Chapter 21 Vigilance is Key
Vigilance is Key
Mikko
The ever persistent rain plaguing the Pacific Northwest had stopped, leaving the night sky clear and devoid of any clouds. Only half of the moon was illuminated, leaving the other side to be swathed in shadow, hiding its pockmarked surface from the rest of the world for a couple more nights.
Mikko relished in the wind blowing across his body.
With the rain gone, he’d opted to ride his motorcycle again.
He longed for another moment of quietude before meeting up with Cristiano.
It was risky since the weather was unpredictable this time of year, but he’d chance it anyway.
Only God knew what was about to be unveiled to them both.
Although he had a sneaky suspicion it had to do with his missing car keys and spliced security footage.
The cool night air allowed him to finally get Anika’s scent out of his nose and off his skin. Despite multiple feet separating them at the restaurant, it didn’t stop his keen nose from detecting it. He’d been in her house for fuck’s sake; he knew everything about her.
City traffic dwindled as the clock ticked closer to midnight, his bike’s engine roaring along the empty highways.
Mist still faintly coated the asphalt. It stuck to his leather jacket and thick sweatshirt underneath and pebbled on his visor.
His quick pace prevented the droplets from lingering, the wind whisking them up and off his helmet.
Slowing slightly when his exit approached, he glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was following him. While he was certain he could handle whatever Anika was planning behind the scenes, he wouldn’t be caught unaware. Nothing but the mundane street lights glowed back at him.
After exiting the interstate, Mikko rode a couple of blocks into an area of the city consisting mainly of one story businesses, historic homes, and tree-lined roads.
The streets blurred as he rode by, each facade morphing into the next.
All brick or stone, all eerily quiet because of the late night hour.
Some of the buildings thinned out as empty swaths of asphalt parking lots popped up all while he pushed on. Among the uncanny silence, Mikko’s motorcycle roared. His conspicuous presence was a small price to pay to feel the night air threading through his clothes.
At Cristiano’s directions, Mikko pulled into the next lot he came across, and was relieved to spot his friend’s gray Mercedes glinting underneath the street lights. They were far and few between, but his friend had managed to find one to park under. Mikko did the same.
As his foot swept the motorcycle’s kickstand down into place, a wave of annoyance rippled through him. Things had spiraled out of control so quickly, and he felt like he was still playing catch up. Hopefully this visit cleared up some of his incessant questions.
“I told you that you weren’t good enough.” Mikko shook off his father’s voice, the faded memory resurfacing at the worst time. The thought enraged him, and suddenly he was eleven again. Powerless. Helpless.
Ripping his helmet off angrily—gloves fighting for purchase on the rain-slicked material—Mikko proceeded toward the darkened doorway of the mortuary. Cristiano was inside, and he didn’t want to keep him waiting.
Dew clung to him, a dampness settling into his bones, and already he was dreaming of a shower. He’d turn it as hot as it’d go, the scalding water sure to erase the chill. And the illusion of Anika’s touches that he could still fucking feel all these weeks later.
Pocketing his keys, he freed up his hands to hold his helmet.
Mikko observed the weathered brick lining the one-story building.
Its texture was evident in the low light as he walked in.
A worn awning flapped in the small gusts of wind, only a few pieces of the business’s name remained on the canvas.
Miller’s Mortuary.
As he neared the threshold of shadows before him, he realized why it was so dark.
One of the exterior wall sconces had burnt out completely while the other had been shattered.
There were jagged pieces still protruding from the light socket.
His eyebrow raised. Exterior maintenance wasn’t a priority here and something about that triggered him.
“Let’s hope they maintain the interior better than out here,” he grumbled to himself. His irritation grew since the thought of looking at a dead body didn’t stir his insides with joy.
Armored gloves still covered his hands—another weapon added to his arsenal—as he reached for the door handle. It opened on silent hinges, cool air rushing out to greet him.
Stepping across the threshold, Mikko’s displeasure intensified as the door snicked shut behind him. A chill settled onto his damp clothes and skin making a shiver race up his spine.
A dimly lit lobby greeted him with a sickly pale green glow reflecting off the linoleum floors.
With a squeak of his boot, he looked over his shoulder, his head on a swivel to avoid any surprises.
While his relation to organized crime meant he dealt with unsavory tasks and people, something about being surrounded by dead, preserved bodies put him more on edge.
The door he’d stepped through had a film on it, now bubbling and peeling away, to prevent the outside from looking in.
“God, this place is depressing.” He even hated the way his mumbled words echoed in the space.
Facing forward, he noticed two halls branching off from the lobby, mirroring one another.
Where’s Cristiano?
As if summoned by his thoughts, footsteps echoed from the left corridor, and seconds later his friend appeared.
“Ah, you’re here finally,” he said, coming up to Mikko and briskly clapping him on his back. It was more reserved than their usual greeting which wordlessly told Mikko something was amiss. Not far behind was an older man.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Mikko replied sarcastically. Cristiano grinned, mood lifting slightly. He turned to the man behind him, ready to introduce everyone. The aged gentleman, presumably the mortician, beat him to it.
“Joseph,” the man said, his hair ghostly white in the fluorescent light. His crisp lab coat also reflected it, and Mikko fought the urge to squint.
Mikko nodded in response, holding a hand out, all business. “Mikko.”
“I assumed that already—we don’t have all night,” Joseph said curtly, ignoring his outstretched hand. “Follow me.”
Before either of them could say a word, Joseph was already disappearing around the nearest corner. Cristiano and Mikko shared a look. He supposed working with the dead made one’s social skills a little rusty.
Without another word, they followed Joseph. To keep up, the men had to lengthen their strides, their boots squeaking on the floor. It was a small indication the inside was indeed more maintained than the exterior. Mikko sighed in relief.
In comparison, Joseph’s shoes made no noise at all, and it unsettled him. There was no need to be quiet among the dead; they didn’t care what anyone did anymore.
The sound of a keycard swiping pulled Mikko’s attention back. He watched as Joseph opened the door, the hallway continuing beyond with more white, sterile doors lining each side. For a modest building, the corridor continued on for forever.
Maybe that’s why Joseph walks so fast.
“Almost there,” the mortician said, sensing the other men’s thoughts. They passed four more doors, before stopping at the fifth one on the left. A small window was placed in the door, allowing Mikko a sliver of what lay beyond: sterile surfaces and a sheet covering a body.
Ivan.
Another swipe of Joseph’s access card and the door opened before the men.
The overpowering scent of cleaners and other embalming liquids Mikko had no name for overwhelmed his nose.
His eyes watered as the odor burned his nostrils.
Although, maybe this scent was better than the alternative—rotting flesh.
Cristiano coughed, the fragrance abrasive on his airways too. “How do you work with this smell?”
Mikko glanced over, catching his friend tucking his nose into the collar of his sweatshirt, desperately trying to avoid the smell. Cristiano’s displeasure was evident in the furrowing of his brows. Mikko wanted to chuckle.
“Eh, when you’ve been doin’ this for as long as I have, well, your sense of smell starts to go,” Joseph replied. “And when the masks we’re supposed to wear are too restricting, you have to improvise.”
Cristiano scoffed, the noise muffled beneath his shirt, “Gives a whole new meaning to ‘nose blind.’”
“A perk in this line of work, no doubt,” Mikko added.
“Indeed.” Joseph’s lips tipped up at their commentary, pleased he could endure what they could not.
All at once, the men’s focus shifted to the white sheet in front of them.
Ivan laid beneath it, the edges of the cloth draping over the gurney.
Colorless tile below the gurney’s wheels caught Mikko’s attention since they were well-worn, both by time and scrubbing, but that was not why he stared.
Instead, it was the black grout filling in the spaces between the tiles, no doubt stained from the constant exposure to human viscera.
Dead eyes staring back at him across a pool of blood—
“Well, without further ado, let’s get right into it,” Joseph said, snapping Mikko’s thoughts back to the present as his hands clasped together at his beltline.
“I don’t want to waste your time by over-explaining, and quite frankly, I like to let the bodies do the talking”—he nodded to Ivan—“since they’re easier to understand. ”
While he wasn’t wrong, Joseph’s words made Mikko’s skin prickle with apprehension.