The Bone Artists Read Online Free Page B

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 thefloor.” 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.
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œWhere you headed?” Nick Berkley asked, jotting down a price offer for the customer on his little lined notepad.
    â€œJust around the block. Didn’t sleep much, need a coffee.”
    â€œWe’ve got a pot in the back—”
    â€œ 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 bellstacked 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