CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The moon was high above the red cliffs when Sheila turned her truck onto a narrow dirt road outside Moab. Richard Keeling's address led them deep into canyon country, where towering sandstone walls caught the moonlight like burning coal.
Finn studied a map on his phone. "About two miles ahead. Property records show he owns twenty acres out here."
The dirt road wound between rust-colored rock formations until it ended at a low adobe house. A covered porch wrapped around two sides, its posts weathered by decades of desert wind. An ancient Land Rover sat in the carport, coated in red dust.
"Nice place to hide," Finn commented as they parked.
"Or to keep secrets." Sheila stepped out of the truck, taking in the property. Despite the late hour, lights glowed behind the house's windows.
Before they reached the porch steps, the front door opened. Richard Keeling stood in the doorway, tall and lean despite his age. His white hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and his weathered face suggested years spent in the desert sun.
"Sheriff Stone," he said, his voice the same rough baritone from the phone. His eyes moved to Finn. "I thought I said come alone."
"Deputy Mercer goes where I go." Sheila kept her tone neutral but firm. "Especially when discussing murder cases."
Keeling studied them both for a long moment, then stepped back from the door. "Better come inside then. Coffee's hot."
The interior of Keeling's house was surprisingly modest, given his years in the high-end art market.
Simple furniture, Navajo rugs on the floor, local landscape paintings on the walls.
But Sheila's attention was drawn to the books—hundreds of them filled floor-to-ceiling shelves, many focused on indigenous art and artifacts.
Keeling moved to the kitchen. "How do you take it?" he asked, reaching for coffee mugs.
"Black is fine," Sheila said. She remained standing while Finn positioned himself near the door.
The old dealer poured three cups, his hands steady despite his age. "The robes you asked about," he said, setting the mugs on a small table. "I need to know exactly how they turned up."
"Two bodies," Sheila said. "Both dressed in ceremonial robes, arranged in specific positions. Our medical examiner confirmed the clothes are from the Window Rock collection."
Keeling sank into a chair, his face tight. "Both victims... were they found in caves?"
Sheila exchanged a glance with Finn before answering. "Yes. Did you see it on the news?"
"No, actually, I didn't."
"Then how did you know?"
"Because that's where they were meant to be." Keeling took a sip of coffee, gathering his thoughts. "Those robes—they weren't just ceremonial garments. They were part of a specific ritual. A way of returning the dead to sacred spaces."
"Who would know about these rituals?" Finn asked. "Besides the tribes themselves?"
"That's the thing about private collectors," Keeling said.
"Some of them don't just want the objects.
They want the knowledge that goes with them.
The meaning. The power." He stood and moved to one of the bookshelves, pulling out a worn leather journal.
"After the Window Rock theft, I kept records of everyone who showed serious interest in the winter ceremony items. Not just the buyers—the scholars, the researchers, anyone who asked too many questions. "
He opened the journal, its pages filled with neat handwriting. "I started hearing rumors. The collection hadn't just been stolen—it had been commissioned. Someone with deep pockets and specific interests."
"Do you have a name?" Sheila asked.
Keeling shook his head. "Never got that far.
But I tracked the middleman—an antiquities dealer named Matthew Vale.
He worked out of Seattle, specialized in private sales to serious collectors.
" He looked up at Sheila. "The kind of people who build secret rooms to house their collections.
Who spend years studying the meaning behind each piece. "
"Where is Vale now?"
"Dead. Car accident in '92. But he kept records, too. Detailed ones. The FBI seized most of them, but I heard he had a private storage unit in Seattle. Never found by the authorities."
"You think his records are still there?" Sheila asked.
"If they are, they'd tell you exactly who bought those robes." Keeling closed his journal carefully. "Vale documented everything—names, dates, prices. He was paranoid about getting cheated by his wealthy clients."
"Why are you telling us this?" Finn asked. "After all these years?"
Keeling was quiet for a moment, staring into his coffee.
"Because those robes... they were never meant to leave tribal hands.
Using them the way your killer has—it's not just murder.
It's desecration." He looked up at Sheila.
"And whoever's doing this understands exactly what these garments mean.
Their spiritual significance. The proper way to arrange them. "
"Someone who studied the rituals," Sheila said.
Keeling stood slowly. "Vale's storage unit was in his wife's maiden name. Margaret Kessler. Unit 23 at Westlake Security Storage." He moved to a desk and wrote down an address. "If those records still exist, that's where you'll find them."
Sheila took the paper, studying the neat handwriting. "Thirty years is a long time. Who's been making the payments?"
Keeling shook his head. "Don't know." He walked them to the door, then added quietly, "Be careful, Sheriff. The kind of people who collect these objects—they don't just collect things. They collect secrets."
The moon was at its zenith as they walked back to Sheila's truck, painting the cliffs gray. But she barely noticed the beauty around them, her mind already racing ahead to Seattle.
And whatever secrets Vale's records might reveal.
"Seattle's at least a twelve-hour drive," Finn said as they pulled away from Keeling's house. "Not counting stops."
"We're not driving to Seattle." Sheila guided the truck back onto the main road. "Not with an active killer who might strike again."
"We could send someone."
"And risk the FBI finding out?" She shook her head. "Walsh's team is watching every move we make. If those records exist, they'd get there first."
Finn was quiet for a moment, thinking. "I know someone in Seattle PD. Detective I worked with on a case last year. She could check it out quietly, send us whatever she finds."
"You trust her?"
"Yeah. Maria Suarez. Good investigator, knows how to be discreet." He pulled out his phone. "Want me to make the call?"
Sheila considered this as they wound through the red rock canyons. They needed those records—if Vale had documented the sale of the ceremonial robes, it could lead them to their killer. But every hour spent waiting for information from Seattle was another hour someone else might die.
"Make the call," she said finally. "But tell her we need this fast. And tell her to be careful. These aren't ordinary storage records she's looking for."
As Finn made the call, Sheila thought about what Keeling had said. These people are patient. They think in decades, not days. Their killer had been planning this for years, collecting sacred objects, studying ancient rituals.
The question was: who would be next?
Finn ended his call with Detective Suarez and immediately checked his email. "Phone records just came through for both victims," he said. He started scrolling through the documents on his phone. "Give me a minute to compile the data..."
They were passing through a stretch of empty desert, red rocks giving way to sage-dotted plains. The night air was cool and dry.
"Here we go," Finn said after a few minutes.
"Mitchell received a call at 9:47 AM on the day she disappeared.
Number traces to a burner phone, activated that morning, deactivated that night.
" He continued scrolling. "And Kane... similar pattern.
The call came in at 2:15 PM the day he went missing.
Different burner phone, same one-day usage. "
"The killer called them directly," Sheila said. "Lured them out there."
"And they went willingly." Finn looked up from his phone. "Which means the killer knew exactly what to say to get their attention. Something about the caves, something that would appeal to their research interests."
Sheila's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "And now we've got the FBI crawling all over the cave system. Twenty-four-hour surveillance, restricted access."
"You think we've lost our chance to catch them?"
"The killer's not going to risk going back there. Not with that kind of presence." She stared at the empty road ahead. "If they have other bodies hidden in those caves, we'll probably find them. But the killer..."
"They'll just disappear," Finn finished. "Like those burner phones."
They drove in silence for a moment, both considering the implications. Their killer had been meticulous, patient. They'd studied their victims, understood their passions, used that knowledge to draw them out. And now, with their sacred burial ground compromised...
"What if they're not done?" Sheila said suddenly.
"What do you mean?"
"These murders—they're ritual. Ceremonial. If we've blocked access to their chosen site..."
"You think they might choose a new location?"
Sheila nodded slowly. "We need to look at other cave systems in the region. Anywhere that might have similar spiritual significance."
"I'll make some calls," Finn said, already dialing. "See what the Forest Service knows about other cave networks in the area."
But Sheila couldn't shake the feeling that they were running out of time. Somewhere out there, their killer was watching, planning, perhaps already selecting their next victim.
And this time, they'd be looking for a new place to complete their ritual.