them got in and then it was a case of the Jeopardy! theme as they descended. At the end of their little trip down into the earth, he and Butch stepped out into a sparkling-clean corridor. Looking left and right, Boone saw all kinds of signage, but none of it indicated where they needed to head.
“We’re going this way,” Butch said grimly. “It’s a haul.”
Boone fell into step with the Brother, and they were silent as they went along, taking corners and cruising down straightaways. There was no reason to ask how Butch knew where the morgue was, and the fact that that particular part of the facility was out of the way seemed appropriate given that Havers and his staff were all about preserving life. It also made sense that there was no signage for it. Unlike the various directives and arrows that were posted about Radiology, Outpatient Surgery, Emergency Services and the ilk, there was not a thing about where the dead were taken and stored.
You had to imagine that discretion was on purpose. No reason to remind patients and families that sometimes people didn’t leave through the front door, so to speak.
And on that note . . . his father’s remains had been taken here.
Had been cremated here. At Boone’s request as next of kin.
After about five more minutes of heel-toeing it, Butch took them around a final left-hand turn, and that was when the faint, fake-sweet aroma of formaldehyde bloomed in the air. Sure enough, up ahead, a set of unmarked double doors appeared, and Boone knew they’d found their destination.
As they came up to the morgue’s entrance, Butch jumped ahead and held open the way in. Boone, on the other hand, stopped short. And couldn’t go any farther.
“What’s up, son?” the Brother asked quietly. “You okay?”
It was hard to say the words out loud. Much less to a male he respected. “Is it . . . is it wrong that I didn’t ask to see his body?”
There was no reason to specify the “he” he was talking about.
“No, Boone. It’s not wrong. Some things are better if they aren’t seen.”
“I had him cremated here.” He focused on the Brother. “I just didn’t want him to come back again, you know? I didn’t want . . . that. Even though I’m only being paranoid, right? I mean, no one’s reanimated for a second time after . . .”
After they were popped in the frontal lobe at point-blank range by a bullet filled with water from the Scribe Virgin’s sacred fountain.
Somehow, he was not capable of putting all of that into words. The good news was that the Brother didn’t seem to need it spelled out for him.
“You did the right thing,” Butch said quietly. “Whatever makes it easier on you is the right thing.”
“None of this, as it turns out, is easy. Not while my sire was alive, and not now that he’s dead. My fantasy did not pan out the way I thought when I was being young and vindictive.”
“Grieving a complicated relationship can be even harder than one that worked for you. Do you want to wait out here while I—”
“No, I’m coming in with you.” Boone took a deep breath and braced himself. “I’m going to be a professional about this.”
Striding through the open door, he looked around at a carpeted room that was office-like rather than holy-fuck-dead-body clinical: There were desks with laptops, and floor-to-ceiling shelves of vertical, coded files, as well as a conference table that had some photographs laid out on its smooth surface. He didn’t want to look too closely at them.
On the far wall, there was another set of double doors—and the fact that they had no windows in them? That had to be where the corpses were kept.
“Does he do the autopsies himself?” he asked. “Havers, I mean?”
“Yes, I do.”
Boone turned around. The race’s longstanding healer was entering from the corridor outside, his tortoiseshell glasses, bow tie, and white coat like something out of an Ivy League medical school. Maybe from the turn of the previous century.
“Rexboone.” The male came forward and offered his palm. “My sincerest condolences with regard to your sire’s passing. I knew Altamere very well and always found him to be most enjoyable company. He will be sorely missed.”
Boone shook what was extended to him and made what he hoped were appropriate murmurings of thanks. The fact that Havers had a high opinion of Boone’s father made sense. The race’s healer was a