CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emergency lights cut harsh shadows across the cave entrance, their rotating beams catching the early evening mist. Sheila stood at the command post, watching teams of FBI evidence technicians file into the caves like ants into a hill.
Their white Tyvek suits made them look ghostly in the artificial light.
Agent Walsh had arrived within an hour of Sheila's call, bringing a full federal task force with her. Now she stood with two of her agents, gesturing at a topographical map spread across the hood of an SUV. Her voice carried on the cold air.
"I want every tunnel mapped, every chamber documented. If there are more bodies down there, we need to find them."
Sheila's jaw tightened. Less than thirty minutes after arriving, Walsh had effectively taken control of both the scene and the investigation. County deputies were relegated to perimeter control while FBI agents swarmed over evidence that rightfully belonged to her department.
She knew Walsh's team was desperate to catch the killer alive—to understand the psychology, prevent future cases. That explained their aggressive takeover attempt. But Sheila couldn't let federal ambition override local investigative work that might catch this killer.
For Sheila, this wasn't about territory or pride. She knew these mountains, knew the people who lived in their shadows. When Mitchell was killed, it was Sheila's department that had interviewed the locals, built relationships with potential witnesses, earned the trust of the community.
But now Walsh's teams were storming in with their federal authority, disrupting those careful connections.
They treated her deputies like uniformed security guards, dismissed Dr. Jin's insights.
Worse, they were compartmentalizing information, sharing only what they deemed necessary.
Sheila couldn't effectively investigate when she was being kept in the dark about evidence found in her own jurisdiction.
She thought of the spelunkers, Kelly and Mike, who had trusted her enough to go back into those caves.
What would happen to that trust when federal agents started throwing their weight around?
The FBI might have resources and authority, but they lacked the deep understanding of Coldwater County that could make or break this case.
And their heavy-handed approach was already closing doors that Sheila had carefully opened.
Dr. Jin approached from the direction of his vehicle, his silver-streaked hair catching the emergency lights. "Sheriff," he said quietly. "A word?"
She followed him to where his equipment was set up, away from the cluster of federal agents. A portable heater hummed nearby, pushing back the mountain chill.
"Initial examination confirms what we suspected," Jin said.
"Same method as Mitchell. Single puncture wound, base of the skull, instant unconsciousness.
" He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"But there's something else. The robes Kane was wearing—they're not just similar to Mitchell's. They're from the same collection."
Sheila frowned. "How can you be sure?"
"The beadwork patterns. They're complementary pieces meant to be worn together in certain ceremonies. Very rare, very old." He glanced toward the FBI teams. "I've already had three agents try to take custody of them."
"What else?"
"The preservation is remarkable. The cold, the mineral content in the cave—it's like he was placed there yesterday, not five years ago." Jin's sharp eyes met hers. "Sheriff, these caves... they're perfect for preservation. Like a natural freezer."
"A place to store bodies," Sheila said softly. "Keep them intact."
"Exactly." Jin pulled out his tablet, showing her photographs of Kane's robes. "But here's what interests me most—these aren't replicas. They're authentic pieces, probably museum quality. The kind of artifacts that never come up for sale."
"So where did our killer get them?"
Before Jin could answer, Walsh's voice cut through the darkness. "Dr. Jin? We need your preliminary report."
Jin gave Sheila an apologetic look before heading toward the federal command post. She watched him go, noting how quickly Walsh had co-opted every aspect of the investigation.
"Quite an operation they've got going."
Sheila turned to find Finn beside her, his breath visible in the cold air. He held two cups of coffee from the mobile command unit.
"Thanks." She took one of the cups, grateful for its warmth. "Any word from the search teams?"
"They're finding more passages than the old surveys showed. Whole sections that aren't on any map." He paused. "And signs of previous exploration. Old torch marks on the walls, worn paths in the limestone."
"How old?"
"That's the thing—some of them look ancient. Like, centuries old." Finn sipped his coffee. "The FBI's got archaeologists coming in to document everything."
Sheila watched another team of agents gear up for cave entry. They moved with military precision, checking equipment with practiced efficiency. Not typical FBI evidence technicians.
"Those aren't just federal agents," she said quietly.
Finn nodded. "I noticed. Their gear, their movements—they're some kind of tactical unit. Walsh brought in heavy hitters for this."
"The question is, why? What are they expecting to find down there?"
"Sheriff Stone?" A young FBI technician approached, tablet in hand. "Agent Walsh needs to speak with you."
Sheila found Walsh at the cave entrance, surrounded by monitoring equipment. Screens showed live feeds from cameras the teams were setting up underground.
"Sheriff." Walsh's tone was professional but carried an edge. "We need those case files on Kane's disappearance."
"Those files belong to my department."
"This is now a federal investigation. We need everything you have on both victims."
Sheila met the agent's gaze. "Kane was killed in my jurisdiction. Mitchell, too. That makes them my cases."
Walsh sighed wearily. "We've been over this. These murders involve protected artifacts and sacred sites, and that puts them firmly under federal jurisdiction." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Don't make this difficult, Sheriff. You're out of your depth here."
"Am I? Or are you worried about what we'll find if we keep looking?" Sheila watched Walsh's expression carefully. "Two bodies, same killer, same burial ritual. How many more are down there, Agent Walsh? How long have you known about these caves?"
Something flickered in Walsh's eyes—anger, or perhaps fear. Before she could respond, shouts erupted from the cave entrance. One of the search teams was emerging, calling for assistance.
"We've got something!" an agent yelled. "Chamber C-7, north tunnel system!"
Walsh turned away from Sheila, already moving toward the commotion. "What did you find?"
The agent pulled off his protective hood, his face pale in the emergency lights. "Another chamber, bigger than the others. There are... markings on the walls. And signs of recent activity."
"What kind of markings?" Walsh demanded.
"Symbols, painted or carved. They match the patterns on the robes." He hesitated. "And we found fresh candle wax. Someone's been down there recently. Within the last few days."
Walsh was already issuing orders, mobilizing more teams. Sheila watched another FBI vehicle wind its way up the mountain road, its headlights cutting through the growing darkness. There was nothing more they could do here—Walsh's team had effectively taken control of both the scene and the bodies.
"We're spinning our wheels," she said to Finn. "Let's get back to what we know."
They settled into her truck, the heater slowly pushing back the mountain chill. Sheila pulled out her notebook, reviewing their leads.
"Martinez," she said. "Mitchell's colleague. She showed up at the house looking for research materials, but her timing was suspicious."
"And she knew about Mitchell's meeting with someone who had 'special knowledge' of the site." Finn checked his phone. "Martinez and her assistant are still at the station. Deputy Neville's keeping an eye on them."
Sheila started the engine. "What about Mitchell's ex-husband? The professor at Berkeley?"
"Robert Watson. According to the university, he's been teaching all semester." Finn scrolled through his notes. "But here's something interesting—he specialized in indigenous burial practices before switching to cultural anthropology. Same field Mitchell was working in."
"Could be a coincidence." But Sheila didn't believe in coincidences, not with two bodies in ceremonial robes hidden in the caves. "What about Mitchell's phone records?"
"Still waiting on the warrant." Finn looked up from his phone. "But we've got Mitchell's cloud backup from her research assistant. Could start there, see what she was working on before she died."
Sheila guided the truck down the winding mountain road, away from the chaos of federal vehicles and evidence teams. Her mind kept returning to Kane's peaceful expression, to the careful arrangement of his body. The killer had taken time with both victims, treated them with a kind of reverence.
"The robes," she said suddenly. "Jin said they were from the same collection—meant to be worn together in ceremonies."
"Which means our killer either had access to museum pieces..."
"Or knew where to find authentic artifacts." Sheila tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. "Mitchell's assistant—Cooper. He said she was documenting unauthorized entries into sacred sites. People moving things around."
"You think someone was stealing artifacts?"
"Or returning them." She glanced at Finn. "What if these caves aren't just burial sites? What if they're storage?"
Finn considered this. "A place to keep sacred objects safe. Hidden."
"Until someone started looking too closely." Sheila turned onto the main highway, heading back toward town. "Mitchell and Kane—they were both documenting these sites, mapping locations that were supposed to stay secret."
"And someone killed them to protect those secrets." Finn was quiet for a moment. "But why dress them in ceremonial robes? Why make them part of whatever they were trying to document?"
Before Sheila could answer, her phone rang. Sarah Neville's number.
"Sheriff," Neville said when Sheila answered. "We've got a problem. Martinez and her assistant—they're gone."
Sheila felt her shoulders tense. "What do you mean, gone?"
"They asked to use the restroom. By the time I checked on them, they'd slipped out the back. But that's not all." Neville's voice dropped. "They left something on the interview room table. An envelope with your name on it."