Chapter 8
Amy had spent her whole life memorizing details. When you lived in witness protection, details meant survival. Which neighbor had a dog that barked at strangers. Which store clerks asked too many questions. Which routes home had the fewest traffic cameras.
So as Nash drove them up toward Mount Olympus, her eyes scanned every inch of the passing landscape, committing it all to memory.
The truck’s heater hummed quietly, warming her legs while the crisp mountain air streamed through Nash’s cracked window.
He’d insisted on the fresh air—apparently a ranch boy habit—despite the April morning chill.
“Do we have a specific destination?” she asked, watching as Nash glanced between the road and his phone, where he’d pulled up a detailed map of the area.
“I’ve been studying the property lines,” Nash said, navigating a particularly sharp curve with one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing to his phone.
“The Olympus Foundation owns almost everything on the eastern face, but there’s a section of public land that butts up against it about halfway up.
If the broken arrow symbol is marking cache sites, there’s a good chance we might find something in that area. ”
Amy nodded, impressed with his thoroughness. There was something oddly comforting about Nash in research mode—the focused crease between his brows, the methodical way he laid out facts, the lawyer emerging from beneath the cowboy exterior.
“I talked with Brooks this morning,” he continued. “The Olympus Foundation was established in 1956 by someone named Anthony Rinaldi.”
“Rinaldi?” Amy frowned. “That name sounds familiar.”
“It should. Rinaldi was Sophia Ferrante’s maiden name—Vincent Ferrante’s mother.”
Amy’s heart quickened. “So the Ferrantes own Mount Olympus?”
“Not directly, but through a cousin or something. Brooks is still untangling the family connections, but it’s definitely them.” Nash flashed her a quick look. “We’re on the right track.”
The confirmation that the Ferrantes were connected to Mount Olympus should have terrified her. Instead, Amy felt a strange sense of vindication. After eight years of running, of looking over her shoulder, she was finally moving toward the truth rather than away from it.
Nash pulled into a small parking area next to a trailhead. Only two other cars were there—not surprising for a Saturday morning in April when most hikers would choose the more popular trails.
Her ankle throbbed dully as she stepped out of the truck, testing her weight on it. The tight wrapping Nash had so carefully applied that morning helped, but it wouldn’t be enough for a strenuous hike. She was grateful for the collapsible hiking stick he’d produced from somewhere in his garage.
“We can just drive around to some overlooks,” Nash offered, noticing her wince as she took a few tentative steps. “There’s no need to push it.”
“No,” Amy said firmly. “I need to see the caves. According to the app, there’s one about half a mile up this trail that might have markings.”
Nash looked skeptical but didn’t argue. “Alright, but we take it slow. And you tell me the second it gets too painful.”
The trail started out gently enough, winding through stands of scrub oak and maple trees just beginning to bud. The earth was still dampened from the snowmelt, making the path muddy in places. Amy focused on each step, placing the hiking stick carefully to avoid slipping.
“Any luck with your department contacts?” Nash asked as they walked.
Amy shook her head. “Nothing. Dr. Martinez hasn’t returned my calls, and my contact at the Historical Society is still unreachable.” She frowned, the coincidence bothering her more than she wanted to admit. “It’s strange.”
“Maybe not,” Nash said, his voice taking on that lawyer tone she was beginning to recognize. “If the Ferrantes are involved, they could have connections throughout the university. Wealthy families often make substantial donations.”
The thought sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the mountain air. Could her academic life—the safe, normal existence she’d built for herself—be compromised too?
They continued in silence for a while, the only sounds their footsteps on the trail and the occasional call of a bird overhead. About fifteen minutes in, the path steepened, forcing Amy to lean more heavily on her stick.
Nash slowed his pace, casually offering his arm without making a big deal of it. Amy hesitated only briefly before taking it, grateful for the support.
“Tell me more about your research,” Nash said, clearly trying to distract her from the discomfort. “What first connected Porter Rockwell to the broken arrow symbol?”
Amy welcomed the distraction. “It started with his journals. Rockwell kept detailed records of his travels, but they were written in a kind of cipher—substitution codes, mostly, but with some unique symbols mixed in. The broken arrow appeared whenever he mentioned hiding places or secure locations.”
“And you cracked his code?” Nash sounded impressed.
“Not alone. It took several historians working together, and even then, we only deciphered portions.” She smiled at the memory of the breakthrough. “The first time I saw the broken arrow symbol in his journal, it was paired with a rough map of what’s now the Big Cottonwood Canyon area.”
The trail curved sharply, revealing a rock face ahead with a dark opening visible at its base.
“There’s a cave,” Amy said. “I wonder if that cave is the one Bill mentioned.” It was a modest opening, not particularly impressive, but something about it called to her.
Nash approached cautiously, peering inside with his phone’s flashlight. “Looks like a standard cave,” he reported. “Nothing unusual that I can see from here.”
Amy joined him at the entrance, the cool air from the cave washing over her face. It did indeed look ordinary—just a shallow depression in the rock face, perhaps fifteen feet deep.
“There’s another trail,” Nash said suddenly, pointing to a barely visible path leading behind the cave. “Not sure it’s maintained, though.”
The path he’d spotted was overgrown, clearly not part of the official trail system. It disappeared behind the rock face, heading up the mountain at a steeper angle.
Nash hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea with your ankle.”
“Let’s just go,” Amy said, already moving toward it. “We’ve come this far.”
Something was pulling her forward—an instinct, a feeling, a certainty that they were close to discovering something important. Her ankle protested with each step on the rough terrain, but the discomfort felt distant, secondary to the anticipation building in her chest.
The hidden trail twisted upward for another quarter mile before opening into a small clearing. Ahead, partially obscured by scrub oak, was another cave entrance—larger than the first.
Amy froze, holding up her hand. “Did you hear that?”
Nash stopped immediately, his posture shifting subtly into something more alert, more protective. “What?”
“I thought I heard something … up ahead.”
They both stood motionless, listening intently. There—a faint sound from the direction of the cave. A scraping, shuffling noise.
“Someone’s up there,” Nash whispered, moving slightly in front of Amy.
Her heart hammered in her chest. Had they been followed? Were the Ferrantes already here, waiting for them?
Nash gestured for her to stay put as he crept forward, moving with surprising stealth for a man his size. He approached the cave entrance cautiously, then disappeared inside.
Minutes stretched like hours as Amy waited, every sense heightened. She was about to follow him when Nash reappeared at the entrance.
“There’s no one here,” he called. “But you will want to see this.”
Relief flooded through her.
She made her way to the cave, Nash meeting her halfway to offer support. Together, they entered the shadowy interior. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. The cave was larger than it appeared from outside, extending perhaps thirty feet into the mountain.
Nash directed his phone light toward the far corner. “There,” he said quietly, pointing to a small section of the wall near the floor.
Amy squinted, then saw it—a symbol etched into the rock. A broken arrow.
“Wow,” she breathed, moving closer despite her ankle’s protest. “It’s not obvious at all. You could walk right past it if you didn’t know what you were looking for.”
The marking was crude but unmistakable, carved perhaps an inch deep into the stone. Amy’s fingers traced the outline reverently. How long had it been here? Had Porter Rockwell himself carved it? Or someone acting on his instructions?
“Look around,” Nash suggested. “There might be more markings.”
They split up, each taking a section of the cave to examine.
Amy moved carefully along the left wall, her fingertips skimming the rough surface, searching for any irregularity or pattern.
“There’s an alcove back here,” Nash called from deeper in the cave. “It might—”
A sound interrupted him—a rustling from somewhere in the darkness. Then another, louder this time.
Amy reached instinctively for Nash, fear tightening her throat. “What was that?”
Nash was beside her instantly, one arm wrapping protectively around her shoulders. The sounds grew louder, a flutter of movement visible in the beam of Nash’s flashlight.
Then the darkness erupted into chaos.
Bats—dozens of them—suddenly swarmed around them, wings beating frantically against the air.
Amy screamed, ducking her head as the creatures swooped and dove around them.
“Come on!” Nash shouted, gripping her arm and pulling her toward the entrance. “Keep your head down!”
Amy’s injured ankle was forgotten as she ran alongside him, both of them hunched over as the bats continued their frenzied exodus. They burst out of the cave into the sunlight, not stopping until they were a good twenty feet from the entrance.