Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond
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assumed the nursing-home call would be picking up some old geezer who’d died in his sleep with a smile on his face, but what if it were some kind of freak accident? Or what if they had died of some kind of flesh-eating disease? He wrinkled his nose. Or what if it were some old lady—naked? He wasn’t sure if he was ready to see that.
Coop disconnected the call, and Wesley shifted in his seat, suddenly not feeling so well. “Is this going to be gross?”
“You ever seen a dead body before?”
“No.”
“Lucky you.” Coop made a rueful noise. “Death is never pretty, but some retrievals are more messy than others. Our job is to be calm and professional, no matter what. The relatives might be close by and it’s not good if they see us react badly, no matter what the situation is.”
Wesley swallowed hard. “What’s the grossest case you ever had?”
“Garbage-truck compacter,” Coop said without hesitation. Then he looked over. “That, my friend, is a bad way to go.”
Wesley winced. “What happened to the guy who used to help you?”
“Couldn’t hack it. I told you when you answered the ad, Wesley, this job isn’t for everyone, but it’s necessary and honorable work.”
Wesley nodded solemnly, hoping he didn’t let the man down.
“So,” Coop said, turning the radio knobs, “your sister.”
Wesley looked at him suspiciously. “Yeah, what about her?”
“She’s cute.”
“You like her or something?”
Coop shrugged. “Just making conversation.”
“You should ask her out.”
Coop was quiet for so long Wesley thought he might have misread him. “Think she’d go?” he finally asked.
Wesley laughed. “No. She doesn’t date much and I don’t think you’re her type.”
“Let me guess—she’s into guys who wear moisturizer.”
Wesley thought a minute. “I guess so. The guy she was crying over all night is some preppie dude she dated, like, ten years ago. He dumped her.”
Coop frowned. “And she’s still crying over him?”
“No—I mean, she hasn’t seen him in years, but she ran into him last night and I guess it upset her.” He chewed on his lip, trying to decide how much of his life to divulge to his new boss. He didn’t want to come across as some kind of drama case. “My sister’s life hasn’t been easy.”
“How so?”
“She raised me since I was nine, and I’ve been kind of a shithead.”
Coop smiled. “What happened to your parents?”
Wesley looked out the window. “Long story, man.”
“Some other time then,” Coop said easily. “We’re here.”
Wesley’s pulse kicked up as the nursing home came into view. It looked more like a shabby brick apartment building than a medical facility. Coop backed the hearse into a parking place near the door reserved for ambulances, climbed out and straightened his jacket as he walked toward the entrance. “Stay close and do what I tell you.”
Wesley nodded. “Aren’t we going to take in the gurney?”
“I like to go in first and assess the situation, greet the family if there’s anyone around, maybe give them time to say goodbye while I make a trip back to get the gurney.”
Wesley digested the info, nodding. His stomach was pitching now.
When they walked into the facility, the first thing that Wesley noticed was the smell—old building, old paint, old people. Mothballs, mold and Metamucil. They stopped at the front desk where a woman in a nurse’s uniform stood at attention and smiled wide.
“Good mornin’, Dr. Craft.” She arched her back so that her boobs stuck out.
“Good morning, Sarah. Meet Wesley, my new sidekick.”
Wesley exchanged greetings with the woman, but she quickly turned back to Coop, her eyes alight with interest that seemed to extend beyond gladness that they were there to take a body off her hands. “That jacket looks nice on you, Dr. Craft,” she gushed.
Coop smiled. “Thanks, Sarah. I figured we’d have an audience.”
“That you do.” She handed him a folder. “Gentry Dunbar, third floor, room eighteen. The spectators are lined up in the hallway.”
“Any family?”
“A sister, Ilse Dunbar—she has a room here, too.”
“Thanks.”
Wesley followed Coop down a long hall of gleaming green linoleum tile and white walls, past a dining room full of old people, some in their pajamas, some dressed up for breakfast as if they were going to church. The scent of scorched coffee and prunes nauseated him further. They passed a few residents in the hall, shuffling toward their destinations, bent from bone disease and sheer weariness, he assumed. God, he hoped he never grew old.
He frowned. Of course, that meant dying young…
Coop walked past the elevator, pushed open the door leading to the stairwell and began the climb to the third floor.
“That nurse digs you,” Wesley said.
“You think?” Coop asked, looking amused.
“She called you doctor.”
“Yeah,” Coop said. “Sarah’s a good girl. It takes special people to work with old folks and kids. But I don’t mix business and pleasure, if you know what I mean.”
All Wesley knew was that if he had a busty girl throwing herself at him, he’d go for it, screw business.
When they reached the third floor, Coop opened the door onto a hall where the green linoleum floor was dull and gray, the scarred walls a grubby off-white. Dozens of old people lined the hallway, some sitting in chairs that they had pulled out of their rooms, some leaning against the walls, some sitting in wheelchairs.
“Here’s the body man,” a woman announced loudly, probably in deference to those who were hard of hearing or had dozed off. Everyone perked up, calling greetings to Coop and making sorrowful noises about “poor Mr. Dunbar.”
“He’s in there,” several people said, pointing to the only door on the floor that was closed.
“Thank you kindly,” Coop said, stopping to pat arms and shake hands.
“Ilse is in there with him,” a woman said sadly. “Poor thing has been sittin’ by his bed, holding his cold, dead hand all mornin’.”
Wesley suppressed a shudder as he waded through the spectators and followed Coop to the door. Coop knocked, then waited a few seconds before going in.
Wesley steeled himself for the sight of a cold corpse, then blinked at the empty bed. His gaze went to the man reclined in a ratty yellow La-Z-Boy chair, fully dressed in suit, tie and hat, as if he were going on a trip, his hands crossed over his lap, his eyes permanently closed. If the man in the recliner was ninety, the woman sitting next to him, her veined hand over his, had to be one hundred.
She looked up and smiled sadly at Coop. “How are you, Doc?”
“Fine, Miss Dunbar,” Coop said, walking closer. “I see that Gentry here is in a better place.”
She nodded, her eyes tearing up. “He told me he was going to die soon, but I didn’t believe him. This is his burying suit, so he must have known before he went to sleep last night that he wouldn’t make it ’til morning.”
Wesley