Tempting Evil (9 page)

Gun within easy reach, Stan walked up the slope to where the college kids were staying. He knocked briskly on the door, then stepped back.

“Who is it?”

“Stan Wood from the lodge.”

“How do I know?”

“Look through the window.”

Stan stepped to the right. The shutters opened and Brian Bates looked out.

The door opened a moment later. “Sorry. Jo said there might be some trouble coming this way and not to let anyone in.”

“The Sheriff would like you and Marie to come to the lodge. He’s on his way with reinforcements.”

“Is that necessary? Is there really a problem? I thought it was just a precaution.”

The pretty, petite Marie wrapped her arms around Brian from behind. “Are we in danger?” she asked, her big blue eyes looking from her boyfriend to Stan.

Stan said, “One of the convicts was a guest at the lodge under a false identity. The Sheriff is on his way to apprehend him now—he went out with Jo on a rescue. We don’t know about the second. It would be safer if everyone was under one roof.”

“Okay, give us a couple minutes. We’ll pack up our stuff.”

Stan nodded. “I’ll go down and talk to the Trotskys. Meet me down there in ten minutes.”

Brian closed the door and Stan walked down the steep slope, his snowshoes giving him purchase. The trees on the slope shielded him from the worst of the wind, but he could barely make out the cabin beyond. He’d lived through twenty-nine winters here, didn’t particularly like them, but for him the splendor of summer made up for the brutality of winter. Nowhere on earth came close to the peaceful radiance of the Centennial Valley in June and July, when the birds came and stayed for a time.

Knowing what came in only a few months sustained Stan during the worst of winter. He approached the Trotskys’ cabin and listened.

The howl of the wind. Snow falling from the trees. The scurry of rodents across branches. He heard snowmobiles in the distance—they were miles away. He couldn’t tell if they were coming from the northeast, where Jo was picking up the scout troop, or from the west where the Sheriff was coming in. Sound carried far in the valley.

He knocked on the door. There was no sound from inside, but they might be napping. Stan had never married, but he’d been young and in love once. Before the war.

He knocked louder. Again, silence. He withdrew his gun. The blinds on the two windows were closed. He couldn’t see in. He slowly turned the doorknob.

Unlocked.

He pushed open the door, standing to the side. Phantom gunfire rattled around his head and he broke out in a sweat. He clenched the gun and glanced through the opening.

Vicky Trotsky was naked, tied to the bare mattress, her neck a red river of blood. Bruises and welts covered her body. Her empty eyes stared at the heavens, as if pleading for mercy.

Did her husband do this to her?

Stan hated the thought, guilt washing over him when he saw Greg Trotsky dead on the floor.

No one else was in the cabin. He slammed the door shut on the violence, unable to see anything but red behind his closed eyes. Had Stan done this by sending Aaron Doherty down here with Jo to deliver breakfast?

But there hadn’t been enough time for him to rape and kill Vicky. Had he done it the night before? Was that why he was so eager to go with Jo?

Stan had assumed, when Doherty left the other two killers’ mug shots on the fax while taking his own, that it was a sign that the other convicts were out of the picture, either dead or elsewhere.

Stan didn’t want to go back in the cabin, but he had to. He had to know what happened there.

He opened the door and crossed first to Greg Trotsky. His body was tight and hard, a sign of rigor mortis. Stan crossed to Vicky’s body. He picked a sheet up off the floor and covered her nakedness, wanting to give her some semblance of dignity in death. Her body was still warm to the touch.

Stan had seen enough death in Vietnam to know that Greg had been killed hours before his wife.

In Stan’s mind, there was no way that Aaron Doherty could have killed the Trotskys. He’d been visible around the lodge in the evening and in the early morning, and he wasn’t gone long enough this morning to come down here to rape and brutalize this poor woman.

Even if Doherty hadn’t murdered the couple, he had to know the truth. He’d been inside the cabin this morning. He must have seen Greg dead, and Vicky beaten and restrained. And he did nothing. Nothing, because the killer was Doherty’s partner.

There was another killer at large. And no one knew his whereabouts.

EIGHTEEN

Jason wanted to check on Wyatt that evening, so Tyler brought him to the den for a visit. Wyatt was sound asleep.

“Is he going to be okay?” Jason asked, his face full of concern. Too much worry for a twelve-year-old.

Tyler closed the door and took Jason down the wide foyer to a bench in the corner. They sat side by side. Tyler said, “Sam Nash and Peter are going to take Wyatt to Island Park tomorrow by snowmobile.”

“It
is
serious.”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Jason. Wyatt is stable, but he needs medical attention. He may be fine, but we don’t know and right now Nash is concerned about his blood pressure and the fact that the bullet is still in his body. Bullets can do funny things, depending on where they are lodged. He needs X-rays to make sure the bullet didn’t do additional damage. And there’re other things to worry about, so moving him is the smartest thing to do.”

Jason nodded.

“I’m going to do everything I can to make sure Wyatt lives. He’s my brother. I love him.”

“You never talked about him before.”

“Before what?”

“Before we moved here.”

“We didn’t talk much ourselves. You know we had different mothers. Wyatt’s mother didn’t like Grandpa anymore, and well, let’s just say Wyatt and I grew up and grew apart. But he’s my brother and I love him, and I’m glad we came here to Montana so you could get to know him.” Tyler took a deep breath. He remembered with clarity his fear when he heard Jason had gone after Aaron Doherty. “You’ve really grown up since we came here. I know you didn’t want to move in the first place.”

“I didn’t know what to expect.” Jason looked down at his clasped hands.

Tyler put his son’s hands in his own. “Jason, I am so proud of you.”

“You’re not mad?” Jason looked at him.

“I was scared to death that something would happen to you, but I can’t be angry with you. Not when you acted on instinct. If it weren’t for you, Jo could have been seriously hurt by Aaron Doherty. The man is extremely dangerous.” Tyler took a deep breath. “I’d prefer if you didn’t put yourself in harm’s way again, but I know that’ll be wishful thinking. You’re a lot like your uncle.”

“I’m like Uncle Wyatt?” Jason sounded pleased.

Tyler smiled. “I’m the one with the dangerous job but Wyatt was always the risk taker. Skateboarding, mountain climbing, river rafting. He’d be the first to take a dare, and he’d usually win, even if he broke a bone or two in the process. I admire that about him. I’ve always been more cautious.”

“Uncle Wyatt said he likes that you think things through, says you’re a smart guy.”

“He said that? When?”

“We just talk sometimes. Is Jo going to marry you?”

“How—I mean, I didn’t—”

“Uncle Wyatt told me you proposed to her.”

Wyatt had a big mouth.

“I should have talked to you first, I suppose.”

“I like her.”

“So do I.”

“You didn’t love Mom.”

“That’s not true.”

Jason didn’t say anything and Tyler wondered what he was thinking. When the silence went on too long, Tyler said, “Would it be okay with you if I married Jo?”

Jason nodded. “When?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t agreed.”

“Why?”

“Because she misses her husband and son.”

“I miss Mom sometimes.”

“I know you do. And that’s okay.”

They sat there for a long time, but this time the silence was comfortable. Tyler put an arm around his son, eyes hot with pride.

Jason was growing into a fine young man.

Jo couldn’t write or sleep and she realized she hadn’t eaten dinner. It was nearly midnight when she slipped on her sheepskin house boots and went downstairs. Deputy Billy Grossman and her grandfather were sitting in the entry, Buckley at Grandpa’s feet. All three lifted their heads to watch her come down the stairs.

“Is everything okay?” Grandpa asked.

“Yes. I thought I’d make some tea. Can I get you anything?”

“We’re good.”

She scratched Buckley on the head and looked out the window. The floodlights were on, but only a swirling sheet of white could be seen. This blizzard was worse than last night’s. But she felt surprisingly safe—there was no way Aaron Doherty could get to her or anyone else tonight.

She felt a pang of guilt wishing him dead. Freezing to death was an awful way to go. But he had shot Wyatt and held a gun on a young boy.

He had killed Lincoln Barnes.

For her. She shivered, not from cold.

He’d also known that Doug Chapman had killed the Trotskys. Doherty had let him. He didn’t do anything to save Vicky. Tyler had explained the time line to her, that Doherty couldn’t have killed them, but he had to have known. He’d gone into their cabin. Brought breakfast. Told Jo everything was fine.

She kissed her grandfather on the cheek and tried to put the disturbing thoughts aside. “How are you?”

“I should ask you the same thing.”

“I’m so sorry about this.”

“Sorry? It’s not your fault.”

It wasn’t, she knew that, but it was because of her that Aaron Doherty had come here in the first place. Irrational to blame herself, but there it was.

“I know, but…” She sighed and put her head on his shoulder. “I love you, Grandpa.”

“I love you, kiddo.”

“Do you know where Tyler is?”

“I think he’s in the kitchen with the FBI agents.”

She kissed her grandfather on his thin cheek, leathery from spending so much of his life in the rugged outdoors. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything? Some more coffee? Maybe some food?” she asked both her grandfather and Billy.

“We have a thermos, but thanks,” Grandpa said.

“Just let me know if you need anything. Or if you want to get up and stretch, I can stand watch.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she admitted.

She walked through the darkened great room. If they had lit it up, the windows would have turned the room into a fishbowl. A fire roared in the enclosed fireplace, casting shadows on the walls. Any other night the fire would be comforting and romantic; tonight the flames reminded her of the flames of Hell. Sean and Craig Mann sat in the far corner watching the back doors. Everyone was on alert. The tension was palpable.

The kitchen was empty when she got there, but she heard Tyler’s voice, low, in the office. Not wanting to interrupt his conversation Jo made tea. She put a kettle on to boil, then looked at the file folders and papers on the table.

Some were notes that one of the FBI agents wrote on a yellow legal pad.

Doherty exhibits signs of obsessive-compulsive dissociative disorder. See criminal history. Erotomania with severe mood swings. Ginger Doherty was a single mother, Doherty never knew his father
(
Joe Dawson—Peterson checking on him and grandparents.
)
Mother left him with friends and relatives most of his life.
(
Annie Erickson, testimony—review.
)
Ms. Doherty worked military communications for ten years. She took assignments that would take her out of state or country. Never owned property or rented in her own name. Lived off others. See court transcripts, spec. testimony of Annie Erickson during penalty phase of State of California v. Aaron Christopher Doherty.

Mother’s last known whereabouts King Cruise Lines, San Diego, CA. Disappeared 1986.

Did Aaron Doherty kill his mother? Did he kill his great-aunt?
(
Peterson getting records—Dorothy Miles, Glendale, California.
)

Jo flipped through papers looking for the testimony and instead found something far more disturbing.

Joanna.

The fax was of a letter in small, perfect handwriting, crammed tight on the page. She read on, hands shaking.

I discovered your books last month and have read almost all of them. I am searching for the rest, and in the meantime will reread each and every one. You have a gift, and insight, that amazes me. It’s like you know me, know what I’m thinking and feeling. You understand me like no one else has ever tried to. For that alone, I am eternally grateful.

Like the hero in
All You Need is Love,
I was raised by a single mother who protected me by sending me to live with relatives all over the country. It wasn’t until I read your book that I understood that she did it for love, not for selfish reasons. I loved her, but didn’t understand, not until now.

You must have an eye on the souls of all us tortured heroes, those of us who have persevered through trauma and heartbreak.

My wife was murdered in cold blood. I miss her so much. When I read your book
Don’t Pass Me By
I realized that we share so much of the same pain. We were meant to be together, Joanna. You don’t know me personally, but you know my heart, you know how much I love you, how I will forever protect you…

There was nearly a ream of paper, pages copied from a book and, judging by the header, faxed to the lodge that evening from the Federal Bureau of Investigation in San Francisco.

The pages looked very familiar. She picked up the top sheet and realized this was
her
book that had been copied. In the margins of every page were words so tiny she had to squint to read them. It was a letter of sorts, written to her, in the margins of her own book.

Dearest Joanna:

I know who killed your husband and son. I will avenge you. I am your hero and someday we will meet and you will know the truth….

A moan escaped her throat. Seeing the words in his tight handwriting was worse than hearing him tell her. He’d been obsessed with her for years, but she’d never known. She might have quietly lived her life here in the Centennial Valley never knowing that some psychotic killer had
avenged
her. She hadn’t asked for it, dammit! What had she done to attract the attention of this lunatic?

“I think your water is done.”

Jo jumped up, knocking papers onto the floor. Agent Hans Vigo walked over to the stove and turned off the teakettle. She hadn’t noticed the loud shrill whistle until he’d removed it.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I—”

“You shouldn’t be reading this. Some of it is disturbing.”

She picked up the copies from her book off the floor. “How long has he been obsessed with me?” she asked.

“Two years.”

“Why?” Her voice was a whisper.

Hans poured the hot water into a teapot and put in a couple bags that Jo had taken out when she started the water. He brought the pot to the table with two mugs, put them down, and took the papers from her clenched fists. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“My books…”

“He would have obsessed on someone else if not you. You understand that, right? If not you, it would have been another woman. Aaron Doherty has what we shrinks call ‘obsessive-compulsive dissociative disorder.’ I’d even go so far as to diagnose him as schizophrenic or an erotomaniac, but some would argue against that.”

“So he’s crazy?”

“Crazy is such a misused and misunderstood term. Any human behavior we don’t understand we label as ‘crazy.’ Some people say it’s crazy to play the lottery because the odds are stacked dramatically against you. Some people say it’s crazy to want to have kids in this violent world. Others say it’s crazy
not
to want them. Crazy is used to define any human behavior we disagree with.

“But clinically, ‘crazy’ means ‘insane,’ and I know I’m in the minority on this, but I don’t think most serial predators are insane.”

“So if Doherty’s sane, what then?”

“I don’t think we can know exactly, at least I can’t without talking to him, but from this”—he waved his hands at the stacks of papers—“I can predict his behavior. At least in such a way to hopefully stop him before he hurts anyone else.”

Jo didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t help herself. “So what is he going to do?”

“He’s going to try to convince you that he’s a good person.”

“Me?” She poured tea for both herself and Agent Vigo.

“You’re the object of his fantasy. He wants you to understand and approve of his actions, particularly his killing Lincoln Barnes. In his mind, he killed for you. That bonded you to him—you ‘owe him one,’ for lack of a better phrase. And because he risked his life, because he killed, he expects you to love him. It’s circular reasoning—his fantasy is that you are already in love with him, but at the same time he killed Barnes to make you love him. He wants your understanding, approval, and affection.”

She shook her head. “Maybe he did, but he must hate me now. I shot him with pepper spray, then ran away.”

Hans sipped his tea. “At that particular moment, yes, he did hate you. I suspect he rendezvoused with Doug Chapman somewhere. Most likely at the refuge you thought he was going to, but he could have planned to meet him at one of the cabins, or perhaps a vacant summer vacation home.”

“It would have taken him two hours to get back here, and then to find the cabin in the blizzard—by that time even Tyler and I were having a hard time staying on the trail and I know the valley better than most.”