The Bone Artists Read Free Page A

little blazers.
    The entrance to St. Roch’s stood guarded by two white statues, pious women with their hair braided around their heads like crowns. But Oliver and Micah weren’t going in the conventional way, not when the gates would be shut for the night. They stopped well shy of the main entrance, stooping in the looming bulk of a crenellated brick building. Micah knelt and made a cradle out of his hands, helping Oliver step before hoisting him up, holding there until Oliver could scramble safely over the top of the fence. He landed with a thud, remembering to bend his knees to make for a softer descent. Micah climbed the iron bars with no trouble at all, practically a monkey from his years of athletic training.
    Once inside, surrounded by waist-high monuments and graves, the boys fell silent. Oliver didn’t believe in any of the old-school, mystical, Voudon junk Micah did, but graveyards spooked him all the same. The thought that there were bones everywhere beneath their feet, eyeless skulls watching themjust below the surface of the earth, spindly fingers crossed over their chests or at their sides, or reaching . . .
    Micah smacked him on the chest, nodding toward the path to the left, and farther down that way, the chapel. Not a single tree broke up the line of sight between the gates and the chapel itself, giving the cemetery a stark, desolate feel. No oaks hung with moss and resurrection fern, just open air and the profile of the chapel rising against the moon and stars. Someone down the block had cooked barbecue that night, a smoky, tangy scent lingering over the graves. Oliver’s stomach turned at the combination of cooked flesh and what he knew lurked below his sneakers.
    His friend led the way, dodging nimbly around stone markers and mausoleums. By day, St. Roch’s wasn’t much cheerier, not in Oliver’s opinion. It was an institution, and a kind of macabre mecca for Southern loreseekers. He had never been inside the place before, but Micah had. They swept clear of the front doors of the narrow, tall, white building, keeping to the right side. As they’d previously discussed, both of them stayed low, Oliver turning to keep an eye out for security guards or curious pedestrians on the sidewalk. The spring heat worked in their favor, coaxing most folks, even those keen for an evening stroll, to stay inside by a fan or AC unit.
    Micah, meanwhile, did what he did best.
    A latch clicked over his shoulder, and Oliver braced. It just seemed wrong, sneaking into a chapel, into a place of worship, poking around where people had prayed and where the two boys didn’t belong.

 

O r maybe just he didn’t belong.
    Micah held the crooked old window open long enough for Oliver to squeeze through and then slid in behind him, chuckling softly as he did so. Breaking in, sneaking around . . . It came to Micah as naturally as breathing. He had gotten busted for stealing little stuff when they were younger, a candy bar here, a CD there, but Micah always found a way to talk himself out of it and walk away with a slap on the wrist.
    But that was Micah through and through, changeable with the wind. The good little church-going, God-fearing kid one week and the big bad influence the next. Oliver never knew which one would show up on any given day.
    And without him you wouldn’t be even close to affording tuition. Suck it up.
    Two thousand bucks to dig around for a few pocket watches and necklaces was too good to pass up.
    “Did you bring the list?” Oliver whispered. The chapel had to be empty at that time of night, but he kept his voice low all the same. Micah walked quickly to what looked like a low shelving unit and a bunch of lumps on the wall opposite from where they had broken in. His boots crunched over cockroach shells.
    “It’s in here,” his friend replied, tapping his left temple. He pulled a box of matches from his pocket and struck a light, thenleaned forward and touched the flame to a half dozen candles of