The Orderly

He’d definitely overestimated his stamina. After colliding with that guy’s skull, a massive bruise had blossomed across Mason’s knee, the skin around it puffy and sore. Limping and muttering curses through clenched teeth, he hobbled into the Juneau Police Department headquarters. “Headquarters” was a generous word for it. The two-story building had clearly lost its war with time. The darkened walls cried out for fresh plaster, and the shutters were so rotted through that cold air roamed freely down the hallways. Puddles of muddy water dotted the scuffed floorboards, evidence of a hundred weary boots. Mason didn’t bother counting how many people sat slumped along the walls, heads bowed, waiting for their turn for questioning. He just knew there were a lot of them. Fall was always the worst: a season of psychotic breaks, deepening depression, and random bursts of violence. And things weren’t helped by where they lived. Juneau sits in Alaska’s southeast, caught between Gastineau Channel and the forested slopes of Mount Juneau in the Coast Range. Technically the largest capital city in the U.S. by land area—and also the least populated. Ninety-nine percent of the “city” was just mountains and wilderness, thick with trees and utterly untouched. Thanks to the Pacific Ocean, the climate was milder than you’d expect at this latitude—but the humidity was brutal. Fog blanketed the city like a second skin. It almost never lifted. And really, under those conditions—who wouldn’t go mad? Hood up, Mason kept his head down and moved quickly past the crowd, ignoring the curious stares and the low murmurs that followed in his wake. Two men in crisp gray suits were waiting for him in the interrogation room. The one closest to the door looked like he’d wandered off the set of a Disney movie: blond hair slicked back, a clean-shaven jaw that practically flexed on its own, a straight nose with the faintest bump, and a pair of symmetrical blue eyes framed by lashes just long enough to be suspicious. He smelled like freshness—with a hint of smug perfection. The second man was his exact opposite. Dark hair curled at the ends and stuck out in several directions. A week’s worth of stubble shadowed his face, threatening to become a full beard at any moment. His eyes were gray—so pale they bordered on glassy—and he radiated hostility. The scent of tobacco clung to him, laced with something bitter and faintly chocolatey. They sat Mason on the only chair in the room. The cops remained standing, one on each side of the table. The only light source was a bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling by a tired wire and pure willpower. It swayed gently, casting a roaming pool of light that took turns illuminating their faces from the dark. Mason laced his fingers and waited, eyes steady on the two men. They were probably expecting him to ask why he’d been called in, or what exactly they wanted. But Mason didn’t believe in starting conversations. “Mr. Clark,” the dark-haired one finally said. “Tell us what happened yesterday.” Mason made a half-hearted attempt to remember the man’s name, but gave up quickly. He hadn’t been listening when they introduced themselves. “I woke up,” he began, eyes fixed on the nails of his right hand. “Took a shower, had breakfast…” He paused, pretending to think. “Scrambled eggs and bacon. Yeah, that was it. Eggs, bacon, and a cup of coffee. Black. No sugar.” “Are you kidding me?” the blond snapped, slapping the table. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what we’re asking.” “Then try being a little less vague,” Mason replied without looking up. “There was an autopsy yesterday,” the dark-haired one cut in, dropping all formalities. “Nicole Douglas. You were present for part of it. Then, out of nowhere, you bolted. Forty minutes later, a call to emergency services was placed from your phone.” Mason adjusted his glasses, which had slid to the tip of his nose, and didn’t bother to respond. His brain was cycling through potential explanations, but none of them sounded even remotely convincing. The two officers exchanged a quick glance. Still met with silence, the blond tried again. “How did you find them?” Mason shrugged, calm on the outside, but truthfully, he hadn’t even heard the question. His brain had stalled, backed into a corner. Right now, he was fully prepared to claim he’d been abducted by aliens and dropped on the trailer doorstep by accident. “What happened there?” the dark-haired one pressed, stepping in so close Mason could feel his breath. “They found that guy unconscious with his skull cracked.” Mason finally looked up. “He was already like that when I got there.” The blond chuckled quietly, giving Mason a slow, appraising look. “So if we lift prints from the guitar neck, they won’t match yours?” Mason shrugged again. “How’d you even manage it?” the dark one asked. “You and that guy weren’t exactly in the same weight class.” Mason gave a dry snort but said nothing. What helped in fights was his complete lack of self-preservation—and the fact that people didn’t expect much from a five-foot-five guy in glasses. “How did you know they were in there?” the blond asked, drumming his fingers on the table. “Another few minutes and those kids would’ve suffocated. You showed up just in time. Who tipped you off?” “Why aren’t you recording this?” Mason asked suddenly. “If you don’t care what I have to say, why bother asking?” The two officers inhaled sharply in unison. Overhead, the bulb flickered. “Are you going to drop the crazy act, or what?” The question hung in the air. Mason chose to interpret it as rhetorical and once again offered no reply. The blond cop scratched his cheek, frowning. “Mr. Clark,” he said, voice softening almost to a plea, “if you have any information about the murder, we’d really like to hear it.” Mason briefly entertained the fantasy that these two might just get tired, thank him for saving those kids, and forget he existed. Unfortunately, he knew the odds of that happening were precisely zero. Cops in small towns had one goal: build their résumés, close as many cases as possible, and transfer somewhere better. These two were young and hungry. No way they were letting this go. Mason grimaced. He’d have to spin something. God only knew what kind of interrogation methods these guys had stashed in their ambitious little minds. Getting clubbed in the ribs wasn’t on his Friday to-do list. “Yesterday morning I left work and headed home,” Mason began, sounding just tired enough to be believable. “GPS crapped out, and I ended up way out past town, by a trailer park. It was raining, I blew a tire—really wasn’t my day.” He spread his hands with a helpless shrug. “Tow truck would’ve taken forever, and, well, I had an iron left on, you know? I went looking for help from the folks in the trailers. Walked the lot and found myself near the last one. Door wasn’t locked. Some guy was passed out right outside. I checked his pulse—he was breathing. Then I heard a kid crying, and that’s when I called it in.” Pleased with his little tale, Mason leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed. The cops looked even less amused than when the interrogation started. “You really think anyone’s going to buy that crap?” the dark-haired one snapped, straightening up and pacing the room. Your apartment’s in the opposite direction from the glacier. How exactly did you get lost?” Trust me, sweetheart, Mason thought bitterly, you’d like the truth even less. The blond’s phone rang. Murmuring a quick excuse, he stepped outside to take the call. The brunette stopped behind Mason and laid his hands on his shoulders. Mason flinched but didn’t turn around. Hot breath tickled his ear. “Lying won’t help you,” the officer whispered. “Just tell us what your connection to the victim is.” “The direct kind,” Mason muttered, shivering slightly. “I spent the morning washing her body. You know—autopsy prep, the usual.” The grip on his shoulders tightened. “I’ll ask one last time. How did you know the children were in danger?” “I told you already!” Mason burst out, throwing his hands up for emphasis. “I didn’t know anything! I just happened to be in the right place…” His answer was cut off by the return of the blond officer, whose face now radiated excitement. “Let’s go, Mark,” he said, waving to his partner. “Forget this nutcase. The guy from the trailer regained consciousness—he confessed to the murder. We need to be at the arrest.” Mason sprang to his feet in delight—and immediately regretted it, as his bruised knee flared in protest. He hunched forward, grimacing, then fussed at imaginary wrinkles on his jeans before limping quickly toward the door. “Mr. Clark,” the dark-haired one called out just as he reached the exit. “Are you willing to testify in court?” “You’ve got a confession and two kids in a trunk,” Mason replied without turning around. “Why would you need some random passerby?” He slammed the door as hard as he could and made himself scarce.

***

Mason approached the morgue in a foul mood. How many times had he promised himself never to get involved with the dead again? Too many. How many times had he broken that promise? Shamelessly many. And each time, it got harder to explain how he kept ending up in the middle of these things. Maybe Ithan was right. Maybe it was time to move to a bigger city—somewhere rumors didn’t travel at the speed of light. He pictured traffic-choked highways, packed sidewalks, and blinking traffic lights on every corner. Mason winced and shook the thought off. The big city wasn’t for him. Right outside the entrance, he nearly collided with the wide grin of Tyler Price. “Oh hey, Mace! You’re running late today. Boss is flipping out. They’ve already done two autopsies without you.” Mason headed straight for the locker room, ignoring him completely. He’d never liked talking to Tyler. Like Mason, he worked as a orderly—but not because he lacked ambition. Tyler simply lacked basic cognitive function. To be fair, the guy was harmless. Cheerful. Not a mean bone in his body. But the moment he opened his mouth, Mason’s fingers started itching. Stupidity was one of the few traits he couldn’t forgive. To make matters worse, Tyler was always accompanied by the ghost of an old woman. Wherever they crossed paths, the same shriveled silhouette trailed close at his heels. She was wrapped in layers of filthy rags, more a tangle of fabric than clothing. Her face was all sharp angles and creased skin—drawn thin with deep-set wrinkles and liver spots, a long crooked nose with a wart the size of a dime, and dry lips pulled into a single withered line. She gazed at Tyler with such fanatical adoration that she looked less like a mourning spirit and more like a fairy-tale witch sizing up a plump, oblivious child for dinner. Mason didn’t bother banishing her. He just kept his distance—from Tyler, and most living people in general. After changing, he checked the schedule. To his relief, there were only two autopsies on the docket—and both had already been completed without him. Which meant all that was left was dressing the old man from yesterday and handing him off to the family. Free as the wind. At least, until Edward King cornered him on the way out of the locker room. The senior pathologist stood blocking the hallway, arms pressed against the vast acreage of his sides. His face was the color and texture of a brick—perpetually scowling, with oily little eyes glinting from under heavy brows. “There you are,” King growled. “We’d just about given up hope you were coming back.” “Isn’t that what you tell your patients?” Mason snapped. “The cops dragged me in.” “Watch your tone, Clark,” the doctor barked, brow folding into a deep crease. “Handle your personal drama outside work hours. Why should Tyler cover for you alone?” Mason headed straight down the hallway. Edward shuffled after him, muttering under his breath and dragging his clogs loudly across the floor. The truth behind all that grumbling was simple: for all the tension in the morgue, people still preferred doing autopsies with Mason. Because really—who wanted to be stuck working with the guy who didn’t know how the water system fed into the dissection tables, didn’t know how to disinfect serum spills from a biohazard case, or couldn’t tell a rib shear from a bone saw? If it were up to Mason, Tyler would’ve spent his whole career in the archive room, feeding outdated paperwork into the incinerator—until the day he burned the whole department down. “We’ve got three autopsies scheduled for tomorrow,” King huffed, barely keeping up. “Two are mine, one’s Alex’s. No team assignments yet.” Mason considered the possibilities. Best case? He gets paired with King. They’ll knock out two natural deaths and maybe—just maybe—he’ll get home on time. Worst case? He’s stuck with Tate. That means writing reports solo, dealing with cops again, and listening to whatever new jokes Alex’s high school brain can come up with. Technically, the orderlies’ opinions were never part of the scheduling process. But if King was opening with small talk, something was definitely off. Mason pressed the call button and waited beside the metal elevator doors. “Plague, cholera, smallpox, anthrax?” Mason rattled off, listing the worst-case autopsy scenarios. “Ebola, scarlet fever…” “No-no-no,” Edward wheezed as he squeezed into the elevator behind him. “Just cancer and cardiac.” Mason eyed him suspiciously, pressing the button for the basement. “What’s the catch?” “No catch,” Edward said with an uncharacteristic smile. “You, as one of our most valued employees, have been granted the luxury of choosing your assignment.” Mason mentally calculated how much sarcasm could fit into that sentence. There probably wasn’t a scale in existence that could handle the weight. “How much did you bet?” he asked bluntly. King flinched like he’d walked into an invisible wall. Sizing up Mason’s profile, he decided it was safer to come clean. “Three hundred.” “Real mature,” Mason muttered, stepping out toward the cold storage. “Make it a hundred and I’m in.” “Deal!” Edward clapped him on the back, beaming. “Can’t wait to see Alex’s face—he wassosure you’d pick him.” That made Mason stop mid-step. “Why the hell would he think that?” The pathologist gave a vague shrug and turned back toward the elevators. His job was done, and no doctor liked hanging around the basement longer than necessary. Actually, no one liked it down here—if you were being honest about it. By the refrigerators, Theo Wright was already pacing, a small medical case clutched in one hand. Tall and lean, Theo was a man in his forties with sharp features and a narrow chin—one of the few people at the morgue Mason could talk to for more than ten minutes without losing his mind. “You’re late, Clark,” Theo said mildly, stepping aside to let Mason into cold storage. “I’m about to drop dead from the cold.” “If this is your attempt at appealing to my conscience, I’ve got bad news—don’t have one. You could’ve waited in prep. No one’s forcing you to help move the body every time.” “How do you even lift these things? You weigh, what, a hundred pounds? With boots?” The body chambers smelled like every bodily fluid at once—blood, urine, feces. It was easily the foulest stench in the entire building. The fact that Theo showed up here willingly always gave Mason pause, made him question the man’s sanity just a little. Still, an extra pair of hands was nothing to complain about. He didn’t need company—but shifting some of the weight onto someone else? That warmed him from the inside out.

***

The suit—already three sizes too large for what the old man wore in life—still turned out to be too small. Mason had to cut it up the back and cinch it shut after getting it on. Fortunately, no one expected stitches in these cases. You just bunched the fabric, made it look tidy, and laid the body face-up in the casket. He’d finished in under thirty minutes, but stayed in the prep room anyway—because he “wasn’t ready.” Mason frowned as Theo hovered over the corpse, carefully dusting the old man’s face with a set of brushes. They’d already gotten word over the radio: the family and burial service were waiting in reception. But Theo showed no sign of rushing. He was still fussing over the skin, coaxing a blush onto cheeks that no longer had blood to give. “Don’t give me that look,” Theo said without glancing up. “I’m an artist. I finish what I start.” “You’re a mortuary cosmetologist,” Mason muttered. “You’re not sending him down a runway.” “Thanatopractor,” Theo corrected. “Cosmetologists are the ones in skinny jeans who paint faces from scratch for the red carpet. My clients—” he stood back, assessing the result with a critical eye, “—have to look natural. They’re about to meet God, after all.” Mason nearly choked and bit his tongue in time. God came up in these walls more often than good mornings did—and it never got any less uncomfortable. Most of Alaska’s population leaned Protestant, Christian, or Catholic. Nearly a third belonged to religious communities, and the number who attended church regularly was overwhelming. Every Sunday for as long as Mason could remember, he’d woken to the sound of church bells calling the faithful. It had never made him feel closer to God. Mason kept his thoughts on religion to himself, but just about everyone in the department knew—he didn’t believe in God. No one ever said anything to his face, of course. But sometimes, coworkers would suddenly start reminiscing—loudly—about their time in the confessional, or spin their crosses between their fingers with theatrical reverence, or “absentmindedly” ask if he was coming to Sunday service. In those moments, Mason calculated how much gas it would take to reach the Canadian border—and whether morgue techs were in demand there. He never understood why people cared so much about each other’s beliefs. Something so personal and private was tossed out like small talk—“what are you doing this weekend?” And if they didn’t like the answer, they felt entitled to correct it. Mason never argued, never defended his position. He figured everyone was free to decide for themselves. But others seemed to see it as a holy mission to “guide the lost back to the light.” It was funny—until it got irritating. “All done!” Theo’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, full of pride. “Good as new!” Mason greeted the declaration with his usual skepticism. The old man didn’t looknew, that was for sure, no matter how much effort Theo had poured into it. Maybe the skin looked a little more lifelike, but a corpse was still a corpse—and no amount of makeup could change that. He transferred the body into the coffin, then radioed up: everything was ready, and the family could come say goodbye. After scrubbing all visible surfaces with a chloramine solution, Mason headed upstairs to the staff lounge. For reasons unknown, Theo followed, even though he had no further reason to be in the morgue. Conversation died the instant they walked in. A few orderlies, including Tyler, lounged on a beige sofa, sipping tea from oversized mugs. Two lab techs smoked by the window, tapping their cigarettes into an improvised ashtray. At the room’s only desk sat Alex Tate, half-turned toward the room, flashing that blinding, toothpaste-commercial smile. Theo moved through the group, shaking hands with anyone he hadn’t greeted yet. Mason didn’t nod, didn’t speak—just walked straight to the water cooler and poured himself a cup of ice-cold water. Voices resumed behind him, but he was certain the subject matter had changed. He signed his name in the logbook and slipped out like a shadow. The shower room wasn’t much warmer than the rest of the morgue. Mason stripped out of his work clothes and stepped into the stream, letting hot water pelt his back. His thoughts had nothing to do with work. Lately, he found himself questioning his career choice more often than not. Once, it had seemed like the perfect solution. Here, in a place like this, he could keep his gift hidden. Ghosts couldn’t catch him off guard here, couldn’t force him to mutter replies to thin air on public sidewalks. Here, their presence was logical. Expected. Forewarned was forearmed. But the job came with its own complications. The more time he spent with the dead, the harder it became to tell them apart from the living. Now, he often waited for someone to speak first—just to be sure they were real. In just over a month, Mason would turn thirty-two. For all the bravado he showed in front of Ithan—trying to convince the boy, and mostly himself, that life didn’t interest him, that he’d long since resigned himself to being a passive observer—his future still nagged at him. He wasn’t exactly haunted by thoughts of old age or retirement, but when they did creep in, they made him feel… if not afraid, then certainly uneasy. At the moment, his plans for the future were as hazy as the world through his fogged-up glasses. Career advancement didn’t interest him. His personal life even less. And aside from books and TV shows, he didn’t really have hobbies. Even the gift he privately called a curse had stopped stirring any emotion. So he saw dead people. So what? It wasn’t useful. It wasn’t dangerous. It justwas—like saying his hair and eyes were black, his eyesight sucked, and his personality was unbearable. He hadn’t been lying to the kid last night when he said moving wouldn’t change anything. He didn’t like big cities, and looking for a Juneau substitute in another state felt ridiculous. Wherever he went, he’d have to take himself with him. And that meant nothing would change. He supposed he could always go live in the forest—plenty of that around here. But he hadn’t figured out how to survive on sunlight, and a diet of mushrooms and berries sounded miserable. The change had to start from within. The trouble was, he had no idea which part of himself needed to change to finally find some semblance of peace. He spat out the water that had pooled in his mouth and went on scrubbing himself in automatic, soapy circles. Each year, thoughts like these weighed heavier. He used to brush them off with the excuse that he still had time. But now the question of what the hell he was doing with his life was pressing with painful clarity. He’d even considered taking some online design courses and working from home—but he and spatial thinking had always had a strained relationship, and his imagination wasn’t much better. Patience wasn’t exactly his strong suit either. There was a reason they called him Eight-Seven. Mason scowled at the thought and shut off the water. Thirty-something years on this planet, and he still didn’t know what he wanted to be when he grew up. He wrapped a towel around his waist, found his clogs with his foot, slipped them on, and stepped out of the stall. “I was starting to think you drowned in there, Eight-Seven,” came a snide voice from the right. Mason turned toward the sound and squinted at the blurry figure of Alex Tate. The surgical cap was gone, his chestnut hair now a tousled mess. His grey eyes sparkled with amusement as they unabashedly raked down Mason’s half-naked frame. “At least you wouldn’t have to cart me far,” Mason muttered, shrugging. “And you’d finally have something more interesting to do than spying on naked guys in the shower.” Making no attempt to hide himself, Mason dropped the towel and pulled on a clean pair of boxers. “Not much to look at,” Alex sneered. “Yet here you are,” Mason said, slipping a T-shirt over his head. “Still staring.” Alex raised a brow. “You can see me without them on?” That’s when Mason realized his glasses—tossed carelessly next to his clothes—were now in Alex’s hands. “Gonna give those back?” he asked, extending a hand. Irritation was already tightening in his throat. The last thing he needed was another fight. To his surprise, Alex handed them over without protest, fingers lingering just a second too long on the lenses. “Edward said you’re working with him tomorrow. That true?” Mason nodded, wiping the lenses with the hem of his shirt. “Why?” The question caught him off guard. Why? Because a hundred bucks doesn’t grow on trees. Because his resident ghost can’t live without cable TV. Instead, he shrugged. “I thought we were friends,” Alex said, voice edged with something almost like hurt. In what universe does ‘friendship’ include insults, power plays, and dumping paperwork on each other? Mason bit back the reply and kept getting dressed. “You’re such a bitch, Eight-Seven,” Alex snapped. “You knew, didn’t you?” “Knew what?” Mason replied, sounding genuinely puzzled. Alex studied him—long and hard—searching for even a flicker of guilt or hesitation. Finding none, he pressed his lips together and stood. “The invite to the bar still stands,” he said, checking his watch. “Second shift’s about to come in, and we—” “Still a no,” Mason cut in. “I’ve got plans.” Alex started to say something else, but Mason was already scooping up his clothes and heading for the door. Whatever Alex said after that, Mason let it roll right off his back.