Tempting Evil Page 3

  “And to see you. To make sure everyone is okay.”

  “Who is this guy with my picture? Do you really think that he’s dangerous?”

  When Tyler didn’t answer, Jo added, “The storm isn’t going to lighten up anytime soon. No one is getting to the lodge tonight.”

  “I’m counting on it. Just be careful.”

  “What are you not telling me, Tyler?”

  Tyler frowned and looked at the information he had about Doherty, Chapman, and O’Brien. How much should he share? He didn’t want to scare her needlessly—Jo was right in that no one was going to make it through Lakeview. He’d already spoken to Nash and he was on the lookout for anyone going that way. But the truth was, there was more than one way into the valley.

  “I don’t want to panic anyone,” he said carefully, “but do you remember the earthquake and prison break in California last week?”

  “It was all over the news.”

  “Someone called in a sighting from Pocatello.”

  “That’s on the interstate. They’re probably on their way to Canada.”

  “The witness said that one of the convicts had a picture of a woman. From a magazine. I think it was you.”

  Silence. Damn, he hadn’t wanted to tell her, but what else could he do? She had to be prepared. “Jo? Are you okay?”

  “That’s why you asked what I had been wearing for the article.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t know that this escapee is coming here.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  The caller’s words came back to him. McBride, you have to believe me. This woman is in danger.

  He added quietly, “There are three prisoners still at-large. The caller only talked about two of them, but we don’t know where the third is, if the three are together, or if they split up.”

  “Who are they?” Jo’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but Tyler could imagine her brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Aaron Doherty, Douglas Chapman, and Thomas O’Brien. All from California, all escaped from San Quentin during the earthquake. I don’t know for a fact that they are coming to the lodge, but you need to be extra careful. I called Nash, filled him in earlier, and he’s keeping an eye out in Lakeview. No one is getting through tonight.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I need to warn the guests—”

  “Wait, Jo.”

  “What do you mean wait?”

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I can’t keep this information to myself!”

  “Can you vouch for every one of your guests? Do you know them, personally? Have they all been there for more than forty-eight hours?”

  She paused. “No, but—”

  “If you tell one, it will get out. People panic, Jo. You know that. Tell your grandfather and Stan, but no one else. Not until you get the pictures. Is your Internet working?”

  “Last I checked, our ISP was down. I’ll keep this between us for now. Grandpa and Stan are already settled for the night. I’ll tell them first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll fax you their mugshots as soon as I get them. It won’t be long, I already talked to the Feds.”

  “I’ll look for them.”

  “Lock your door, Jo. And bring a gun upstairs with you.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  He wished it wasn’t. “Just as a precaution.”

  “Fine.”

  She hung up, and Tyler stared at the phone.

  Why didn’t you tell her you love her?

  He wanted to talk to Jo, get her to explain herself to him, but not over the phone. What could he say to convince her that loving him wasn’t betraying her dead husband?

  A phone conversation wasn’t going to fix anything. Tomorrow when he saw her, then they’d talk. Maybe he hadn’t made it clear to Jo that he wasn’t trying to replace Ken Sutton.

  At least, he’d explain it to her if he could get through—both through the avalanche, and through Jo Sutton’s thick head.

  And once he got there and knew Jason and Jo were safe, he wasn’t going to leave her side until he knew that the three escaped convicts were nowhere near the lodge.

  FIVE

  Aaron Doherty listened to Joanna’s conversation with a man named Tyler.

  On the phone, she spoke softly, and Aaron couldn’t make out all the words. But Joanna sounded concerned.

  No one knew he was coming here. Doug was in hiding and O’Brien was dead.

  Still, something worried her.

  Had someone seen them? But even if there had been a witness, no one knew where they were headed. Maybe someone had discovered the missing snowmobile they’d stolen in that pissant little town off South Centennial Road. Doug had wanted to go to the main house and wait until the storm passed. Aaron convinced him it was unwise. Too many unknown variables. They didn’t know how many people lived there or if they had weapons.

  Had someone in the house seen them and called the cops?

  Whatever. There was no way the cops could get here. Aaron had heard the avalanche. It had to have been huge. Maybe there was another way to get to the lodge, but it would have to take longer, right? On his map, the way he’d come had looked the fastest.

  Aaron would figure out a way to disable the phone system. He’d assumed that the phones would be knocked out by the storm, but Karl Weber had explained earlier that the lines were all buried. “We don’t have electricity out here, we run off a generator, but we have telecommunications,” the old man had joked. “Since we’ve had phone service, over thirty years ago, it’s never gone out because of a storm.”

  Not good. The only phone was in the office, along with a radio and fax machine. Tonight, when everyone was asleep, Aaron would fix the problem. Now he wished Doug was here. He probably knew a way to disable the phones without making anyone suspicious. Doug was a civil engineer, after all—or he had been before he killed three people.

  Doug had lived a relatively normal life, as far as Aaron knew. College grad, good job, married. But he’d been violent on and off and then one week for seemingly no reason, he killed three people.

  While in prison, the doctors put Doug on psych pills and he became almost docile. At least not so tempermental. But Aaron was a little concerned since Doug had been off his medication for six days now. He didn’t seem any different than when they’d been in prison and Doug had been doped up, but Aaron sensed that Doug was getting antsy, like he couldn’t stop moving. Aaron didn’t want him anywhere around Jo. Right now, Doug was doing exactly what Aaron said, but what if he got it in his head that he should be in charge?

  Aaron heard Jo hang up the phone and ducked into another room. It was a small room, maybe a den of sorts. Pitch black, it smelled of pipe tobacco and good cognac. It reminded him of his aunt Dorothy’s house in the hills above Glendale. He’d never met his uncle Benny, he’d been dead before Aaron had been born, but the parlor had still smelled like him. Aunt Dorothy would sit there, open up the humidor, the pipe tobacco filling the air. She’d sip cognac and not move for hours.

  She’d loved Uncle Benny, turning the parlor into a mausoleum.

  It seemed fitting that she died there. Wasn’t she better off now, anyway? She’d always said she couldn’t wait to die so she could be with Benny again.

  And now she was.

  Aaron waited in the lodge den, heart thudding, listening.

  He’d thought everyone was settled for the night. It was nearly eleven. But when he came out of his room, he’d heard Trixie in the kitchen and Joanna’s voice in the office. The fire had been banked for the evening, and Stan Wood and Karl Weber were nowhere to be found.

  He’d wanted to familiarize himself with the surroundings. And to learn more about Joanna. That would have to wait.

  He listened. Soon, there was no sound but the wind. And still, he patiently waited.

  After shooting O’Brien and leaving him in a ditch in the snow outside Pocatello early that morning, he and Doug had continued on to M
onida. Aaron didn’t answer Doug’s questions about why he’d killed O’Brien. Aaron didn’t quite understand himself, but when O’Brien made that comment about Joanna being sexy, Aaron snapped. O’Brien had made him nervous from the very beginning. Unlike Doug, O’Brien hadn’t been with them the entire time since the earthquake. What had O’Brien been doing? He’d said he went to see his daughter, but could Aaron believe him?

  Doug stopped asking questions and they drove in silence. The morning was bright and beautiful, but almost as soon as they turned into the Centennial Valley the sky darkened and the weather reports warned of a quick-moving and violent storm.

  Still, Aaron insisted that they continue on. Joanna was only miles away. He couldn’t get this close and not see her.

  Doug grumbled, but didn’t really complain until they were crawling at fifteen miles an hour in blinding snow. The truck got stuck on the west side of Lakeview, and Doug got really mad.

  But Aaron saw the opportunity. There were buildings up ahead, some structures. He convinced Doug to go with him, but then they discovered all the structures had long been abandoned.

  Then they saw lights.

  Doug was excited. “Let’s go pop them and we’ll hang out here for a couple weeks. Hell, there’s no one around. No one will think of looking for us here.”

  The first building was a garage. Inside there was a truck and several snowmobiles. Aaron had a better idea than killing the occupants of the main house. “Let’s take these and go to Joanna.”

  “No,” Doug said subbornly.

  Aaron was getting tired of Doug’s belligerence. In many ways, Aaron just wanted him gone. But Aaron wasn’t sure he could ride one of these things. He sure as hell wouldn’t know how to fix it if something happened. And Doug understood all things mechanical.

  Aaron tamped down his anger and said, “Joanna has a sister.”

  “Probably some old hag,” Doug muttered.

  “Younger sister. Very pretty. I think she’d like you.”

  Aaron was certain Trixie Weber would love Doug. He was a foul, crass brute just like their old friend Lincoln Barnes. Doug liked beating up on women. Trixie liked to be beaten. Otherwise why had she hooked up with a scumbag like Linc?

  Aaron wouldn’t put a mark on Joanna’s flawless skin. That Linc had hit her made him want to kill the bastard all over again.

  (Who are you kidding? You’ll kill her.)

  No. Aaron would die first. He’d never harm Joanna. He loved her.

  “You’d better not fucking be lying to me,” Doug had said. “I hate it here. It’s colder than Quentin, and wetter. Shit, I can barely feel my toes.”

  Aaron had found clothing in a shed. It fit him well, but Doug was bigger and his ski jacket was comically tight. He kept grumbling, but managed to hot-wire the snowmobiles. They sped away from the ranch.

  No one followed.

  They’d almost died in the avalanche. It had been so loud. Deafening. Aaron had never heard anything like it. They felt its tremor behind them and for the first time in his life he thought he would die. But they made it through.

  They continued for miles. The first cabin they came to was perfect for Doug. There was food, wood, a stove. And peace. Aaron would love a place like this to share with Joanna. Doug…not so much. It was hard to convince Doug to stay in the outlying cabin, but Aaron insisted that he wait it out for a day or two.

  “I only have reservations for one,” Aaron said. “If we both show up, it’ll be suspicious.”

  “Why the fuck did you do that?” Doug grumbled.

  “I made the reservation the day after the earthquake under a false name. I didn’t know we’d still be hooked up when we got here.” He hadn’t thought about it. All he imagined when he called the Moosehead Lodge was that after two years of dreaming, he and Joanna would finally be together. Doug hadn’t even entered his mind.

  “No one’s going to care if you show up with a friend. I don’t want to stay here. It’s like prison.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow morning and we’ll work something out.”

  (Kill him.)

  Aaron dismissed the idea. He needed Doug, at least for now.

  Maybe he would kill him tomorrow.

  Doug complained, but Aaron helped him start a fire in the wood stove and Doug decided that staying warm tonight was the better option.

  Aaron had continued to the lodge alone.

  Two of them would have seemed threatening. Aaron didn’t want Joanna to be suspicious, especially after that phone conversation he’d overheard.

  She was even more beautiful in person than in her photograph. When he’d walked into the lodge earlier, he’d seen the article he carried with him everywhere, framed and mounted in the entry.

  Montana Romance Writer Simple Country Girl at Heart

  There were several photos accompanying the article, including his favorite—Joanna on the wide porch of the lodge, mountains behind her. Her long, golden blonde hair blew in the breeze, her eyes vibrant. Her perfect profile was sharp and aristocratic, but her pure, smooth skin softened her.

  Her skin looked even lovelier in person.

  Her hair more luxurious.

  Her eyes a deeper brown.

  Her mouth lush and full.

  He was her savior. He had wanted to tell her right when he saw her that he was her hero, but it had to wait. In her books, noble heroes didn’t come on scene and tell the beautiful heroine how wonderful they were. Instead, they showed her.

  And he would show her. When the time was right, Aaron would tell her that he killed Lincoln Barnes for her.

  What man couldn’t defend his own woman? Joanna’s husband certainly had not been a hero. He’d been stupid and weak, and had been killed because of it. She was better off without such a pathetic man.

  When Aaron was certain no one was around, when the watch he’d stolen off the dead O’Brien read 11:38, he left the den.

  Silence.

  Aaron slid into the office, quietly shut the door and turned on a desk lamp. He knelt on the floor, looking under the desk for a plug. No, he couldn’t unplug the radio. That was obvious, and they’d simply plug it back in. Same with the phone lines. He’d have to go outside and find the main box for the phones. But even then, he wasn’t sure what to do. Doug would know. He’d have to get Doug to do it in the morning.

  The phone rang loudly and Aaron jumped. He whipped around, realized that it was the fax machine, not the phone. The volume button was on the side, and he turned it down, hoping no one had heard it. It rang again, softer.

  A fax started to come through.

  The first page was a cover sheet with a law enforcement seal, then:

  Beaverhead County Sheriff’s Department

  Tyler M. McBride, Sheriff

  Tyler. That’s who Joanna had been talking to earlier.

  In small, bold block letters the message:

  Jo, here are the photographs we talked about earlier. Be careful. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Love, Tyler.

  Love, Tyler.

  Love. Tyler.

  What cop signed his memos love?

  What was Joanna’s relationship with the sheriff?

  Heat rose in Aaron’s face, and he couldn’t see anything but the memo in front of him.

  I’ll be there as soon as I can. Love, Tyler.

  Aaron sat on the desk chair, feeling as if his heart had been stabbed with a scalpel. Had Joanna betrayed him with another man? After he had killed for her?

  She is too good for you. You know that, Aaron. She’s beautiful. You’re average. She’s successful, you’re nothing. Nothing, Aaron. You’ll never be anything. What in the world were you thinking when you came here? She can’t love you. No one can love you.

  (You’ll have to kill her.)

  Shut up.

  He wasn’t like that. Of course he was worthy of Joanna. He was smart, he was handsome, they were meant to be together. They had a future, a grand future. She’d told him over and over that they would
live happily together forever. She promised she’d never leave him.

  The fax machine beeped and Aaron shook his head, coming out of his thoughts. He saw that three pages had followed the cover page.

  Love, Tyler.

  The first was Doug Chapman’s mug shot. He looked like the brute he was, with a couple days’ growth of dark beard, shaggy hair, and small, dark eyes. The shot reminded him of Popeye’s nemesis in the old black-and-white cartoons Aaron had watched when he was a kid. But Doug wasn’t as fat as Bluto, nor as mean-looking.

  Looks were deceiving.

  At the bottom of the photo was a physical description. Douglas Harold Chapman, b. 1971, hair: brown, eyes: brown, height: 6'2", weight: 220 pounds. Distinguishing marks: Tattoo on upper left arm of rose with the name Tanya. Tattoo on upper right shoulder of eagle head.

  The next photograph was of Thomas O’Brien. It was a poor-quality reproduction. He looked much younger in the picture than Aaron remembered him. Thomas Michael O’Brien, b. 1953, hair: black, eyes: blue, height: 6'1", weight: 185 pounds. Distinguishing marks: Strawberry birthmark one inch wide on upper right shoulder blade.

  Then came the last page.

  Aaron’s mug shot.

  He picked all four pages off the fax and turned for the door. Stopped.

  Joanna might be waiting for them. If they weren’t there, she’d call and Sheriff Tyler McBride would fax them again. Aaron wasn’t sure he could disable the equipment before then. At least not without being obvious.

  He put the cover page, Doug’s photo, and O’Brien’s photo back on the fax machine. He folded his mug shot and tucked it in his back pocket. Then he clicked off the desk light and left.

  He went upstairs and paced outside Joanna’s room. The light was on; he saw it under her door. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Was she thinking about Tyler?

  His fists tightened and he laid them against the paneled wall outside her door, resisting the urge to pound. How could she? How could she do that to him?

  He’d have to ask. And she’d tell him. She was honest, he knew that about her. Only a truly honest person would be able to write the books she wrote.