Tempting Evil (5 page)

They left without another word.

“Is this good?” Aaron said to Stan, his voice thick for reasons he didn’t understand.

Stan put a hand on his shoulder. “Very good, son.”

Joanna came into the kitchen. She looked at him, gave him a half smile. “You’re up early, Mr. Miller.”

“John.”

“John. Right. Sorry.” She poured herself some coffee, added cream and sugar. “I was going to take the Trotskys and the MSU kids breakfast and lunch and make sure they don’t need anything else. The NWS anticipates more snowfall this afternoon, and I want to meet up with Wyatt and the boys as soon as possible.”

“I can check on the guests,” Stan said.

“No, no problem, seriously. It’ll only take me a few minutes.”

“Why don’t you take John here?” Stan suggested.

“It’ll only take me a minute—”

“I’m a little concerned about the Sheriff’s fax, Jo,” Stan said.

Aaron looked at Joanna. “What fax?”

She waved her hand as if it were nothing. “A couple convicts who escaped from prison. Tyler—Sheriff McBride—thinks they’re in the area, but as you know from this weather no one is getting through.”

“Do you have a description?”

Stan pulled copies of the mug shots from a drawer. “Here you go.”

Aaron looked at the pictures, frowning.

“Recognize them?” Stan asked.

Aaron shook his head. “I’m glad to say no, I haven’t seen them.”

Stan put the pictures away. “Jo, just to be on the safe side.” He nodded at Aaron.

“I have my bear spray,” she said.

Does she not want to be with me?
Aaron watched her eyes, tried to read her mind. Why didn’t she like him? What was she hiding? Did she have something going on with this Sheriff Tyler McBride?

He stared at the knife next to the diced potatoes.

Blood dripped from the tip. He had it in his hand. Below him was Rebecca Oliver, her arms and chest sliced up, blood seeping into her sheets, her big blue eyes staring at him.

Why Aaron why Aaron why…

He closed his eyes, swallowed, carefully said, “I’m happy to help.”

Stan smiled. “Good. Let me get you a snowsuit. I think you’ll fit comfortably into one of my old outfits, before I put on this extra twenty pounds.” He patted a stomach that didn’t look all that large. “Jo?”

She nodded. “Great.”

The tension fell from Aaron’s body. The blood was gone from the knife.

She did want him, after all.

After Tyler told Wyatt about the escaped convicts, he called the lodge. The phone rang repeatedly, before a breathless Trixie answered.

“Moosehead.”

“Trixie, it’s Tyler McBride.”

“Hi, Tyler.”

“Is Jo around?”

“She’s taking breakfast to our cabin guests.”

Tyler’s chest tightened. “Alone?”

“Alone?” she asked as if he’d asked if she were naked. “What do you mean?”

“Did Jo tell you about our conversation yesterday?”

“About the convicts? She showed Grandpa, Stan, and me the pictures you faxed. They’re not here.”

Tyler felt marginally better, but fear still tickled his gut, and he always trusted his instincts. “Just to be on the safe side, stay close to the lodge, okay?”

“We will. You know Jo is going out to meet Wyatt later, right?”

“Yes. I’m on my way, Trixie, but it may take all day to get there.”

“I’ll make sure there’s enough dinner for you.”

“And a couple deputies.”

Her voice lost its flirtatious humor. “Why so many?”

“We need to get the boys home, that’s our number one responsibility. And until we know exactly where the escaped prisoners are, I’m not leaving.”

“Why? Are they coming here?”

Jo hadn’t told her family everything, Tyler realized. Maybe it was for the best that they didn’t know how personal the visit was for one of the killers.

“We’re not sure,” he said. “We’re going off an anonymous call. I should know more when I get there.” He wasn’t going to tell Trixie about her ex-boyfriend’s run-in with Doherty, not over the phone. She knew Lincoln Barnes was dead, and good riddance, but there was still Leah to think about. And if the Feds were right and Aaron Doherty had killed him, Tyler wanted to tell Trixie in person.

“Trixie,” Tyler added, “please be careful.”

He hung up and Bonnie came in. “Sam Nash is on line two.”

Tyler picked up the phone. “Nash, Billy told me you’re loaning us your best sleds. I appreciate it.”

“Someone broke in to my shed and stole two snowmobiles.”

Tyler stiffened. “Two?”

“I thought I heard something yesterday, but I was helping Old Bud Landry bring in feed for his cattle—there was a delay in the delivery, and the truck couldn’t get past Monida, so Pete and I brought it in on Landry’s sleds. I thought the snowmobiles were those damn Worthington teens again, being stupid. Turns out they were my own sleds I heard.”

“Could they hold more than one person?”

“They’re single-rider sleds, but two could fit.”

Great. That didn’t tell him if all three convicts were at large in the valley, or if his caller was correct that there were only two.

“I’m leaving in ten minutes. If you need me, Bonnie will tap you through to my radio.”

He hung up, dialed the lodge again.

The phone rang. And rang.

Twenty rings later Tyler slammed the phone down. “Billy! We’re leaving now.”

TEN

Jo hadn’t wanted to take John Miller with her to deliver breakfast and check on the guests at the two cabins. But Stan had put her on the spot and she didn’t want to be rude.

“Okay,” she said, bounding into the kitchen at quarter to eight. “Where’s my little helper?”

Stan gave her a look and handed Trixie two plates. “Got it?” he asked.

“I’m not going to drop them,” Trixie snapped and left.

“He’s already outside.” Stan watched Trixie leave to serve Cleve and Kristy Johnston who were sitting in the formal dining room on the far side of the foyer. “On the deck. He has some thinking to do.”

“Don’t we all?” Jo said, not meaning to sound callous. “I talked to Wyatt earlier this morning and I’m going to head out to the Kimball homestead by nine—as soon as I’m done with this. I want to get Ben Ward back before the snow starts again, and NWS predicts it’ll be falling heavy by two at the latest.”

“You should bring someone with you. At least until we know more about where those convicts were headed. I don’t like the idea of you out alone when there could be escaped prisoners in the area.”

“Nobody knows where they are. They might be anywhere in Montana or Idaho—or Wyoming for that matter. Heck, they could have made it up to Canada, which would have been the smart thing. And you have their pictures, so we know who we’re looking for.”

“Yes, we do.” Stan turned and Jo saw the gun in his waistband in the small of his back.

“Stan—”

Stan hated guns. He’d served two tours of duty in Vietnam and had been a strung out drug addict and alcoholic when he panhandled Karl Weber in Bozeman thirty years ago. Karl had been guest lecturing at the university for a week, and when he returned he brought Stan with him.

Jo had been seven or so at the time, and all she remembered about Stan was that he’d been big, black, and very sad.

Now he was part of their family. She couldn’t imagine him not being in her life. She didn’t know everything about his history before he moved to the valley to be Karl Weber’s right-hand man, but she knew he detested firearms and never carried when he went out. Bear spray was his weapon of choice.

She touched his arm. “Everything is going to be okay, Stan.”

“I’d feel a lot better if you had someone with you. I’ll go if you don’t want a stranger.”

She shook her head. Stan had been having heart trouble for the last few years. He was on medication, and she didn’t want him overdoing it.

“I’ll take John, okay?”

“Thank you. I’ll feel better when the Sheriff gets here.”

Me, too.

Ten minutes later, Jo had on her snowsuit and favorite boots. She wasn’t keen on taking John Miller with her, but she didn’t want Stan to worry. She met John on the deck. He looked into the distance, toward where you could see Upper Red Rock Lake—if the visibility were better. Now, all that was in front of them was a quiet pale gray mist.

“Ready?” she asked, feigning cheerfulness.

She led John outside to the snowmobile shed. The temperature was still in the low twenties, but so far this morning the snow was holding off and visibility wasn’t half bad. “Have you ridden one of these before?”

“It’s been a long time,” he said. She appreciated his honesty.

“It’s like riding a bike,” she said. She gave him a quick rundown on the controls.

“It’s coming back to me,” he said. “Are you going to all the cabins?” he asked as they started out.

“No, just the two we have occupied. We offered to move them to the lodge yesterday morning, but they wanted the privacy. Each cabin is fully self-sufficient. It can be peaceful.”

The honeymooners were about two hundred yards directly west of the lodge. It was the best cabin on the property, with a fantastic view of the valley and a small private deck. The college couple was about three hundred feet south of the honeymooners, as you start up the mountain—easy to get to on a well-worn trail, but more difficult in this weather.

“Why don’t we split up?” Jo suggested. The snow had started trickling down, and it could worsen quickly. She’d hoped it would hold off until that afternoon, and now all she wanted was to leave as soon as possible to bring the scouts back before the weather made it impossible.

“I’ll take that cabin,” she said, pointing to where the MSU kids were, “you head for the Trotskys. Greg and Vicky. Just hand them the basket, ask if they need anything, make sure they have enough wood.”

John seemed undecided, so Jo said, “Or we can do it together. It’s just the weather is turning and I want to get back quickly.”

“Where are you going?”

“Do you see that cabin?” She pointed to the barely visible cabin among the trees. “Two college kids from MSU are up there. I’m going to walk up, but you can take your snowmobile all the way down to the Trotskys’s cabin. Just follow that tree line—it’s marked—and you’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Thanks, Joanna.”

Aaron watched Joanna put on snowshoes, then turned his snowmobile toward the cabin downslope. Greg and Vicky Trotsky. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Joanna walking up the snow-covered mountain trail, visible only because of her bright red jacket.

Aaron wasn’t exactly sure which cabin Doug was in, but it definitely hadn’t been occupied, and it seemed to have been much farther out. In reading the Moosehead Lodge brochure in his room, he’d learned that there were seven cabins on the property.

But what if he was wrong? Aaron couldn’t chance it. He listened carefully as Joanna went up the slope to the college kids’ cabin. He was certain Doug wasn’t there—it was too wooded, too steep. They’d been able to drive the snowmobiles up to the door of the cabin yesterday.

If Chapman hurt her, Aaron would kill him. He didn’t want to kill anyone. He only resorted to violence when he had no choice. It was never his fault when he had to kill.

Worse than killing Doug, though, was that Joanna would learn his true identity if there was a confrontation. Aaron couldn’t have that. Last night they’d bonded over tea and conversation. He’d relished every moment of their time together. Every word they shared. Her large brown eyes watching his, her delicate hand playing with her hair, twirling the ends round and round her finger. She was truly interested in what he had to say, touching his hand in sympathy when he’d told her about losing Rebecca.

“I love you, Joanna,” he murmured into the quiet, cold morning.

Doug could ruin everything. It had been smart of Aaron to let Joanna and the others see Doug’s mug shot. That meant Aaron could force him to stay away. He might have to get out of going with Joanna to meet the Boy Scouts, as much as he hated the idea. He’d miss the opportunity to bond with her as they’d done last night. But he had to tell Doug that Joanna knew what he looked like. Doug had to stay away. Far away.

He knocked on the door of the honeymooners’ cabin. He heard, “Who is it?”

He recognized that voice.

“Doug?”

The door opened. Doug stood in the entry half-naked. His face was flushed, a fresh set of scratches on his chest. A bruise covered one cheek and he had another on his side.

Behind Doug was a man, facedown, dried blood on the back of his T-shirt. He wore sweatpants. On the bed a woman quietly sobbed, a scarf tied around her mouth. Her hands were tied to the bedposts with fishing line. Her wrists bore red welts and cuts that continued to bleed. She was naked and the bed was bare. Dark bruises marked the inside of her thighs, blood was smeared on the mattress.

“What have you done?” Aaron shut the door firmly behind him. There was a simple bolt lock. He slid it closed.

“Is that food? Great. I’m famished.” Doug took the box from Aaron’s hands and sauntered over to the table, oblivious to the dead body he had to step over to get there.

“Dammit, Doug! I told you to stay put.”

“Shit, I was going stir-crazy. Flat-out insane.”

“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.”

“I felt like I was back at Quentin. I had to get out.” Doug opened the box. “Hot coffee.” He poured from the thermos into a cup and breathed in the rich scent. “Good stuff.”

“Do you realize they’re going to find out what happened here?”

“We’ll be long gone.” He gulped the coffee.

“The owners come to the cottages every day to bring food and supplies. And when the snow lets up—”

“Anyone comes, I’ll pop them.”

“You can’t kill everyone! Let me think.”

“You think, I’ll eat.”

Aaron looked at the woman on the bed. She wasn’t blindfolded. Not only could she identify Doug, she could now identify Aaron. She’d have to be killed. Aaron didn’t relish the thought, but he’d make Doug do it.

Then tomorrow, he’d make a point of going out with Joanna again. He could delay the discovery of the bodies until he took Joanna away. He had wanted more time—at least a week—to win her heart, but now he realized he’d have to work faster. Especially if the Sheriff was on his way to the lodge.

It would work out, he convinced himself. After all, she’d been very attentive to him last night. And today, asking him to join her while delivering meals to the guests, and then to help the Boy Scouts. Wouldn’t it be pleasant to run this place with Joanna? Together. Working as a team. Lovers, friends.

In her book
Every Little Thing
the heroine had lived in a large, run-down home in San Francisco. The hero, an architect, had bought the building to renovate and turn into a high-class spa. Instead, they’d worked together to create a quaint bed-and-breakfast, fell in love, and married.

He could see himself in that role. Working with Joanna to keep the Moosehead Lodge afloat. Her grandfather was old—probably eighty—and she couldn’t do it all herself. She needed a man. She needed him. Aaron.

John Miller.

“Yo, Aaron?”

“You’ll have to kill her.”

“She’s my distraction, buddy. You want some? I’m worn out.” Doug laughed.

How had Aaron ended up with this vile human being as his partner? Aaron wasn’t about to have sex with any woman except Joanna. And he wouldn’t take her against her will. She would offer her body to him freely, out of love and passion, not fear.

“Joanna is going to be here any minute.”

“Want me to help you restrain her?”

Aaron’s hands clenched and unclenched. He slammed a fist on the table, knocking over the thermos of coffee. He didn’t notice the hot liquid spill across the wood, onto the floor.

“Fuck, man—”

Aaron whispered, “You touch her and I will kill you.”

Doug blinked, stepped back. Started cleaning up spilt coffee.

“Just saying, man.”

“Kill the woman and go back to where I left you yesterday. Do not leave. The Sheriff faxed over our mug shots.”

Doug stopped cleaning and glared at him. “What about you?”

“The machine jammed. I helped clear it, erased the memory,” Aaron lied easily. “But your page already had come through. Everyone there knows what you look like.”

“I can’t believe this! You said we’d have that place to ourselves. It’s in the middle of nowhere, no one would think of finding us, but the cops know we’re here? How the fuck do they know we’re here? Who told them? Who saw us?”

Aaron had been thinking the same thing. He shook his head. “Maybe the clerk at the gas station where I bought the map.”

“That’s stupid,” Doug said. “Why would she remember you? You know how many people go into gas stations and buy maps?”

She’d commented on the romance novel Aaron had bought. “You like Joanna Sutton?”

“Yes,” he’d replied.

“Me, too. I read them as soon as they come out.”

Doug said, “Maybe you didn’t take care of O’Brien.”

“He was dead.”

But he hadn’t been dead when Aaron had left him in the ditch. He was bleeding from the gut. No one could survive without medical attention. O’Brien had been left in the middle of nowhere. Only a few hours later it was snowing so hard, he’d certainly have frozen to death if he hadn’t bled to death first.

Aaron didn’t need to tell Doug that.

“It’s the only way this will work. Do it.”

A sound. A snowmobile. He jumped up, parted the curtains a fraction. Joanna had just started her snowmobile. She was looking at the cabin.
Stay away. Stay back.

“I have to go. Do what I say, Doug.”

“Or what? You going to kill me like you killed O’Brien?” Doug had his hand on his gun.

Aaron glanced at Vicky Trotsky. Almost felt bad for her. She didn’t ask for this, not like other women. “Kill her before you leave. She can identify you, and me.”

Vicky tried to scream and fought the ties. Aaron turned from her, unbolted the door. “If you fuck this up, Chapman, you’re dead.”

“Ooo, big threat.” But he didn’t sound so tough—he knew Aaron was dead serious. “Fine. But I have all day, right?”

“No one will be out here tonight, I’ll make sure of it. Be out before seven tomorrow morning.”

“That’ll give me plenty of time for some more fun.”

Vicky whimpered and strained, the fishing wire cutting deep into her wrists.

“Keep that up,” Aaron told her, “and you’ll kill yourself.” He turned to Doug. “Don’t make her suffer.”