Tainted Mind (2 page)

And, as if to give weight to the direction of her thoughts, about fifteen feet away from her position and about halfway down the
embankment, her light landed on a small collection of rocks. No, not rocks, pieces of road that had broken away from the winter-weakened, rain-pummeled lane and tumbled down to rest a few feet away.

Vivi kept her beam trained on the pile as she walked closer. Tracing a line up the embankment, she could see an approximately two-foot by one-foot section of the road cracked and starting to cave in, the edge beginning to break away.

As she contemplated the small sinkhole illuminated by her flashlight, a gust of wind picked up. Her wet jeans pressed against her legs, her ponytail lifted, and her skin broke out in bumps from the sudden chill. Another piece of the road cracked and tumbled down the slope.

And there, at that crumbling edge, barely visible in the dark and shadows, was the unmistakable form of a human hand.

C
HAPTER
2

VIVI MADE A GENTLE LEFT TURN
onto Windsor's quiet Main Street where, according to her GPS, she would find the police station. She had thought about calling in what she'd found—about staying on the side of the road and dialing 911. But even if she'd had cell service—which she hadn't—she knew from experience how short staffed local law enforcement probably was in this small town, especially after a hard rain had slicked up roads and downed power lines. And besides, as glib as it sounded, what she had found was no emergency. A tragedy? Yes. An emergency? No.

From where she sat at the south end of town, Main Street looked so short it was hard to tell if she would find her destination in one block or three. Easing her foot off the accelerator, she slowed to a crawl. As she passed through town, Vivi took in the solid-looking brick, stone, and mortar buildings that lined the streets—buildings built long before the whimsies of the Victorian era by men and women who seemed to have had every intention of staying. She was used to seeing the old clapboard towns that littered New England, but this was different. The sturdiness of the place, the permanence, shouldn't have come as a surprise, but for some reason, it did.

And the fact that the shops she drove by looked well maintained led her to believe that, while this might be a small town, it wasn't as desperate a place as some other small towns. She passed a restaurant called Frank's Fed-Up-And-Fulfilled Café on the left, followed by a bakery and a used bookstore. After passing several more darkened shops, she saw the only two lively looking places—a movie theater and an ice cream shop. Judging by the times on the marquee, the
movie was in progress. Vivi suspected the streets would fill with people in an hour or so when the movie let out, but as it was, the old fashioned sign, which Vivi noted carried the name of a recent movie, and the lights from the ice cream shop were the only signs of life she could see this time of night.

One more block down, she pulled through a wayward roundabout and up to the front of the police station. There was no question in her mind that she needed to stop and report what she had seen, but she wasn't looking forward to having the conversation. Mostly because she didn't have any answers. It was always harder when she didn't have answers.

Anchoring the north end of Main Street, the aging brick police station had white trim and was built in much the same style as the rest of the buildings she'd passed—functional and solid, if somewhat sagging around the edges.

She spared a thought for the charm of the village but didn't stop walking until she was at the entrance. Wanting to get the meeting over, she pushed the door only to have it refuse. She paused, thinking that couldn't be, and then tried again with the same result. The police station was closed.

Stepping back from her determination to unburden herself, Vivi took a closer look at her surroundings. Except for maybe one or two lights that looked more like safety lighting than anything else, the building looked quiet. The street was also empty of any police or sheriff cars. In fact, the street was empty of all cars except the few parked in front of the theater.

For a moment, she imagined calling 911 and hearing it ring inside the station, unanswered. But her snarky thought was mostly due to the fact that she was tired, cold, and wet. The reality was most small towns consolidated their switchboards after hours; if she called, she knew someone would answer.

Looking at her cell, she noted that she had service. But after a quick internal debate, she opted to try one more discreet way of locating the local police before dialing 911. If the police were out on calls that affected the safety of living people, she didn't want to take them away from that. And, while she was concerned with preserving evidence—any more road that caved in or fell away, or any car that
drove over the sinkhole could compromise the remains—even in that she held little hope that the local law enforcement, or even a more sophisticated team, would find much after such a long a time—and it had been a long time. And so, she made her decision.

She'd passed a place called The Tavern before hitting Main Street; it wasn't hopping, but she remembered a few cars and trucks in the parking lot and light filtering out through the windows. Climbing into her car, she headed back south down Main Street. After pulling in next to a mud-splattered Jeep, Vivi gave a thought to her hair and wet clothes before giving up; there wasn't much she could do about them anyway.

As she entered, the handful of patrons turned to see who'd come in—took in her clothes, took in the fact she wasn't local—and turned away. Only the bartender kept an eye on her. She acknowledged his watchful interest with a small nod then gestured toward the opposite end of the room.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, meeting her at the end of the bar furthest away from the other customers.

“I'm looking for the local police. I was just down at the police station and they appear to be closed.” She couldn't help the bit of wry cynicism that crept into her voice.

“Everything all right?” he asked, drying a glass.

“I would just like to the talk to the local law enforcement.”

He set the dry glass on the rack and studied her for a long moment, but she wasn't about to say more. “You can call 911,” he offered, picking up another glass and indicating the pay phone against the wall with a jerk of his head.

“I could but would rather not. It's urgent but not an emergency.” She didn't have to, but she pulled out two IDs and slid them across the bar. He glanced down at the items before tipping his head in acknowledgement.

“I'll call Ian for you,” he said, moving away and pulling out his cell. Two minutes later he came back. “He'll be here in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, you can hang your coat up there,” he pointed to an empty coat rack. “And can I get you something to drink? Coffee? A beer?”

“Thanks,” she responded, removing her damp coat. She had noticed the sign for The Tavern
and
Inn when she'd entered and hoped that it wasn't just an antique advertisement. “I'll take coffee for now and a room, if you have one? And a glass of whiskey would be nice once I've talked to…?”

“Ian MacAllister, Deputy Police Chief,” he supplied. “I'll bring you some coffee and make sure we have a room ready.” He was already moving away before he'd even finished the sentence.

Vivi waited at the end of the bar, watching the people around her, sipping the strong coffee the bartender, who'd introduced himself as Rob, had brought. A few folks gave her a look or two, but most seemed more interested in their drinks or their friends than her. After a short wait, Rob stopped back by with some paperwork and handed her a room key. Once she'd spoken with Deputy Police Chief MacAllister, Vivi planned to down the shot of whiskey to warm her bones, pop into a hot shower, and slide into some dry sheets.

She was fantasizing about dry sheets when the door opened, followed by a gust of wind. Rather than looking toward the entrance, Vivi watched Rob, the bartender. When she saw him jerk his head in her direction, she turned in her seat.

Striding toward her with water dripping from his long coat, Ian MacAllister looked like a small-town cop who'd already had a long night. He wasn't particularly tall, somewhere just shy of six feet, but was built fit and solid. His hair was cut short and, though it looked brown, Vivi could see streaks of a reddish gold. His jaw and general facial features were strong, both in structure and in bearing, and he was younger than she had expected, probably just a few years older than her own thirty-three. His heritage, at some point in time, was likely Scottish. Or, more precisely, she amended to herself as he stopped before her, Celtic.

“Ma'am?” he said, holding out his hand. “Ian MacAllister, Deputy Chief of Police.”

“Vivienne DeMarco,” she responded, standing up to shake his hand. Vivi motioned him toward an empty table in the back. When they reached it, he waited for her to sit then joined her as she pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him.

“GPS coordinates,” he said, frowning at the numbers.

“I had a flat tire outside of town a bit ago. After I changed it, I heard something—thought it might be a bear, so I took a look around. There is no easy way to say this, but you have a body, or at least part of one, buried under the road at these coordinates.”

Ian MacAllister stared at her for a good long while. His eyes were green, an arresting and unusual shade—almost pastel. And though the color was soft and muted, his expression was not. Vivi had been around long enough to know he was taking stock. Finally, he spoke.

“You seem awfully calm to have just discovered a dead body, Ms. DeMarco.”

Reaching into her bag she pulled out her IDs again. He glanced at the card on top, the one identifying her as member of the Boston Police Department and Medical Examiner for the county. He pushed it aside and took a closer look at the second ID, the one granted to her as a permanent consultant with the FBI.

“So you see a lot of dead bodies, don't you, Dr. DeMarco?” He pushed the IDs back across the table.

“My fair share, yes.”

“I assume, since you didn't call 911, this isn't an emergency?”

She shook her head and told him everything she knew. He listened to the sparse information, taking notes and asking questions. There wasn't much she had to offer, so the interview lasted less than ten minutes.

“Thank you for your assistance,” he said, rising from his seat. “If I need to get ahold of you, how can I reach you?”

“My number is on the paper with the coordinates,” she said, following his lead and standing. “I'll be staying here tonight, but I'm on vacation and don't plan to stay in this area for more than a night. If you need to talk to me in person, try to reach me in the morning.”

“Please do us both a favor and stick around until I give you the official okay to leave.” It wasn't a request.

Vivi stared at the Deputy Chief of Police for a long moment. His intensity, his commanding confidence, and, not to mention, the fact that he didn't seem all that upset about the thought of a dead body made her think he had seen his fair share too. Her eyes swept him in a study. Military of some sort, she would guess. But whatever his background, there was no doubt in her mind he was more than a small-town cop.

“I'll stick around tomorrow, but if I don't hear from you either way, I'll be out of here the day after,” she conceded.

They both knew she wasn't a suspect and he was getting more than what she was obligated to give, so he gave her a curt nod then turned to leave. She watched the door close behind him then signaled Rob for that whiskey.

After she'd downed the shot, Vivi relaxed for a moment as the warmth traveled through her body.
Nice
, she thought with no small dose of sarcasm. Everyone was always telling her to take a vacation, take a break, take some time to herself. Go figure that when she'd finally gotten in a car and just started driving—with no plan other than
not to work
—she'd landed right back in the thick of it.

*   *   *

Nice
,
just what I need
, he thought to himself. Ian fingered the piece of paper in his jacket pocket as he made his way to the station. A dead body buried under one of his roads. No doubt Vic Ballard, the Chief of Police, would find some way to blame him for it. Not for the actual murder, but for letting it happen in the first place. For some reason Ian had yet to grasp, the older man was convinced that Ian was out to take his job. Nothing could be further from the truth. Hell, Ian hardly wanted the job he had. But it was a job—something the therapist at Walter Reed recommended.

Of course, from what it sounded like from Vivienne DeMarco, the body had been there a good long while. He had only been back stateside for a year, and only back in town for six months. But even that wouldn't stop Vic from trying to blame him for something. At least the chief was away on vacation, Ian could be thankful for that. Maybe, he thought as he pulled up to the station, he could get everything wrapped up by the time Vic came back.

He slid the key into the station door and entered the main room. Hanging his jacket up on the rack to dry, he moved toward his desk and the map of the county that lay spread across it. Based on the map and the GPS coordinates, he corroborated what she'd told him
about the location. Not that he doubted Vivienne DeMarco. No, she looked like a woman who knew a thing or two about this sort of thing.

Since she hadn't seen a full skeleton and he wasn't sure what to expect when he got out there, Ian began to gather a variety of supplies. As he went through the motions, on impulse he pulled out his cell and dialed a familiar number.

“Ten o'clock on a Saturday night. What makes you think I'm not out doing something—or someone—fun?” came the voice at the other end of the line.

“Because our idea of fun is completely fucked. So, for the safety of our good citizens, we're better off working late,” Ian replied with a smile.

“I'd say you have no idea, but that would be a lie,” Special Agent Damian Rodriguez, and Ian's former brother-in-arms, answered. “What can your friendly FBI help you with this evening, Deputy Chief MacAllister?”