CHAPTER NINE
The county archives smelled of dust and aging paper. Sheila stood at a metal filing cabinet, its drawer pulled out so far it threatened to tip. Late afternoon sun slanted through high windows, catching motes that danced in the air. Her neck ached from hours of poring over old case files.
Across the room, Finn sat at a desk scattered with copied reports and grainy photographs. His sleeves were rolled up, and a forgotten cup of coffee sat cold at his elbow. They'd been at this for hours, piecing together what happened to Thomas Kane five years ago.
"Got the original case file," Sheila said, carrying the stack to the desk. Her voice seemed too loud in the hushed space. "Let's see what matches Jin's description of the kill method."
She spread the contents across the desk: photographs of Kane's campsite, his abandoned climbing gear, witness statements from other hikers. The facts were sparse—experienced climber, solo expedition, never emerged from the caves.
"Here's something," Finn said, holding up a photocopy. "Kane wasn't just any climber. He was an anthropologist, specializing in indigenous artifacts."
Sheila felt her pulse quicken. "Like Mitchell."
"Exactly like Mitchell. He was documenting sacred sites, trying to map their locations." Finn shuffled through more papers. "According to his research proposal, he believed the ice caves connected to older tunnel systems. Something about 'previously undocumented ceremonial chambers.'"
Sheila leaned over his shoulder to read. The proposal was detailed—references to oral histories, geological surveys, even thermal imaging that suggested larger caverns deeper in the mountain. Kane had been methodical, thorough.
Just like Mitchell.
"Did they ever find his research?" she asked. "His notes, his maps?"
"No mention of it here. But get this—his body wasn't the only thing missing. His camera, his notebook, his GPS unit—all gone." Finn looked up at her. "Someone didn't want his findings getting out."
Sheila was about to respond when footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Heavy, purposeful steps—too many sets to be just a clerk or another deputy. She straightened, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon.
The door opened, and three people entered. Two men and a woman, all wearing dark suits despite the warm afternoon. The woman led the way, her black hair pulled back severely from her face. She carried herself with the unmistakable authority of a senior agent.
"Sheriff Stone?" The woman's voice was clipped, professional. "I'm Special Agent Diana Walsh, FBI. These are Agents Reeves and Highland." She held up her credentials. "We're here about the Mitchell case."
Sheila nodded. "Yes, I was told to expect you."
Walsh gestured to the papers in front of Sheila. "It appears you're trying to connect Mitchell's death to a previous incident?"
"Just considering every possibility. Being as thorough as we can."
"Of course." Walsh's smile didn't reach her eyes. "But you can leave that to us now. Indigenous artifacts, potential grave sites—this is a federal case now. I'm sure you understand."
Finn stood slowly. "The murder occurred in county territory. That makes it our case."
"A murder involving ceremonial objects stolen from tribal lands," Walsh corrected. "Which makes it ours." She nodded to Agent Reeves, who moved toward the desk. "We'll need copies of everything you've found."
Sheila stepped between Reeves and the files. She didn't like being strong-armed, not when they ought to have been on the same side.
"Dr. Mitchell was killed in my jurisdiction. Her body was found by civilians who were then targeted. That makes this a local homicide investigation."
"Which we'll be happy to coordinate with you on," Walsh said smoothly. "But these files"—she gestured to the Kane documents—"suggest a pattern. One that falls under our purview."
"Because of the artifacts?" Sheila kept her voice level. "Or because you already know what Kane found in those caves?"
Something flickered in Walsh's expression—surprise, maybe, or concern. It was gone so quickly Sheila might have imagined it.
"Kane's disappearance was thoroughly investigated," Walsh said. "If you've found new evidence—"
"What we've found," Sheila cut in, "is a connection between two murders.
Both victims were anthropologists studying sacred sites.
Both were killed in the same way. Both had their research stolen.
" She met Walsh's gaze. "So either you take over both cases—including Kane's unsolved murder—or you let us do our job. "
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Finn tensed beside Sheila.
Walsh studied Sheila for a long moment. "You have good instincts, Sheriff. But you're out of your depth here. These cases... they're part of something larger. Something that requires federal resources and oversight."
"Then enlighten me," Sheila challenged. "What exactly are we dealing with?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss ongoing investigations." Walsh's tone hardened. "But I am authorized to take control of any evidence related to indigenous artifacts or sacred sites. Including these files."
Sheila felt the familiar burn of anger in her chest—the same feeling she'd had when her mother's case was dismissed. The system protecting itself, closing ranks.
"No," she said quietly.
Walsh's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"
"I said no." Sheila straightened to her full height. "You want to take over the Mitchell case? Fine. Get a court order. But Kane's murder happened in my county, under my jurisdiction. Until I have proof these cases are connected, his file stays here."
"Sheriff Stone—" Walsh began, but Sheila cut her off.
"And while you're getting that court order," she continued, "you can explain why the FBI is so interested in a five-year-old missing person’s case. One that, according to these records, your office never investigated."
The silence that followed was absolute. Walsh's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Behind her, Agents Reeves and Highland exchanged glances.
"You're making a mistake," Walsh said finally. "These cases are more complex than you realize."
"Then help me understand," Sheila pressed. "What did Kane find? What was Mitchell looking for? Why are you really here?"
Instead of answering, Walsh reached into her jacket and withdrew a business card. She placed it deliberately on the desk.
"When you're ready to cooperate," she said, "call me. Until then, remember—anything you find related to sacred sites or ceremonial objects falls under our jurisdiction. Anything."
She turned to leave, her agents falling in behind her. At the door, she paused.
"And Sheriff? Be careful what you go looking for in those caves. Some questions are better left unasked."
The door closed behind them. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, fading into silence.
Finn let out a breath. "Well, that was subtle."
Sheila picked up Walsh's card, studying the embossed FBI seal. "They knew we'd make the connection to Kane. They were waiting for it."
"Question is, why?" Finn moved to the window, watching the agents cross the parking lot to their vehicles. "And what are they trying to keep us from finding?"
Sheila looked down at the scattered files, at the photographs of Kane's empty campsite. The same questions that had driven him into those caves had led Mitchell to her death. And now the FBI wanted to bury both cases.
"They're protecting something," she said. "Something in those caves that both Kane and Mitchell discovered." She began gathering the files. "And we need to find it before they shut us out completely."
"Where do you want to start?"
Sheila held up a photograph of Kane's last known campsite, the entrance to a cave system visible in the background. But not the main entrance where Mitchell's body was found. This was different, smaller. Hidden.
"We start here," she said. "If Kane found another way into those caves..."
"The FBI might not know about it," Finn finished.
"Exactly." Sheila studied the photo more carefully. "And whatever's down there, whatever got both Kane and Mitchell killed—maybe that's how we find it."
The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the scattered papers. Somewhere in this mass of documents was the truth—about Kane, about Mitchell, about whatever secret was worth killing to protect.
They just had to find it before the FBI stopped them.
Or before whoever was watching from the caves decided they'd learned too much.