The Unknown Beloved(30)

He set his shovel against the side of the house and trotted to catch up with her.

“Let me carry that,” he insisted, feeling like an apology was in order.

“No . . . thank you. I can manage,” she huffed.

He took it from her arms with an impatient yank and settled it on his own shoulder, wondering in amazement how she’d managed it. It wasn’t light.

“What is this?”

“Clothing. A lot of clothing. I never know what I will need.”

“I see.” He didn’t, but that didn’t matter. He could help. “Lead on,” he directed. She didn’t move.

“I usually pull a wagon,” she said. “But with the snow, it would only get stuck, and I don’t have too far to go. Just up two blocks and over another.”

“Let’s go then.” He began walking in the direction she’d been headed. It was her turn to trot after him, but she seemed slightly panicked.

“Really, sir. I can manage,” she said, hurrying alongside him, kicking up snow with every step. God, what a miserable place. And had she just called him “sir”?

“I thought you were going to try to call me Michael,” he said.

“I was. But . . . it doesn’t roll off my tongue.”

“No. It doesn’t roll off anyone’s tongue.” No one but Molly called him Michael.

“Perhaps that’s because you’ve had so many names?”

“Good God, woman. How do you know these things?” he snapped, coming to a halt. The bag wobbled with his abrupt stop, and he almost dropped it.

Dani didn’t answer for a moment, her eyes on her feet. She dusted off the snow that was clinging to her skirt. Then she looked up at him in apology, and she told him.

“Your hat. You must have thought about what name you would use when you walked into the shop that first day. When I took your things, all the names were there, clinging to the brim like little plastic monkeys.”

Little plastic monkeys. He could picture them, the little monkeys, wearing his aliases.

“Like what? What names?” he asked, refusing to believe.

“Are you testing me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let me see if I can remember. Patrick O’Rourke. Mike Lepito. Mikey . . . or was it Micky? Micky Monahan? Michael Malone was the biggest monkey.”

He would have laughed at that had he not been so flabbergasted.

“I mean the biggest name,” she amended in a rush. “Most likely . . . you had spent a lot of time in that hat . . . thinking about who you are,” she explained.

He trudged along beside her, hardly knowing where he stepped, feeling a bit like a plastic monkey himself.

“Where are we going?” he asked five minutes later as she slowed in front of a nondescript building. He followed her to the rear, stepping in the tracks she made in the unblemished snow.

“I told you last night . . . I ready the indigent dead for burial.”

“Here?” he gasped, dropping the laundry bag with a grunt.

“Yes. Here.” She began unlocking the door next to a single loading dock. From the outside, it appeared to be just another storage facility. It was unmarked, unassuming, and as dreary as every other structure on the short street.

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.