He followed her inside but hovered at the door, brushing the snow from the bundle of clothes.
The light inside the warehouse was poor, and of course, the electricity was down. Dani was prepared, though, and lit the wicks on two lanterns that sat on a worktable just right of the entrance.
Two embalming tables, complete with gutters and drains, took up an area to the right. Thank God they were empty.
Along the left wall, metal tables, a dozen of them, were arranged. Only two of them were empty. Ten bodies were laid out on the others.
Surgeon’s gowns hung from hooks, and Dani pulled one over her clothes, tying it at her waist and neck.
“Just set the clothes there.” She pointed to a table to the left of the door. It was already stacked with neatly folded items that appeared to be organized by size and gender. He did as he was instructed but went no farther into the drafty space.
“If you’re going to stay, Michael, you should change too. I don’t do anything terribly messy . . . but they are dead. The rubber gloves are there too.” She’d traded her stocking cap for a white scarf that she tied over her hair, giving her the look of a nun doing rounds at St. Alexis.
He walked to the hooks where the gowns were hung. He must have looked as hesitant as he felt, for she reassured him gently. “Everything is boiled and bleached after each session. Don’t worry.”
“Maybe I’ll wait outside,” he said. He wasn’t squeamish. He couldn’t afford to be in his line of work, but there was something intensely private and sad about preparing a body for burial, and he really didn’t want to watch.
“It’s freezing out there.”
“It’s freezing in here too. And there aren’t any dead bodies out there.”
“I don’t know about that. This is Kingsbury Run, after all.” Her voice was quiet.
He grunted, noncommittal. He wondered again what she knew and considered telling her about every single thing in his head just so he wasn’t plagued by that question. Did she know why he was in Cleveland? Did she know how he spent his time? Did she know that he’d been casing the bars, learning the streets, and watching the people? Did she know he’d pored over Eliot’s files for weeks and gotten nowhere? He could ask her. But he didn’t. He turned back to the door. He should go.
“Will you have anything to carry back?” he asked.
“Yes. I will take the soiled things home to wash. But I can leave them here for the time being. At least until I can return with my wagon.”
He hesitated again. He didn’t feel right about leaving her.
“You can go, Michael. Really. I don’t expect you to help me with this. It’s not pleasant work. Though it’s a lot better during the winter than the summer.”
“You’ll still have death all over you.”
“I scrub down when I’m finished, and my clothes are covered. You don’t have to help me. I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Years?”
“Years.”
He flinched. Dead bodies decomposed quickly in the heat. The cold was indeed good for something. He didn’t know if this place would be tolerable in July. He stamped his feet to warm them, but he didn’t leave.
Dani shrugged at his hesitance and filled up a wash bucket at the sink. She carried it to the tables holding the dead and came back for a clipboard, a ledger, and one of the lanterns, and began her work. She moved between the tables laden with the dead, taking quick assessment of what she needed, talking to herself and maybe to him, though he wasn’t sure.
“New shirt and trousers. And he has no boots.” She wrote it down and sighed like that was a problem, but moved on, calling out what articles of clothing each body needed or whether she could make do with what they already wore. When she pulled off her gloves and began peeling off a dead man’s coat, Malone barked at her.
“Good God, Dani. Put your gloves back on.”
“I did not ask you to come, Mr. Malone,” she said quietly, and rolled the corpse onto its side, freeing the garment. She had clearly done it all before, but her work would be a good deal easier if he helped instead of watching.
He removed his coat, yanked a gown from the hook, tied it around himself with impatient hands, and then exchanged his mittens for a pair of the coldest rubber gloves he’d ever had the misfortune to don.
“So I’m Mr. Malone again?” he muttered as he moved to her side.
“I find it hard to be casual in these circumstances,” she said, but her voice sounded odd. When he cocked his head to see her face, he saw that her cheeks were wet with tears. Had he done that?