleep at the corner table.
— You, too! It's time to leave! —
The man did not stir.
Being ignored was the final affront, one that made Fanny's face flush purple and the muscles bulge in her stout arms. — We're closed! Go! — She crossed to the man and gave him a hard cuff on the shoulder. But instead of waking, he rolled sideways and toppled off his chair, onto the floor.