“I told you! I fucking hate what I’m doing right now, sneaking around in the dead of night, hanging out in cheap clubs and motels tailing couples indulging in sordid affairs, trying to catch them in flagrante to prove their infidelity to a sad and jealous spouse who then detests me”—she jabbed her fingers against her chest—“for rubbing their noses in the photographic proof.” She swore softly. “But I need to accrue those hours as fast as possible so I can get out from under that jackass Brixton’s control and go out on my own. I—”
“Don’t. Do not mess with me, Angie,” he said firmly. “This has less to do with Jock Brixton than what I asked you in the car on the drive up. I saw your reaction. That question set the tone for the weekend. It goes right to the heart of this, of us, doesn’t it?”
She turned her face away from him, away from the diamond ring in the box he was still holding, the ring she had not touched. She glared into the flames. He watched her carotid pulse at her neck.
“It was just a simple question about whether you’d ever thought about having kids, Angie.”
She swung to face him. “Listen—”
“No, you listen to me. I don’t care about having children if you don’t want them. I have Ginny—I’ve been there. I don’t need to start parenting all over again. I just wanted to know what you want. Because I care about understanding what’s going on inside the woman I love, the woman in my life. The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. It’s a normal question, one of the things normal people discuss when they’re going to spend the rest of their lives together.”
A tear escaped her eye and leaked down her cheek.
Maddocks cursed inwardly. Wrong thing to say. How could Angie Pallorino be “normal”? Her childhood, her past, was violent and bloody and abusive. She was a textbook case for some victim psych study. And yeah, a true crime book on her life story would be out soon, written by forensic shrink Dr. Reinhold Grablowski against Angie’s wishes and without her cooperation. It was a miracle she was even functional.
“I miss it,” she said eventually, still not meeting his gaze. “The job. Sex crimes. Homicide. Being a cop. Carrying a gun. Having some authority around a crime scene. Running an investigation.”
“I know.”
She turned sharply to face him, her features raw. “I’m struggling. I don’t know how not to be a cop, Maddocks. I feel like I’m something … less. And making such a big life commitment at a time when I can’t even figure out who I am, who I want to be—I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do.” Her gaze bored into his. “Because most of all, I never want to disappoint you. I don’t want to let you down and have you think one day down that road that you made a terrible mistake.”
“This was a mistake,” he said, closing the lid on the box and shutting the diamond away from the light. “My mistake.”
He’d forced his girl’s hand, and she’d rejected him. This was it—plain as day: it wasn’t going to work out with Angie. Maddocks was almost shaking with the reality of the blow. It made him realize how badly he’d wanted her in his life, at his side, always, forever. “I should have waited,” he whispered, more to himself than her. “Done this another time. I just wanted to confirm we were moving forward, but—”
She placed two fingers over his lips and shook her head, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. She removed the box from his hands. In silence, she opened the lid and took the ring from the foam. She slipped it onto her ring finger and held her hand out to the firelight.
Emotion balled in his throat as he watched her face.
“It’s too big,” he said, voice hoarse. “I can see it’s too big.” He cleared his throat. “I used a ring I found on your dresser for size.”
“That was my adoptive mom’s ring. My dad gave it to me after she went into the home. It doesn’t fit me. I just keep it on my dresser … to think about her. About things.”
“Give it back to me,” he said. “I’ll have it resized. We … we can try another time.” How could he stick this genie back into the bottle? It would be like putting smoke back into a fire, impossible now to retract.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, still staring at the ring. “Elegant. Pure. Simple.”
“Let me take it. I’ll get it fixed.”
“No, James Maddocks,” she said softly as she unclasped a silver chain she wore around her neck. She threaded the diamond onto the chain.
“Here, help me fasten it.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder and bent her head forward.
He closed the link at the nape of her neck. She slipped the diamond ring on the chain under her shirt. “I’m wearing it until we can have it resized. Together.”
Emotion slammed his chest. He took a shaky breath. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
She cupped the side of his face. “Yes,” she whispered. “A hundred times over, yes. I love you, James Maddocks. I didn’t even know it was possible to love someone like I love you. Didn’t know it was in me.” She paused. “Or how scary and vulnerable that would make me feel. And how badly I don’t want to let you down.”
Tears blurred his vision. “Let’s do it before the end of next year, before Christmas. Maybe this spring or summer?”
“I like spring,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved the streets of Victoria when they’re filled with cherry blossoms and petals litter the pavement.” She leaned in, kissed his mouth. Her lips and cheeks were cold and damp. Her scent was her, and he loved it. He slid his hand under her fall of hair, cupping the back of her neck. He deepened the kiss, desire stirring hot and low in his groin.
She moaned, and her body softened against his as his tongue tangled with hers. She moved her hand up the inside of his thigh, cupped his hardening erection.
“Tent,” he murmured against her mouth.
They made love in the dark tent in the wilderness, affirming life with a raw sexual ferocity as if to defy the death that slumbered in the shallow grave nearby.
But as they lay there sated, their down sleeping bags zipped together, limbs entangled, Angie’s hair soft against his cheek, Maddocks heard the wolves again. Hunting something, calling, mating. A sense filled him that something was still not on the right track with Angie and him. A subtext lingered beneath her acceptance. Quietly, he extricated himself from his lover’s sleeping embrace. He unzipped his bag and pulled on his gear.
“Where are you going?” she murmured, turning over, reaching for him.
“To feed the fire.”
He crawled out of the tent and zipped up the flap. He sat alone under the tarp, staring into the flames for a long, long while as the earth turned under the heavens. He sensed that Angie, too, was lying awake in the tent.
His thoughts turned to his previous failed marriage. Nothing in life was a guarantee. An “I do” might be a promise of forever, until death do us part, but it didn’t mean things would be so. Hell, he’d tried the whole shebang with Brie, his ex, Ginny’s mom. He’d thought he was getting it right the first time around—providing for his family, being a dad, trying to advance his career as a Mountie. So what made him want to do it again? Why on earth did he think it would work out this time?
Especially with a woman like Angie.
Live in the moment. One step at a time. That’s all we can do. The skeleton decaying in the shallow grave nearby underscored the temporary nature of it all. He reached for a log and shoved it onto the fire. Flames flared and crackled, warming his face. He wondered about the body in the moss, who it was, where the person had come from. How he or she had died and why no one had found the remains. Until now.
A lone wolf’s wail rose higher and higher in pitch, echoing through the endless cold wilderness. A sense of winter approached.
CHAPTER 5
MONDAY, OCTOBER 29
Angie woke to a strange, pale luminescent dome over her head. She realized almost instantly she was in the tent, a silvery-gray dawn illuminating the fabric. She turned in her sleeping bag. Maddocks was n
ot there. She listened for a moment to the ambient sounds of the forest. Birds, lots and lots of tiny chirps. The sharp staccato call of a squirrel or chipmunk. The soft roar from the falls upriver. She pulled her woolen hat down low over her ears—she’d slept in both her hat and her down jacket. She unzipped the tent, opened the flap, and peered out.
Mist swirled thick. Smoke tendrils snaked from coals. Maddocks lay asleep in front of the dying fire beneath the tarp.
Angie ducked back inside the tent, wriggled her jeans over her thermal leggings, and belted her sheathed knife to her hip. It was a habit, carrying the knife. She pulled on her boots and crawled out of the tent.
Her footfalls were silent on the springy underfloor as she approached Maddocks. Judging by the last two smoldering logs, he’d stayed up most of the night feeding the fire to keep animals at bay while she’d slumbered like a baby. Unusual for her. He’d drawn the hood of his sleeping bag over his head. She studied his profile—strong brow, defined jaw. He was a beautiful man, this top homicide cop. Driven. Just. He commanded authority. Was patient against her impatience. Cool against her volatility. A pang of poignancy cut through her heart followed by that disquieting and oft-felt sensation that she wasn’t good enough for him, didn’t deserve his love. How could she even begin to entertain the idea of bearing his children? She’d make the world’s most terrible mother.
Or was that her buried shame speaking?
Shame for who her father was, for having been conceived in violence by a teenage sex slave. For the fact she’d been abandoned—the so-called “lucky one” who’d survived where her twin had perished. Angie’s therapist had raised the possibility of buried shame. Until that point she’d never entertained the notion that she suffered from some kind of subterranean humiliation or sense of degradation. She’d never identified with being a victim, but then he’d said it: “buried shame.”
You need to forgive yourself, not blame yourself. Let it go. Give it time.
Time.
It was only ten months ago she’d first learned her entire life had been a lie. But Maddocks wanted a commitment now. A vise of anxiety clamped her chest. She sucked air in deep and left him to sleep while she made her way toward the grave site.
From behind their makeshift crime scene cordon, Angie studied the skull and the partial rib cage poking out of the soil. In proper daylight she could see that a much larger area would likely need to be secured. Buried remains discovered this close to the surface could be either totally localized or scattered over a vast distance due to scavenger activity or environmental forces.
Imagining it was her own crime scene, Angie ran through the steps that would come next. The exact dimensions of the perimeter would need to be established in a systematic fashion, using trained K9s or soil probes if necessary, working carefully outward from the discovery. A forensic anthropologist would need to be brought in to look for surface irregularities, inconsistencies in vegetation patterns, changes in the moss and fungi, signs of soil compaction, and additional indication of animal activity until no more remains or related evidence was found.
Once the extent of that area was established, it would have to be mapped. Each bit of evidence would need to be bagged, labeled, and correlated with a GPS position on a map. Next would come the meticulous excavation. Additional evidence collected would again be documented and then transported to a facility where it could all be fully described, photographed, and labeled under secure and confidential conditions. An autopsy would be done, and the process of identification would begin. An attempt would be made to determine cause and manner of death.
She rubbed her brow.
She did miss it. Like a physical hole gnawing her stomach from the inside out. She reached into the neck of her jacket and pulled out the chain with the diamond ring. The stone glinted in the silvery dawn light, flawless to her naked eye, set into a simple band of platinum. Nothing frilly or fancy. He knew her well. Too well. She clasped her hand around the ring and returned her attention to the disturbed grave. Your life is different now. Accept it. This is not your case.
“Hey.”
Angie jumped and spun round.
Maddocks emerged through the mist and tree trunks, boots silent on moss. He wore his big down jacket, and his hair was ruffled and stood up in a way that endeared him to her.
She smiled. “Jesus, you startled me.”
“Me big bear.” He raised his hands like paws above his head and swayed from foot to foot, making like a grizzly up on its hind legs. He growled.
“Idiot.” She smacked at his arm with a laugh.
He grabbed her face with both hands, kissed her hard on the mouth, then leaned back to study her eyes. “Sleep well?”
“Too damn well. Wolves could have entered the tent and taken a bite out of me before I even noticed they were there. Don’t know what came over me—I never sleep that soundly. And you? Fast asleep like that out in the open?”
He angled his head and gave a lopsided grin. “What makes you think I was asleep? I saw you come out of the tent.”
She slapped the side of his arm again.
He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and regarded the scene.
“Going to need a larger perimeter,” he said.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
Silence fell as they studied the disturbed loam, the clawed-back carpet of moss, the exposed bones of some loved one.
“What else were you thinking?” Maddocks said. A gravitas had entered his voice.
“I thought it was the female in a relationship who always asked that question?”
He cast her a sideways glance. “Didn’t know stereotyping was your thing, Pallorino.”
She snorted and stuffed her cold hands into her own pockets. “I was thinking that this is not my case.”
“It’s not mine, either.”
“You know what I mean.”
A kestrel shrieked somewhere high above the canopy, and wind rustled through the treetops, releasing a shower of droplets from boughs.
“Doesn’t stop me wanting to know what happened to this decedent, though,” she said with a tilt of her chin toward the body. “How long do you figure he or she has been lying there?”
He pursed his lips. “Could be decades. Depends on the chemical composition of the soil, of course, weather patterns, how cold the winters, how wet. How dry the summers.” As he spoke the distant sound of engines reached them. They turned to face the direction of the noise. The engines grew louder as they neared.
“Sounds like quads,” he said. “Coming from the direction Hargreaves went last night, along that small track.” They began to retrace their steps, moving toward the sound in order to meet the vehicles and head them off before they encroached too close upon the scene.
Two mud-caked ATVs emerged through the trees bearing three people with helmets. The two drivers wore RCMP jackets and pants with yellow stripes down the sides. The third, a passenger, sported a black jacket emblazoned with the word CORONER.
The quads came to a halt. The engines were killed. The larger of the two Mounties dismounted first. Pulling off his helmet and gloves, he came forward and held out his hand. “Constable Darnell Jacobi,” he said. “Port Ferris RCMP.”
Angie and Maddocks shook his hand, introducing themselves. Jacobi was bald with an aggressive face, hawkish brows over pale-hazel eyes. Leonine eyes, thought Angie. Intense man. With a wrestler’s grip that he declined to soften for a female. She judged him to be in his mid to late fifties.
“And this is Constable Erick Watt,” Jacobi said. “And on-call coroner Robin Pett.”
Officer Watt removed his helmet and shook their hands. He was much younger than Darnell Jacobi, over six feet tall with a clean-faced, buzz-cut, Germanic look. Fresh out of depot division training was Angie’s guess, a newly minted rookie still wet behind the ears and posted to a nice small detachment up the coast to find his feet.
Robin Pett removed her helmet, exposing short dark hair that framed
a tiny face with large brown eyes. “I hear you cordoned the area off?” she said.
As the on-call coroner for this region, the body was Pett’s responsibility—she’d take custody of the remains. But if there was evidence of foul play, the criminal investigation would fall initially to the Port Ferris cops.
“Roped it off as best we could in the dark,” Maddocks said. “You’re probably going to want to cordon off a much wider perimeter.” He led the team in single file along their original path of entry. Angie took up the rear. They came to a stop in front of the cordon. The flagging tape fluttered in a gust of wind.
“It was Budge Hargreaves who found the remains?” Pett said as she extracted her camera from her bag.
“Yeah,” Maddocks said, hands in pockets. “Hargreaves alerted us from the riverbank. If he’d had cell reception, he’d have called it in himself.”
The two cops exchanged a glance. The rookie turned in a slow circle, surveying the scene, the monstrous, ancient trees, the fish flesh hanging from dead boughs, the primeval ferns, the devil’s club, the lichen and moss smothering the rocks and trunks, the witch’s hair lifting in the cold breeze. “So Hargreaves just happened to come this way? He walked right into this remote grove?” Watt said. “There’s no discernible trail or anything leading into it.”
Angie said, “Hargreaves told us he was foraging for mushrooms when his dog located the remains. He had a bag full of chanterelles across his body when he flagged us down from the riverbank.”
Another glance passed quickly between the two Mounties. Angie noticed. So did Maddocks, because his brow crooked up slightly.
“Is Hargreaves known to police?” she asked, curious.
The coroner’s gaze ticked briefly to her. But Pett said nothing. Neither did the officers. Clearly, to them, Angie was a civilian, and this was not her purview.
A cool irritation filtered into her chest. “Well, if you don’t need me”—she checked her watch—“I have a job in the city this evening. I need to get back.”
The Girl in the Moss (Angie Pallorino Book 3) Page 4
