CHAPTER TEN
Sheila's phone buzzed as she and Finn loaded the last of the files into her truck. The sun had slipped behind the mountains, painting the sky in deep purples and oranges. Her father's name lit up the screen.
"What's up, Dad?" she asked, leaning against the truck's door.
Gabriel's voice was rough with fatigue. "Been making calls about Carlton Vance. Not making much progress tracking him down, though. I'm guessing it's a fake name." He cursed under his breath and shook his head. "Can't believe I worked with him for years and never knew that."
Sheila pinched the bridge of her nose. Another thread to pull, another layer of complexity in her mother's case. She wished with all her heart she could focus fully on taking down whoever had ordered her mother's death, but she couldn't just abandon her present investigation.
"I really can't talk about this right now," she said. "I need to stay focused on these ice cave murders, and—"
"Of course," Gabriel said. There was a hint of woundedness in his voice. "I just thought you'd want to be involved."
"I do want to be involved. I wish I could hand this investigation to someone else—"
"No." Her father sighed heavily. "You're the sheriff, and that comes with responsibilities."
What about my responsibilities to family? she wondered. Before she could speak, however, her father continued.
"I'll keep digging and let you know if I come up with something actionable," he said. "In the meantime, how's the case going?"
Sheila took a moment to absorb the sudden shift in topic. "The case? It's gotten interesting, to say the least. The FBI showed up today. They're trying to take over, citing jurisdiction over indigenous artifacts."
Gabriel was quiet for a moment. "That certainly complicates things."
Sheila watched Finn check the truck's back tires, his movements methodical, grounding. "Look, I should get back to it. But as soon as it's wrapped up—"
"We'll keep digging into Vance," Gabriel finished. "Just watch your back, Sheila. And call me if you need anything."
After she hung up, Finn approached, hands in his pockets. "Everything okay?"
"Just talking with Dad about Vance." She straightened, pushing away from the truck. "Right now, we need to find that second cave entrance before it gets dark."
They drove in companionable silence, following county roads that wound higher into the mountains. The photo of Kane's campsite sat on the dashboard, its details burned into Sheila's memory. A different angle on the caves, a hidden approach that might give them answers.
"Walsh wasn't surprised," Finn said suddenly.
"About what?"
"When you mentioned the similar kill methods. She didn't even blink." He turned to look at her. "Almost like she was expecting it."
Sheila's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "The FBI's been sitting on something for five years. Since Kane disappeared." She glanced at him. "What do you want to bet they've got his research locked away somewhere?"
"If they do, they're not sharing." Finn pulled out his phone, checking a map. "Take the next right. According to Kane's hiking permit, he parked at the Aspen Grove trailhead."
The truck's headlights cut through growing darkness as they turned onto a narrower road. Pine branches scraped against the windows, and patches of early snow dotted the shoulder.
"Jin said the kill method was precise," Sheila said, thinking out loud. "Professional. Someone with training."
"Like federal training?"
She considered this. "Walsh's team didn't feel right. Too aggressive for a cultural artifacts case."
"Could be counter-terrorism," Finn suggested. "If whatever's in those caves is sensitive enough."
The road ended at a small parking area, empty now except for a single Forest Service truck. A trail sign pointed into dense woods, its metal surface reflecting their headlights.
They grabbed their gear—flashlights, climbing equipment, emergency supplies. Sheila checked her weapon, then radioed dispatch to log their location. No sense taking chances, not with a killer still out there.
"The campsite was about a mile in," Finn said, comparing the old photo to their surroundings. "There should be a game trail branching off to the west."
They found it easily enough—a narrow path winding through scrub oak and mountain mahogany. Their flashlight beams bounced off tree trunks, creating shifting shadows that made every movement seem suspicious.
After twenty minutes of hiking, the trail opened onto a small clearing. Sheila stopped, comparing the space to Kane's photograph. The angles matched—the distinctive split boulder, the lightning-struck pine.
"This is it," she said quietly.
They swept their lights across the clearing. Five years had erased most signs of Kane's camp, but there were still traces—a rusted tent stake, a piece of frayed rope around a tree trunk.
"Over here," Finn called from the clearing's edge. He stood before a narrow fissure in the rock face, partially hidden by brush. "Looks like it goes deep."
Sheila joined him, examining the opening. It was tight—they'd have to go single file—but definitely passable. Cool air flowed from its depths, carrying the mineral smell of limestone.
"Another entrance to the cave system," she said. "One the FBI might not know about."
Finn checked his watch. "Sun's almost down. If we're going in—"
"We have to go now," Sheila finished. She keyed her radio. "Dispatch, this is Stone. We've located a possible second entrance to the ice cave system. Finn and I are going to check it out."
The radio crackled. "Copy that, Sheriff. Want me to send backup?"
Sheila hesitated, remembering Walsh's warning. If they called for backup, word would get back to the FBI. This might be their only chance to find what Kane and Mitchell had discovered.
"Negative," she said. "But log our position. If you don't hear from us in two hours, send a team."
"Copy that. Be careful, Sheriff."
Sheila switched on her headlamp and checked her harness. Beside her, Finn did the same, his movements efficient from years of training.
"Ready?" she asked.
He gave her a slight smile. "After you, boss."
The fissure was a tight fit, but it opened into a larger passage after about twenty feet. Their lights revealed worked stone—old tool marks in the rock, deliberate widening of natural formations.
"Someone improved this entrance," Finn said, running his hand along the wall. "A long time ago, from the look of it."
Sheila examined the floor, finding only the natural accumulation of limestone dust and small rocks. No scuff marks, no signs of recent passage. The air grew colder as they moved deeper, and their lights caught ice formations starting to form along the walls.
"We must be connecting to the main system," Finn said. His voice echoed strangely in the enclosed space.
The passage split, offering three choices. Sheila studied each opening, looking for any sign of disturbance. The right-hand tunnel sloped steeply downward, while the middle passage remained relatively level. The left-hand opening was partly blocked by fallen rock.
"Which way?" Finn asked.
Sheila considered. Kane had been an experienced caver—he would have taken the safest route while exploring. "Middle passage," she said. "Less chance of getting trapped by water or rockfall."
They moved carefully, aware that any sound could travel far in these tunnels. Ice made the footing treacherous, forcing them to test each step. Their lights revealed a progression of formations—delicate stalactites, crystalline flowstone that sparkled like diamond dust.
The passage gradually widened, opening into a small chamber. Unlike the large cavern where they'd found Mitchell, this space felt intimate, almost like a side chapel in an ancient church. Their lights revealed elaborate ice formations along the walls, like frozen waterfalls caught in mid-flow.
Finn's light beam settled on something against the far wall. At first it looked like another ice formation, but as they moved closer, details emerged from the darkness.
A figure sat cross-legged against the rock, dressed in elaborately decorated ceremonial robes. The garments were similar to Mitchell's—richly woven fabric adorned with intricate beadwork and symbols. Ice crystals had formed on the cloth, making it glitter in their lights.
"Kane," Sheila breathed. She approached slowly, her training warring with an instinct to retreat. The scene felt sacred somehow, untouched by time.
The body was remarkably preserved by the cold. Kane's face was peaceful, his eyes closed as if in meditation. His hands rested palm-up on his knees, an attitude of acceptance or offering.
"Just like Mitchell," Finn said quietly. "The ceremonial clothing, the careful positioning..."
Sheila circled the body, noting details. The robes were different from Mitchell's—the patterns suggested a different tradition, perhaps a different tribe. Even the beadwork seemed to tell a story she couldn't quite read.
"Check his neck," Finn suggested.
Carefully, trying not to disturb anything, Sheila examined the base of Kane's skull. There it was—a single puncture wound, precise and deadly. Just like Mitchell's.
"Same killer," she said, straightening. "Same method. Same... respect."
"Five years apart." Finn's light played across the ice formations. "How many more are down here? How long has this been going on?"
Sheila studied Kane's face, trying to read the story of his death. Had he found what he was looking for? Had he, like Mitchell, understood too much?
A soft sound echoed through the chamber—ice cracking somewhere in the darkness. Both of them froze, listening. The caves seemed to hold their breath.
"We should call this in," Finn said quietly.
Sheila nodded, but something made her hesitate. This chamber had kept its secret for five years. No random spelunker had stumbled upon it. No search party had found it. The killer had chosen this place carefully, buried Kane deep where he wouldn't be found.
Until now.
"How many other chambers are there?" she wondered aloud. "How many other bodies?"
"Let's not find out alone," Finn said. "We need backup. A full evidence team."
She knew he was right, but she couldn't shake the feeling that everything would change once they made that call. The FBI would swarm these caves, take control of both bodies. Whatever answers Kane and Mitchell had died for would disappear into federal evidence lockers.
A deeper crack echoed through the chamber—ice shifting with the mountain's endless movements. Or something else, moving in the darkness beyond their lights.
"Sheila," Finn said softly. "We need to go. Now."
She took one last look at Kane's peaceful face, then keyed her radio. The signal was weak but present. "Dispatch, this is Stone. We've got a 187 in the ice caves. Second victim, preserved. Send Dr. Jin and a full evidence team."
Static crackled, then: "Copy that, Sheriff. Teams en route."
As they made their way back through the tunnels, Sheila couldn't shake the image of Kane's serene expression. He and Mitchell—both killed with precision, both arranged with care, both dressed in ceremonial robes.
But how many others were still hidden in the darkness, waiting to be found?