The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(31)

Still half-asleep, she swung her legs out of bed, stuck her feet in her shoes, and wrapped a sweater around her shoulders.

She glanced at the clock: three thirty. She’d slept some, but not much. Out by the stairway, she fumbled for the light switch, then started down. Somewhere she heard an engine, or perhaps a transformer. The ceiling light hummed.

Halfway down, she stopped. She heard the noise again, and now she was sure a door had been slammed. Her footsteps were muffled by the thick dark blue carpet as she made her way through the office and past the kitchen. She took a deep breath and opened the door to the passageway.

The silence and darkness outside pressed in on her. The door leading to the carport was closed; she hadn’t forgotten that one. Ilka walked over to the door to the cold room. Locked. She opened it slowly and turned on the light. The man and his dog still lay on the stretcher. She shivered. The two coffins were in the same place as the last time she’d been there. Maybe she’d heard the ventilation system? It rattled slightly, the only noise in the room.

She shook her head at herself; then she walked over to the garage and punched in the code. It was dark in there, too. When she finally found the light switch, the fluorescents sputtered a few moments before showering the entire garage in white.

Nothing. Refrigerator shut and garage door down. Everything exactly the way it had been when she had parked the hearse.

Don’t be so stupid! she told herself. She was letting her imagination run wild over the slightest noise—ridiculous! As if she believed that the dead could rise and walk around. And she’d never heard of anyone breaking into a funeral home. What was there to steal? Formaldehyde and coffins. Get hold of yourself!

She switched the lights off and shut the door, checked the garage doorknob an extra time to make sure it was locked, then walked back upstairs. Relax, she told herself. In two or three days, she’d be on her way back to Copenhagen.

She had no idea whether ten minutes or an hour had gone by when she was awakened again. The noise was back, and this time she was certain. She lay a few minutes before resolutely throwing off the comforter, pulling on a pair of pants, and slipping her shoes on. She was determined to shove out this final shred of the fear of darkness inside her. At no time had she been bothered by sleeping over a morgue. The dead would be the last to come up here and haunt her. But rattling noises in dark, strange places had never been her cup of tea. Usually she could control her fear, but she was too exhausted to stop her imagination from running away with her. She tried to calm herself while sneaking downstairs. What she really needed was a decent meal, a good screwing, and a good night’s sleep. Then she’d feel strong enough to handle these ghosts. She realized she’d stood up her Tinder date. She’d completely forgotten about him.

Down on the first floor, Ilka switched the passageway light on. She was determined to check every door. If she didn’t get at least a few more hours’ sleep, she would be too spaced-out to think clearly when signing the transfer agreement over at the Oldhams.

Door to the carport—locked. Preparation room—locked. Cold room—locked. Garage—locked. She punched in the code, turned on the light, and was on her way to the big garage door when she spotted him. In shock now, she saw the open middle drawer of the refrigerator, the empty steel tray pulled out. Mike Gilbert lay on the floor, twisted and battered. Dark splotches of blood on his face stood out as grotesque shadows. He lay on his back, his arms spread like someone being arrested and patted down, his legs splayed out crookedly.

Ilka’s heart hammered as she stood frozen in the middle of the garage, staring at the dead man. Silence; that’s all there was now, a deep silence. Except for the low hum from the ventilation fan. She had no idea what to do, and Artie wouldn’t be coming in for several hours. Instinctively she backed up until she hit the wall. Her legs prickled; her arms felt weak. What in hell was going on?

A thought struck her: There might be someone there. Without budging an inch, she surveyed the entire garage; then she knelt down to look under the two trolleys. No one there. She was alone, she was sure. Almost sure, anyway. She struggled to think clearly; mostly she wanted to run up to her room and lock the door and wait for Artie. Her phone was in the room. Why hadn’t she brought it along? Idiot, she muttered to herself. Then she realized she couldn’t just leave the deceased lying there on the floor. It was undignified; it looked all wrong.

Slowly she approached him, but then she turned to get the stretcher over by the wall. She maneuvered it around the coffins, pushing it in front of her like a shield. Sweat ran down her back as she wrestled to put up the wheels. The noise she made was unnaturally loud. Should she call Artie? The police? Get Sister Eileen?

Her fingers had forgotten how to work together; she couldn’t find the mechanism to release the wheels so she could lower the stretcher to the floor. Finally, though, she succeeded. Simply doing something helped her fight off panic. Without thinking, she leaned over to take hold of Mike Gilbert’s torso.

She slipped her arms under his shoulders to get the best possible hold on him, but suddenly she pulled them back, an instinctive reaction. What was she doing? Could this be considered a crime scene? And it felt as if she’d grabbed a pile of wet sand. Scared now, she looked down at the man, but then she took hold again, squatted down, and slipped her arms underneath his body. She tried to lift him, but it was hopeless. Only now, sitting with her arms around the dead body, did she realize she might have been mistaken the first time she was down here.