Tempting Evil (6 page)

TWELVE

It took Tyler nearly thirty minutes to drive down the interstate to Monida, and it would be at least two hours before he, his two deputies, and the Feds hit Lakeview. If the snow didn’t fall heavier than the few wisps that started as they left Monida.

He was about to radio Bonnie to patch him into the lodge. The ringing phone had to have been a glitch, or no one could hear it. Phone lines simply didn’t go out in the valley. They were buried, and he’d never heard of a problem.

Bonnie came on almost immediately. “I have Wyatt on the radio.”

“Patch him through.”

A minute later, Wyatt said, “Tyler.”

“Everything okay?”

“Karl Weber radioed me. Jo is on her way now.”

“When did you talk to Karl? I talked to Trixie earlier this morning, but haven’t been able to reach anyone by phone since.”

“About ten, fifteen minutes ago. He was having radio trouble earlier, but it’s fixed.”

Tyler didn’t like the coincidence of radio trouble coupled with not being able to reach the lodge by phone, but at least Wyatt had spoken to Karl.

“Karl didn’t sound worried or distressed?”

“Not really—he asked if I knew about the escaped prisoners, and I told him that we had talked.”

Tyler said to Wyatt, “Don’t tell me that Jo left the lodge alone.”

“No. She brought several men with her. Karl said the weather was too unpredictable for the scouts to hike to the lodge, so we’re going to double up on snowmobiles and probably arrive before you get there.”

“Who did she leave with?”

“Karl didn’t say. Must be guests from the lodge. Any word on the prisoners?”

“No,” Tyler said. “But Nash said two of his snowmobiles are missing.”

“Stolen?”

“Appears so. I wanted to give Jo another warning. She’s a smart woman, but she’s also stubborn.”

Wyatt agreed. “Yes, she is.”

“Is there anywhere other than the lodge where you can take the boys? What about that place near Elk Lake? Or the Worthingtons’?”

“Both places are too difficult to reach with an injured boy,” Wyatt said. “The valley is nearly four hundred thousand acres. The chances that two killers will stumble over us, slim to none. And I’ll hear a snowmobile from miles away. Sound carries extremely well out here. I’ll be cautious.”

“Tell Jo about the theft when you see her.”

“Anything else you want me to pass on?”

“Nothing I won’t tell her myself when I see her. We’re about four miles from Lakeview. We should meet up around the same time at the lodge.”

“Do you really think these guys are a threat?” Wyatt asked.

Tyler glanced at Hans Vigo in the seat next to him. Why would the Feds have come all the way out here unless they thought there was a real threat? There was something to their concerns, and his own fear.

“Just keep your eyes and ears open, Wyatt.”

“Yes, Sheriff.” Wyatt hung up and Tyler winced. He hadn’t meant to sound so bossy. It came with the territory. Was that why he and Wyatt couldn’t regain the brotherhood they’d shared as kids? Because they had both grown up into strong-willed, stubborn men who didn’t like to explain themselves?

Tyler was about to radio Bonnie again to patch him into the lodge—he’d like to talk to Karl Weber himself, tell him about the
personal
threat to Jo—when Mitch Bianchi shouted from the backseat, “Stop!”

Tyler slowly braked. Slamming on the brakes could have put them into a skid or spin. Before they fully stopped, he saw the same thing Mitch Bianchi had.

A car roof.

Tyler motioned for everyone to remain silent as they exited the police 4X4 truck, guns drawn. If there was someone in the car, it was doubtful they were alive. But if somehow a killer had survived, he was trapped, and trapped animals attacked first.

They approached slowly by necessity, the snow soft under their boots. The car was off the road, but barely. Most likely it had gotten stuck. Tyler remembered that, according to the anonymous caller, the killers were driving a Ford 250 truck.

The vehicle looked like a truck, the bed full of snow, the cab almost completely covered as the wind had blown drifts of snow around it. Tyler motioned for his deputy to get into the bed, and Bianchi took the front. Tyler approached the side and kicked the snow off the window.

Empty.

“It’s the same type of truck that Chapman and Doherty were last seen in,” Bianchi said. “What are the odds?”

“It’s theirs.” Tyler took a shovel from his vehicle and scooped snow away from the door so he could open it.

“How can you tell?”

“Look.” He pointed to a map on the floor. It wasn’t just that it was a map of eastern Idaho and southwest Montana. There was blood spatter on it.

Bianchi came around and held the door open against the pressure of the snow while Tyler picked up the map. There was more blood on the dashboard, much of it smeared as if someone had tried to clean up. As if to prove the point, Bianchi gestured to the rear bench seat. Bloodstained napkins from a fast-food chain had been tossed into the back.

“I think this confirms that our anonymous caller was Tom O’Brien,” Bianchi said.

“How so?”

“Let’s say the ‘accident’ Tom O’Brien talked about was that his two buddies were onto him,” Bianchi said.

“Onto him? I don’t get it,” Tyler said.

“We told you earlier that we have reason to believe that Tom O’Brien has been tracking the fugitives on his own, detaining them until authorities arrive. I’m thinking that somehow O’Brien slipped up, maybe said something he shouldn’t. Chapman has a hair-trigger temper. We suspected he’d stolen a gun. So O’Brien slips up and Chapman shoots him. Tosses him from the truck outside Pocatello.”

“O’Brien is one lucky son of a bitch,” Grossman said. “To survive with a bullet hole for hours in this weather.”

“Could be he ran, passed out somewhere—a public restroom? Maybe he stole another car? We don’t know,” Bianchi said. “But it makes sense, including his waiting half a day to call it in.”

“O’Brien said he was in an accident,” Tyler said, considering what Bianchi was saying and trying to reconcile that to the facts as he knew them.

“Accident my ass,” Bianchi said. “Accident in that he slipped up
accidentally.
But he didn’t say
car
accident, did he? No, they shot and dumped him, thinking he was dead or dying.” He slammed his fist on the roof of the truck. “If I was only in Pocatello, I could find him!”

“Mitch,” Vigo said quietly. The other Fed took a step away, hands fisted, but didn’t say anything. “We need to get to the lodge as soon as possible.”

“Let’s go,” Tyler said. The abandoned truck was only a mile from where the snowmobiles were stolen. The killers had more than enough time to make it to the Moosehead Lodge. Unless they had been injured or lost. With luck, they were dead in the snow.

Vigo didn’t move.

“What are you thinking?” Tyler asked, eager to get moving.

“His body would be here,” Vigo mumbled. He stared at the interior of the truck, deep in thought.

“Hans?” Bianchi asked after a long minute.

“Chapman was driving. O’Brien was in the passenger seat. Doherty was in the back. Doherty shot O’Brien.”

Tyler stared at the cab, trying to see what Hans Vigo saw. As the senior Fed explained what he believed happened, Tyler could picture it unfolding right before them.

“Chapman was driving because he’s the grunt man. He can’t sit still. He would
have
to drive. And Doherty would be fine with that because he wanted to think, to fantasize about Joanna Sutton. To build up the relationship in his mind, so that when they saw each other he would believe she felt exactly the same as he did.

“O’Brien was looking for a chance to take control of the situation. He couldn’t take them together. That’s why he called Bianchi when he had Blackie Goethe’s gang cornered. He knew he couldn’t take them all, so he tipped his hand, put his own freedom on the line. With Chapman and Doherty, he’d probably thought he could separate them, take one of them down first, then the other.”

“What happened? How did he trip up?”

Hans climbed into the cab, then into the backseat. He stared at the seat belts, then settled in the middle. “Doherty sat here. That way he could see both Chapman and O’Brien. He didn’t trust Chapman because he’s a hothead. He didn’t trust O’Brien because he’s smart. And—and because he disappeared for a couple days. He left to trap Blackie Goethe’s gang. He had a good excuse, something that sounded right on the surface, but Doherty is suspicious by nature. He wouldn’t trust him. He’d want to watch him. But he didn’t shoot him because he thought O’Brien was going to turn him in.”

“He shot him because of Jo,” Tyler said, suddenly putting the facts in perspective. “O’Brien was in the passenger seat with the map.”

“Exactly. He was trying to figure out where they were going, who they planned on seeing. Probably joking around a bit. Trying to get them to trust him. But he said the wrong thing about Jo Sutton.”

“Guy talk,” Bianchi interjected. “Something seemingly innocuous, like how hot she was.”

“He knew what she looked like, but not her name,” Tyler remembered. “Doherty had a picture. O’Brien wanted to warn her, but didn’t know who she was. He started asking Doherty questions about her.”

“He asked the
wrong
questions,” Vigo said. “They didn’t know O’Brien was trying to send them back to prison. Doherty thought that O’Brien was trying to steal his girl.”

“Jo Sutton is not his girl,” Tyler said.

Vigo shook his head as if to clear it. “Sorry. I sometimes get overinvolved in my profiles.”

Tyler nodded, feeling a touch self-conscious by his reaction. Jo was
his
girl. If only she would realize it.

Her words that night came to him loud and clear.

“I feel like I’m still married.”

Jo Sutton belonged to a dead man. And until she made peace with that, she wouldn’t be able to open up to him.

But damn if he was going to let some psychopathic obsessive killer near her.

“I may be wrong,” Vigo admitted as he clambered out of the truck. “It’s just an educated guess.”

Bianchi said, “Your educated guesses are usually right on the money. And it fits what we know about Doherty’s personality and O’Brien’s phone call.”

“Let’s move,” Tyler said.

“And put these bastards back in prison,” Vigo added.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Tyler said, relieved to be moving again.

Aaron rode directly behind Joanna, who led the twelve-mile trek to where the Boy Scouts were waiting. They were going at a steady 10-to 15-mile-per-hour pace, primarily because visibility was poor. But it wasn’t snowing, the few flakes falling almost as an afterthought.

Aaron didn’t feel the cold, he barely felt the motor of the snowmobile beneath him. His jaw was locked tight and he stared at Joanna’s bright red ski jacket.

Why had she asked two other men to join them?

The excuse that they could bring the boys back together rang hollow. Why hadn’t she thought of that at first? Why all this deception? Why didn’t she want to be alone with him? Hadn’t they planned this lover’s interlude, time to really get to know each other as they rode to save the Boy Scouts?

An anguished cry caught in his throat. She didn’t love him like he loved her. How could he believe he was worthy of such a beautiful, smart woman?

(You’re pathetic, kill her now.)

He was a convicted murderer, a man who couldn’t provide for Joanna. How could he keep her happy? How could he care for her and make sure she had everything she wanted? When they were on the run, constantly looking over their shoulders. How could he expect her to live like that?

She’d do it if she really loved you. And if she doesn’t love you, kill her.

(Kill her now.)

No, no, no! He didn’t want to kill her. That was something Doug Chapman would do, kill a woman because she made him mad. He’d killed his wife to get rid of her so he could be with his girlfriend, then he killed his girlfriend when she wanted to leave him because he killed his wife.

The irony made Aaron laugh out loud. No one heard his cackle over the loud hum of the snowmobiles. Did Doug even see the ludicrous life he led?

What about Aaron? He was a nobody, and Joanna must see that. His nothingness was plastered over his face, in his words, an average man in an average body with an average mind.

You’re smart, Aaron. Very smart. If she doesn’t see that, she needs to die.

No! Dammit, he didn’t want to kill her. His chest heaved and he couldn’t catch his breath. How could he take away something so beautiful and precious?

Tell her the truth.

That he killed Lincoln Barnes? Then she would know he was one of the escaped convicts.

She’ll forgive you.

Or better yet…he could apprehend a killer. He could risk his life to save hers. Put a bullet in Doug Chapman’s gut, just like he did to that letch Tom O’Brien who was staring at Joanna’s breasts in the picture.

He would save her life and she would fall in love with him.

Aaron needed to figure out exactly how to set it up. And fast. Before the damn Sheriff Tyler McBride—
Love, Tyler
—arrived.

Joanna looked back over her shoulder and pointed her finger to the northeast. They were curving around. He had no idea where they were, but Joanna had a marvelous sense of direction. Such a smart girl.

His chest swelled with pride. She belonged to him.

THIRTEEN

Annie Erickson poured coffee for the well-dressed FBI agent who was sitting at her small oak kitchen table.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” he said.

She glanced at his card.
QUINCY PETERSON, ASSISTANT SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE, FBI SEATTLE REGIONAL FIELD OFFICE

“You wanted to talk about Aaron?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Have you found him?”

“We’re closing in on him, but we need some additional information to help us pinpoint his exact location and his mind-set.”

She glanced down. Though the federal agent looked like a nice, handsome man not much older than Aaron, his job was to put poor Aaron back behind bars.

“Ms. Erickson? You testified at Aaron’s trial. You asked for leniency because of childhood abuse.”

“The judge didn’t listen to me. But he wasn’t there—he didn’t watch that woman destroy that little boy.”

“But you were there.”

“From the day Aaron was born, Ginger left him with friends and family until she had no one left who would take him. I wanted to adopt him, to raise him as my own—she knew I loved him, and she took him away from me. I loved him more than she ever could!” Annie looked down at her own coffee cup, remembering the last time she’d seen Aaron as a boy. He’d been thirteen. When Ginger left with him, Annie knew she’d never bring him back.

“How did you know Ginger and Aaron?”

“Ginger’s mother and mine had been friends when we were kids.”

“You and Ginger weren’t friends?”

Annie shrugged. “Not close. We grew up in Los Angeles, went to the same school, lived nearby. Since our moms were friends, we saw each other often.”

“Did you know Aaron’s father?”

She’d never met Joe Dawson, but he was as much to blame for what had happened to Aaron as Ginger. If he had a backbone, he would have fought for custody of his son. His parents were good people and would have taken care of Aaron. But Joe was as selfish as Ginger.

“Joe Dawson didn’t want to be a father. Aaron wasn’t the only child he fathered out of wedlock. Last I heard he has four kids out of four different women. His parents stepped in and he married the mother of the last child, but I don’t know if they are still together.”

“You know a lot about the family.”

“I did. Until my mom died two years ago she kept in contact with Ginger’s mother.”

“Do you know if Ginger’s mother is still alive? Do you have an address?”

“I don’t think so. The Christmas card I sent last year was returned. She was the same age as my mom, eighty-three. Maybe she went to a home. My mom thought she had Alzheimer’s, but Ginger’s mom hated going to the doctor.”

“Do you know where Ginger Doherty is now?”

Annie shook her head. “I heard from friends that when Aaron was a sophomore in high school—frankly, it was amazing he didn’t flunk out of school what with Ginger moving him every couple of months—she left him with her great-aunt in Los Angeles. Glendale, I believe. She was supposed to come back for him in two months—she told everyone she had a job on a cruise ship—but she never returned. Not surprising. She never showed up when she promised she would his entire life.”

“You never knew what happened to her?”

Annie shook her head slowly. “I thought she’d either just forgot about him completely, or hooked up with some other guy who didn’t want kids. I had Aaron for eight months while she shacked up with a sugar daddy in Florida. The bastard didn’t like kids, so she never told him about Aaron. Aaron was seven then, and that was the only stable year of his entire life. Then you know what she did? She showed up one morning
two weeks
before the end of the school year and just took him. The relationship didn’t work out and she wanted to spend time with Aaron. Then I heard from my mom that she left him with her mother not a week later.” Annie’s voice cracked. Every time she thought about Aaron or Ginger she became upset.

“So you can see why the judge was wrong to give that poor boy the death penalty. I never doubted he did what they said he did—there was evidence, I know—but I wish the system could see that he was just a wounded little boy.”

Agent Peterson was taking notes, his face solemn and nonjudgmental. Annie liked him.

“And you never heard from Aaron after his mother took him when he was thirteen?”

“Well, I visited him in prison after his arrest for killing poor Rebecca Oliver.” She sighed. “I ache over that. If only I’d had the money to fight Ginger for custody. But—it wasn’t just money, I suppose. What claim did I have to him? Why didn’t the schools do something? His grandparents? His father?”

“Do you know Joanna Sutton?”

“The romance writer?” Annie glanced down again. “He asked me if I would bring him her books. He’d read one in the prison library and wanted more. They were wonderful family romances. I thought he could learn what love was really about, that his mother wasn’t typical and, in fact, was abnormal.”

“Did you know that Aaron was writing her letters?”

“I—” She swallowed uneasily.

“Did you send letters for him? Receive letters?”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, ma’am.”

Annie bit her bottom lip and played with her coffee cup. “I know I broke the rules—but just that one time. When he asked me to send a second letter, I read it first and never mailed it. I realized what he was doing.”

“And what was that?”

“He was turning her into another Rebecca Oliver. He had this idea that the actress was in love with him. He wrote me letters, at least twice a month, telling me about their dates, what she said to him, how much he loved her. I had no idea it was all in his head. And then he started writing that he and Joanna Sutton were pen pals, that she was helping him write a book, and the prison gave them special permission to be together.

“I didn’t believe it, not after reading the second letter he asked me to send, but I didn’t want to hurt him so I played along with his fantasy. I mean, he was in prison. Who could he hurt? Why are you asking me about her? He didn’t—oh my God, he didn’t hurt her since the escape?” Annie felt ill.

“Not yet, Ms. Erickson, but whatever information you have about Aaron’s feelings toward Ms. Sutton would help us determine what his next move might be.”

Annie swallowed a sob. She pictured young Aaron, big blue eyes looking out the window for a mother who never arrived on time. Young Aaron making sure he was clean, his clothes pressed, his hair combed all the time, just in case his mother showed up that day. Ginger didn’t like dirty little boys…

“It’s my fault.”

“What?”

“Mrs. Sutton responded to his first letter. I didn’t send it from the prison, but instead put my return address on the envelope. I was going to bring it to him, but after reading the second letter, I decided against it.”

“When was this?”

“Two years ago.”

“Do you remember anything about the letters?”

“I still have them.”

Stan went upstairs to change the towels in the guest rooms. He found it odd that in John Miller’s room he saw several of Jo’s books on the desk. He crossed over and immediately noticed that three had a library’s Dewey decimal code and the letter S for “Sutton” taped to each spine. Did he buy them at a library fund-raiser? Maybe. They all looked well read.

He opened one of them and saw underlined passages. Who on earth marked text in romance novels?

What did they really know about John Miller? He hailed from L.A. and had made his reservation a week ago, out of the blue. He hadn’t been referred by anyone. He said he needed time to think, which wasn’t surprising to Stan. But he didn’t seem the type to cotton to thinking time. And he had attached himself to Jo readily enough.

You sent this fellow with Jo.

Had Stan made a mistake?

He went through John’s room. There was nothing personal in it except for the clothes he’d worn yesterday. He’d worn Stan’s clothes today, including a snowsuit. The only thing he’d brought with him from his truck were romance novels?
Jo’s
romance novels?

Stan noticed a piece of paper folded and tucked into one of the books. He picked up the book, extracted the paper and carefully unfolded it. If his fears were unfounded, Stan wanted to be able to put the paper back as it was.

He stared at a photograph of John Miller. A mug shot, complete with the height marker behind him. It was a fax—and the header read
Beaverhead County Sheriff’s Department, Dillon, Montana.

Sheriff McBride had faxed over the mug shots of
three
convicts, not two.

John Miller, aka Aaron Doherty, had stolen his own.

Stan had to warn Jo.

She was in the middle of nowhere with a killer.

Jo was pleased with their progress: They made it to the Kimball homestead in just over an hour. They’d been moving at fifteen miles an hour most of the time except for two delays. On their return, they wouldn’t be able to go that fast hauling Ben Ward safely, or with the scouts sitting double on the snowmobiles. She was a little concerned about fuel—the added weight would drain their gasoline much faster, but as long as they rode steady and stayed on the main trail they’d make it. She had a two-gallon backup tank that she could tap into and siphon off if necessary.

Wyatt stood outside the cabin as Jo approached. “Heard you coming way back.”

“Snowmobiles aren’t built for stealth.”

Wyatt glanced at the three men disembarking from the other sleds. Jo explained, “I don’t like the weather right now. I’m thinking we should get you all back to the lodge quickly, rather than letting anyone ski in.”

Wyatt held up his hand to stop Jo’s explanation. “I spoke with Karl an hour ago. He told me you were coming with help. I should have thought of it myself.”

Jo said, “I don’t think we’re going to be able to take your equipment. We’re already doubling up some of the kids. Why don’t you figure out how best to distribute everyone? It’ll be slow going, but we’ll all be back safe in less than two hours.”

“Sounds like a good plan. I can come back for our stuff tomorrow or the next day.”

She pulled out an insulated box from the straps on the back of her sled. “Stan sent some sustenance.”

“Great.”

Jo introduced Wyatt to the three men. “John Miller, from Los Angeles, and Craig and Sean Mann from Seattle. The Manns have been to the lodge before.”

Wyatt shook their gloved hands, motioned them inside.

The Kimball homestead was simply an abandoned log cabin that had withstood harsh winters for more than fifty years, largely due to the craggy cliff to the north which protected it from the worst of the wind. Holes had been repaired, the roof replaced a couple summers back by Wyatt’s former scout troop, and the land had been used for winter survival scout events for as long as Jo could remember.

The roof and the walls did little to stop the cold, and the inside was not much warmer than the ten degrees it was outdoors, though a fire burned in the river rock fireplace.

Jo started unpacking the sandwiches and hot chocolate for the boys, coffee for her and the men. She saw Jason sitting next to the injured Ben, who was up against the wall, close enough to the fire so the warmth did him good.

Jason looked so much like his father that for a moment, her heart skipped a beat.

She approached and squatted next to the boys, handing them cups of hot chocolate. “Hi, Jason.”

“Hi, Jo.” He didn’t look at her; just stared at his cup. She didn’t know what exactly he knew about her relationship with his father. She hadn’t talked to him since she’d turned down Tyler’s marriage proposal.

The last person she wanted to hurt was a boy still grieving over the death of his mother. She had no right to have insinuated herself into the McBride family. Why hadn’t she thought about Jason more when she first started seeing Tyler?

Because she hadn’t wanted to think about Jason. Thinking about Jason inevitably made her remember Timmy.

Timmy would have been thirteen, a year older than Jason.

She realized how callous she’d been toward Tyler’s son, as if he weren’t an important part of who Tyler was. Or maybe—maybe subconsciously Jason was more important to her, and more important in her rejection of Tyler, than she’d realized.

She squeezed his arm and made him look at her. “Keeping watch over our patient?”

He shrugged, sipped the hot chocolate. “It’s my fault.”

Ben shook his head. “It’s not.”

“It was.” He said it so emphatically that she knew nothing Ben—or Jo—could say would change his mind.

Ben piped up. “We were climbing the rocks over at that trail that leads to Red Rock Pass. My foot went in between two boulders and just snapped.”

“It was an accident,” Jo said.

“He was my partner,” Jason mumbled. “And it was my idea to climb the rocks.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I was supposed to be looking out for him.”

“You are supposed to look out for each other. It was an accident. If he hadn’t stepped in the wrong hole in the wrong way, it wouldn’t have happened.” Jo wanted to hug Jason, but suspected he’d be embarrassed. And the thought of holding a boy…any boy…made her throat constrict.

The last boy she’d held was her dying son before he went in for surgery.

“The pressure on his brain is so strong that he’ll die in less than twenty-four hours if we don’t relieve it.” The doctor, a squarish man with wire-rimmed glasses, had looked at her as if somehow this was all her fault.

Or maybe that was her, looking in a mirror.

“Then do it!” she demanded.

“I don’t think he’ll survive the surgery.”

What?

She hadn’t spoken the question, but it vibrated in her head. What did he mean, Timmy wouldn’t survive the surgery?

The doctor stared at her, and when she didn’t speak, he said, “Timmy will die without surgery. The extent of the internal bleeding is so great that without surgery to stop it, he can’t survive. But because of where the bleeding is, and the extensive contusion inside his skull, I don’t think we can stop it and repair the damage in time.”