“Doherty! This is Sheriff McBride. Come out with your hands up.”
Nothing.
No sound, but the smell. Blood. A lot of blood.
He held up his fingers. One. Two. Three.
He and Grossman went in high, the Feds went in low.
Though Tyler had expected death inside, nothing prepared him for the violence inside the Jorgensens’ barn.
There were at least a hundred sheep, their wooly coats stained red. The wet, sickly sweet smell of blood filled the large barn. Blood arced across the walls, the tack, the pillars, and hay.
Some of the sheep had their throats slit. Some sheep had been stabbed. None moved. They were all dead.
Tyler and the cops searched the barn for Doherty; he was nowhere inside. Grossman called to him. “Over here.”
Grossman was in a small tack room in the corner. He pointed to a pile of blood-drenched clothes. “Looks like what Doherty was wearing.”
“Where did he find a change of clothes?”
They looked toward where the house was. Tyler’s gut churned at the thought of two more dead.
Just then one of the Feds said over the walkie-talkie, “We have one unconscious male victim, alive with a strong pulse. No visible sign of injury.”
“What about a woman?”
“Nothing. We’ve searched the entire house.”
“Look again,” Tyler said, not expecting to find Jane Jorgensen, but wanting to make sure she wasn’t hiding somewhere.
Tyler looked around and tried to put himself in Doherty’s shoes. Getting in the heads of killers was far from his comfort zone. Agent Hans Vigo seemed much better versed in understanding how psychopathic minds like Doherty’s worked.
But Tyler also understood that part of being a good cop was trying to figure out what the criminal planned to do next. He inspected the sheep more closely, hoping for a sign or clue about Doherty’s next step.
Many of the animals had only one or two stab wounds. A couple were decimated, shredded to such an extent that they were barely recognizable as sheep. But for the most part, the kills had been relatively clean, the predominant method of murder: a slit throat.
Without a forensic expert, it would be virtually impossible to know where the slaughter started. However, the three overkills were bunched together. The sheep nearby were repeatedly stabbed, and the sheep closest to the doors—as if they were trying to escape—had slit throats or one or two stab marks. Tyler figured something had triggered Doherty and he blindly killed the first sheep, and then—maybe because he feared the sheep would make noise and wake the ranchers, or maybe out of some sort of sick perversion—he systematically killed the rest, one after the other.
Tyler walked carefully through the carnage. He noticed something oddly similar in the bulk of the sheep. The same type of stab wound on their abdomen.
Tyler examined some of the carcasses more closely. He wasn’t an expert in forensics, but since Beaverhead County didn’t have a crime scene unit, all the deputies, including himself, had basic forensic training. It appeared that some of the wounds were made postmortem, as if after killing the sheep, Doherty came back and stabbed them once in the abdomen. Why? To make sure they were dead or for some psychotic reason?
Grossman came in. “I got blood outside along with an impression of a snowmobile and tracks leading away from the shed next to the main house.”
“So maybe the Polaris wasn’t working right and he stole one of the Jorgensens’ sleds.”
“Jane is missing. They searched the house top to bottom and she’s not in there.”
“Is Bob still unconscious?”
“Al is working on him.”
Tyler left the barn and the dead sheep, relieved. He radioed the chopper. “It’s safe to land. Doherty is gone and he has a hostage.”
Just as he gave the clearance, he heard a snowmobile in the distance, coming in fast.
“Hold it, Blackstone. There’s a sled coming in from the north-northwest.”
Blackstone said, “We’ll check it out. Stand by.”
A couple minutes later Blackstone came back on the radio. “One sled, lone rider, coming straight for you.”
“Can you identify the rider?”
“Negative. He or she is wearing a bright yellow helmet and blue ski jacket.”
Tyler motioned for his team to take positions. They watched the horizon. Within minutes, the snowmobile was in view, the SWAT helicopter behind it as if urging it forward.
Blackstone’s voice came over a speaker system. “This is Agent Blackstone with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Person on the snowmobile with the yellow helmet: Stop your sled and put your hands up.”
The snowmobile didn’t stop.
Blackstone issued the warning again. “This is the FBI. You are surrounded. Stop your sled immediately.”
The snowmobile slowed, then stopped.
“Rider, remove your helmet and put your hands on top of your head.”
The rider complied. Blonde hair fell down the rider’s back.
“It’s Jane Jorgensen,” Tyler said and called to his team, “Hold your fire! It’s Jane Jorgensen.”
THIRTY-THREE
Jane accepted the cup of hot coffee from Jo and took a sip.
They sat in the living room of the Jorgensen house. All the Feds except for Blackstone and Mitch were outside looking for signs that Doherty would return, though Tyler didn’t think it was likely as he listened to Jane’s story.
She turned to her husband who was reclining next to her, a bandage covering his head. Some blood had seeped through the back where, according to Jane, he’d been hit with the butt of Doherty’s gun.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked for the fifth time.
He nodded. He was only semiconscious, with a serious concussion. Sam and Peter Nash had arrived back at the lodge and were coming out to the Jorgensen ranch to tend to Bob and destroy the sheep carcasses.
“Tell us what happened,” Tyler said.
Tyler was furious that Doherty had eluded them. That another innocent person had almost been killed.
Jane took a deep breath. “Bob and I didn’t hear anything last night. We didn’t hear the poor sheep…”
Jo took her hand and squeezed. “The barn is north of the house, and the wind was blowing from the south. You couldn’t have heard them. And if you did—he may have killed you, too.”
Jane nodded. “I went out early to feed the sheep and there was a naked man in the barn. A naked man and a lot of blood. The sheep…” She swallowed, looked down, then continued. “He was as surprised to see me, I think, as I was to see him. He had a gun. All I could think of was that he was going to kill me.” Her voice hitched.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you,” Bob spoke up, his voice full of anguish.
Jane quickly said, “No, don’t, Bob. He didn’t hurt me. But he grabbed me, made me walk back to the house. Bob came out of the kitchen and the man hit him on the head before I could warn him.”
She took a deep breath, seemed to be thinking, and Tyler prompted, “What next?”
“He said he needed clothes. I took him to our room. He told me to sit on the chair and not move or he would shoot me. I believed him. I sat there, watched him get dressed. He didn’t really look at me, though when I started fidgeting he turned the gun on me and said ‘No Moving.’”
“And then?”
“He told me that he needed to find a way out of the valley. He had a couple ideas, but he needed my help. I remembered Nash calling us a couple days ago about the escaped convicts, and that was the first time I thought that this man was one of them. He brought me back downstairs. Bob was lying there, right in the entry between the kitchen and the living room, and the man didn’t even look at him. I didn’t know if you were dead, Bob, I was so scared…”
Bob wrapped his arms around her and held her. “I’m okay. Thank God you’re alive. I don’t know what I would have done if he’d hurt you.”
&nbs
p; Tyler understood this was sensitive and Jane had been through a trauma, but they were rapidly losing daylight. It was already four in the afternoon and the sun was quickly setting. In another hour they wouldn’t have the helicopter to search with.
“Where did you take Doherty?” Tyler asked.
“The north side of Lima. He told me that he wouldn’t hurt me if I didn’t try to trick him. He needed to find a place where he could steal a car and not use the North or South Centennial Road. I knew exactly where—the old logging road that went over the north mountain. It exits out at that 24/7 convenience store over—”
“I know where it is,” Tyler said. “And then?”
“He told me to turn around and go home to my husband and not look back. I did.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Eight. I didn’t go fast—and he didn’t seem to mind. I refueled and left him at one. I came back much faster.”
“Did he say anything? Like where he was going? His plans?”
“He didn’t say anything. I asked him his name, and he didn’t even tell me that.”
“Did you see what car he stole?”
“He was looking at two. A black Ford 250 with four-wheel drive and an older Chevy, dark green, that I think also had four-wheel drive. I don’t know Chevys well; my dad always had Fords.”
Tyler wrote down the information, then handed the paper to Grossman. “Find out any stolen vehicles at the store, get the owner’s name and license, put an APB out immediately.”
“Got it.” Grossman stepped out of the living room.
“Anything else you remember?”
She shook her head.
“I just wanted to come back home, see Bob, make sure he was okay.”
“I know,” Jo said.
Tyler said, “I’ll leave Billy and Al here until tomorrow morning, just to make sure that you’re safe. Nash should be here soon.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
They left the house and Tyler slammed his fist on the porch. “I can’t believe he got away.”
“Someone will spot him,” Jo said.
Mitch nodded. “Every cop in a hundred-mile radius will be looking for him. He’ll be in custody within twenty-four hours.”
Mitch was wrong.
Aaron had learned a lot from Doug Chapman. He’d learned to hot-wire a car. He’d learned to swap out stolen cars rapidly, to give the police less chance of tracking them. And he’d figured out how to not be seen on security cameras.
He found his way back to Pocatello and considered just going on. In one of the trucks he’d stolen, he’d found a wallet with eightysome bucks and he paid cash for a cheap-ass motel.
Los Angeles. Ten million people in the county. He’d lived there for more than a decade, he could disappear, start a new life, be free.
Except he didn’t have the heart to do it.
He stared at his gun. Bridget had loved him, then didn’t. Rebecca had loved him, then didn’t. Joanna had loved him, then didn’t. He’d lost them all.
You haven’t lost Joanna. She’s still alive.
He bristled, tightened his grip around the revolver. He wasn’t a bad person. Joanna had loved him once. She could love him again.
Love, Tyler.
Had Joanna betrayed him in a far worse way? Had she broken his heart so that she could be with another man? With the Sheriff?
Quiet rage spread through his chest.
They need to have a heart-to-heart.
He flashed back to when he left the lodge with Joanna and her traitorous sister. Joanna and the Sheriff had exchanged glances. They’d looked at each other that way.
Aaron would not be used again. He was not garbage. He was important, he was special.
“You’re my special little boy. Be good for my friends and I’ll be back soon.”
He’d always been good. Always. At least he tried. He wasn’t pathetic, he wasn’t worthless, he was special.
Joanna would know it before he killed her.
THIRTY-FOUR
Four days later
Joanna Margaret Weber, Jo’s namesake, was buried in a family plot outside Lakeview. A new headstone nearby read:
BEATRIX “TRIXIE” MAY WEBER
June 1, 1975–February 7, 2008
Beloved mother, sister,
daughter, granddaughter, and friend.
“There are three things that will endure
—faith, hope, and love—
and the greatest of these is love.”
1 CORINTHIANS 13:13
Trixie couldn’t be buried until spring. Her body was being kept at the hospital morgue. The ground was frozen. But Jo didn’t want to postpone the funeral for two or three months. Her family, especially Leah, needed closure.
The Webers had been long-time residents of the Centennial Valley. This winter would mark their last in Montana.
Her grandfather was closing the lodge. Karl and Stan planned on traveling. “I’m not coming back,” he told Jo at Trixie’s grave site. “But when I die, I’d like to be buried here.”
Jo nodded, looked at the mourners who had come for the quiet outdoor ceremony. Almost everyone who lived year-round in the valley was here, plus Wyatt and a few of their friends who lived in Dillon, Ennis, and other nearby towns. Her parents were on a mission in Africa and unreachable. Jo rarely thought of them anymore—they’d been on missions more than half her life. It angered her that they weren’t here for their daughter’s funeral, but it didn’t surprise her. They hadn’t returned home to pay respects to Ken and Timmy.
Tyler came and kissed her on the forehead, but he didn’t look at her. He was both worried and angry that they hadn’t been able to capture Aaron Doherty.
The FBI had searched by helicopter for two full days, but there was no sign of Doherty. Local police had found cars they suspected he may have stolen, but no sign of him. All local motels had his picture, and the police were widening their search. Two callers in Idaho Falls had reported seeing him, and there was a stolen truck from the area that police were looking for. One caller said he’d seen the truck driving south on I-15 outside Idaho Falls. Away from the valley.
Jo didn’t feel one hundred percent safe, but she thought Doherty had left for good. Nothing held him here to the valley—no friends, no family, nothing but violence. Jane Jorgensen had said he seemed depressed and melancholy. Hans Vigo suggested he was suicidal. Mitch Bianchi told Jo and Tyler to keep careful watch—he didn’t think Doherty was going to disappear forever.
“He’s licking his wounds,” Mitch had said, “but I think he’ll be back.”
When Doherty had been spotted out of state, Mitch and Hans had to return to their respective posts. “Duty calls,” Hans had said.
There were two federal agents still at the lodge, and Tyler had a half-dozen deputies on duty at Trixie’s funeral.
Aaron Doherty wasn’t going to come today. And tomorrow? Tomorrow Jo and Leah were moving in with Tyler and Jason. Tyler hadn’t been home since he’d come to the valley a week ago. And until Doherty was caught, he didn’t want Jo and Leah out of his sight.
Tyler came up behind her, kissed the top of her head, and caressed the small of her back. She glanced over her shoulder at him. The worry on his face was countered by the love in his eyes.
“Why don’t you believe that he’s gone?” she asked him.
He didn’t say anything for a minute. “It’s more the not knowing that is eating me up. How long is he going to be able to hide? He doesn’t have a lot of money, and every time he steals a car the police get that much closer to finding him. I keep thinking I’ll get the call any minute, but it doesn’t come. And that worries me.”
Tyler turned her to face him. “I don’t want you to worry, Jo. Not now. Take care of your family.”
“You are part of my family.”
He ran the tips of his fingers over her cheek. “I don’t want you to hurt anymore. I’ll do anything to protect you.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being you.” She tilted her head up and kissed him. “I love you.”
He rubbed her back. “It was a nice service. As nice as funerals can be. Are you doing okay?”
“Yeah.”
“And Leah?”
They both looked over to where Jason and Leah were talking, sitting on a fallen tree. Jason had brushed off the snow for Leah. A gentleman, just like his dad.
Your children.
Last week she’d been childless, grieving for her son. Today, she was responsible for raising two kids.
Tyler took her hand, squeezed. “We’re going to be good, Jo. Not just okay, but really good.”
“Of course we are.”
“I’m going to check with my team,” Tyler said. “Are you ready to go back to the lodge?”
“When you are.”
“Ten minutes.” He kissed her again and walked down the slope.
Jo stood next to Trixie’s grave. Beloved mother, sister…
“I love you, Trixie.”
Jo glanced over at the kids sitting to the side. Leah saw her, waved. Jo waved back. She walked up the slope twenty feet. Four years ago she had buried two other people on this same hill.
KENNETH RICHARD SUTTON
September 20, 1968—February 4, 2004
Husband. Father. Friend.
We miss you.
Jo brushed her fingers against the headstone. “Hello, sweetheart.”
She turned to Timmy’s headstone. She knelt down in the slush. Touched the earth. “Timmy, you’re forever in my heart.”
She kissed her fingers and placed them on the ground.
Aaron had been compelled to return to the Centennial Valley.
He’d thought he’d won the internal battle. Escape or suicide, he was weighing his options. Escape was hard—always watching over his shoulder, stealing to eat. He couldn’t sleep right, he didn’t have enough food. He couldn’t walk into a restaurant and order a steak; he was dirty and could barely stand the smell of himself.
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