CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Coyote Run's neon sign cast a blue glow across the crowded parking lot as Rachel pulled in.
Her headlights swept past dozens of vehicles before she found a spot near the entrance.
Country music and laughter spilled out each time the door opened, and she could see the packed bar through the windows, patrons crowded around high-top tables and pressed against the long wooden counter.
Made it there yet?
And five minutes later: Starting to worry. Call me when you arrive.
She quickly typed back: Just got here. Place is packed. Lots of witnesses. Will update you after I meet him.
Don't forget to send the license plate, Mark texted back.
As soon as I know which vehicle he drives, she thought.
The bar's heavy door opened to a wall of sound—clinking glasses, overlapping conversations, and Luke Combs on the jukebox. The bartender, a young woman with vibrant purple hair, looked up from mixing a drink. "What can I get you?" she called over the noise.
"Just meeting someone," Rachel replied, scanning the crowded space. A group of men in flannel shirts played pool in the corner while locals occupied most of the barstools.
The door opened again behind her, letting in another blast of cool air. Rachel turned to find a man entering—silver-haired, dressed in khakis and a blue Oxford shirt beneath a well-worn field jacket. He matched the faculty photo she'd found online, though he seemed smaller in person, less imposing.
"Dr. Harper?" His smile was warm, academically distracted. "Nathan Angel. Thank you for meeting me on such short notice."
His handshake was firm but not aggressive. Everything about him seemed calculated to put her at ease—the slight stoop of his shoulders, the way he gestured toward a recently vacated booth in the corner. "Can I get you something? They make an excellent Old Fashioned."
Rachel found herself relaxing slightly. He reminded her of several senior faculty members she knew—brilliant but slightly scattered, more comfortable with artifacts than people. "Just a club soda," she said. "I'm driving."
While Angel ordered their drinks, Rachel messaged Emma: Meeting started. Dr. Angel seems legitimate. Will update in an hour.
Angel returned with their drinks. "I apologize again for the late hour," he said, settling into the chair across from her.
"But when I read your paper on adaptive traditions in isolated communities, I knew I had to reach out.
Your framework for understanding how practices persist despite external pressures—it's exactly what I've been trying to articulate in my own research. "
Rachel wrapped her hands around the cool glass. "You mentioned finding evidence of continuous cultural practices?"
"Yes." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes brightening with academic enthusiasm. "You see, most archaeologists focus on change—how cultures evolve, adapt, disappear. But what I've found suggests something remarkable: traditions that have remained essentially unchanged for thousands of years."
"In the cave systems you're studying?"
"Precisely." He pulled out a small notebook, flipping it open to reveal careful sketches of what appeared to be rock formations.
"These caves—they're natural preservation chambers.
The mineral content, the constant temperature, the isolation from outside influences.
.. they're perfect for maintaining both physical artifacts and cultural continuity. "
Rachel listened, absorbed. This was right up her alley.
"Your methodology for tracking generational changes in linguistic patterns is fascinating," Angel said, gesturing with his drink. "Particularly your focus on how certain phrases persist even as the language around them evolves. Have you considered applying that same framework to ritual practices?"
Rachel leaned forward. "Actually, yes. I've been documenting how certain families maintain traditional ceremonies even after moving to urban areas. The core elements remain remarkably stable."
"Even when they've lost the original context?"
"Especially then." Rachel pulled out her notebook, flipping to a recent interview transcript.
"I spoke with a woman in Cedar City whose family has performed the same blessing ritual before major life events for at least six generations.
They've lost the meaning of some of the words, but the rhythm, the gestures—they're identical to recordings from the 1940s. "
Angel's eyes lit up. "That's exactly what I'm seeing in the archaeological record.
These repeated patterns, preserved not just in artifacts but in the way spaces were used.
" He sketched something in his notebook—a series of concentric circles.
"Traditional knowledge encoded in the landscape itself. "
"Through intentional marking?" Rachel asked as she studied his drawing.
"Sometimes. But more often through the repeated performance of certain actions. The way people moved through spaces, the positions they took during ceremonies." He added details to his sketch—small figures arranged around the circles. "The body remembers what the mind forgets."
Rachel felt her pulse quicken with academic excitement. This aligned perfectly with patterns she'd been tracking in modern communities—muscle memory preserving traditions even when their original meaning had been lost.
"I've been trying to document similar patterns in how modern families arrange their living spaces," she said.
"There's this family in Moab—three generations living together.
Without realizing it, they've organized their home almost exactly like their ancestors' hogans, down to the placement of the main entrance and where they eat meals. "
"Despite having no direct knowledge of those traditional layouts?"
"Exactly." Rachel pulled out her phone, showing him a diagram she'd made. "See how the sleeping areas maintain the same directional alignment? Even though they're in a suburban ranch house?"
Angel studied the image, nodding slowly. "Remarkable preservation of spatial patterns." He glanced at her notebook. "May I?"
Rachel handed it over, watching as he flipped through her interview notes. His questions were precise, thoughtful—exactly the kind of academic discourse she'd been missing in her department, where her colleagues often dismissed the significance of these subtle cultural continuities.
Her phone buzzed: Mark again. How's it going? Is he a total creep?
She typed back quickly: No, everything's fine. Fascinating discussion about preservation of cultural practices. Will head to research site soon.
"Everything alright?" Angel asked.
"Sorry about that." She put the phone away and smiled apologetically. "My mother would strangle me—she always had a thing about using the phone in front of other people."
Angel closed his notebook. "We should probably head out to the site if we're going to see it tonight. The lighting conditions are actually perfect right now for viewing some of the formations I've documented."
Rachel glanced at a nearby clock: 10:41 PM. The bar around them was showing no signs of slowing down. "How far is it?"
"Fifteen minutes by car, then a short walk." He gathered his things. "I know it seems unusual, visiting a site at night. But some things really can't wait."
Rachel hesitated. Angel had proved to be exactly what he'd claimed: a legitimate researcher with interesting findings relevant to her work. His faculty credentials had checked out. They'd had an engaging academic discussion. And yet…
"We could wait until morning," she suggested. "Better visibility."
"Of course." His smile was understanding. "Though I should mention—I'm heading to a conference in Denver tomorrow. I won't be back for two weeks. And what I've found... well, I think it could significantly impact your current research direction. But I completely understand if you'd prefer to wait."
Rachel thought about her wall of maps, the patterns she'd been trying to understand. If Angel had found physical evidence of cultural continuation…
"Where exactly are we going?" she asked.
"There's an old forest service road off Highway 40, just past mile marker 23. You can follow me there."
Rachel nodded. As she followed Angel out, she quickly sent Mark the details of the location, adding: Following Dr. Angel to research site. Will call when heading home.
As they walked to their cars, Angel talking enthusiastically about preservation techniques in limestone caves, Rachel felt a mixture of academic excitement and lingering caution.
But she'd taken precautions—she'd shared her location and documented Angel's identity, and multiple people knew where she was.
Sometimes academic research required stepping outside normal comfort zones. And the possibility of finding evidence that supported her theories about cultural resilience…
She followed Angel's Subaru out of the parking lot, pausing to take a quick picture of the Subaru's license plate—UTX-247—and send it to her husband before following the other car onto the road. The bar's lights disappeared behind them as they headed into the darkness beyond the city's edge.
The headlights of Angel's Subaru cast long shadows through the pines as Rachel followed him onto the forest service road. Gravel crunched beneath her tires, and branches scraped against her car's sides. Her phone showed one bar of service—enough to maintain location sharing, but barely.
The road wound deeper into darkness. Rachel checked her rearview mirror frequently, though she wasn't sure what she expected to see. The night pressed close around her car, and the trees seemed to swallow her headlights.
After about ten minutes, Angel's brake lights flashed. He pulled onto a wide shoulder where the road curved around a limestone outcropping. Rachel parked behind him, leaving enough space between their vehicles to maneuver if needed.
Angel was already out of his car, shrugging on a backpack. "The path starts just over here," he called, his voice carrying in the still night air. He clicked on a powerful flashlight, illuminating a narrow trail leading into the trees.
Rachel grabbed her own pack, making sure her phone was easily accessible in its side pocket. She'd brought her digital recorder too, though she wasn't sure why. Maybe to document whatever Angel wanted to show her, or maybe just because it was part of her standard research kit.
"The cave entrance is about a quarter mile ahead," Angel said as they started walking.
His manner remained professionally enthusiastic, like a curator leading a private museum tour.
"What's fascinating is how the indigenous populations used these natural formations.
They understood the preservative properties of limestone caves centuries before Western science documented them. "
Rachel followed, noting how easily Angel moved along the rough trail. For an older academic, he seemed remarkably comfortable in the wilderness. "How did you find this particular site?" she asked.
"Oral histories, mainly. Local elders mentioned a place where 'the old ones sleep.' Most researchers assumed it was metaphorical." He paused to shine his light on a rock formation. "But I've spent decades studying these patterns. Learning to read the landscape the way they did."
Something about his phrasing made Rachel pause. "I thought you were based at the University of Colorado?"
"Oh, I am now. But I've worked all over the Southwest." He continued walking, his voice drifting back. "You have to understand, Dr. Harper—some knowledge takes years to acquire. Generations, even. The people who lived here, they understood things we're only beginning to grasp."
Her phone buzzed. Mark again: Getting worried. How much longer?
Before she could reply, Angel spoke again. "The preservation in these caves is remarkable. The combination of mineral content and constant temperature... bodies can last thousands of years, virtually unchanged."
Rachel looked up sharply. "Bodies?"
"Yes." Angel had stopped walking. He stood several paces ahead, his flashlight beam pointing down the trail. "That's what I found, you see. A perfect specimen. Preserved in the ice and limestone. And when I extracted it..." He trailed off.
Rachel shivered. "Dr. Angel?"
"It spoke to me." His voice had changed, becoming almost dreamy. "Told me about the others. The ones who wait in the deep places, in caves we've forgotten. They remember everything, you see. Every story, every ceremony, every secret."
Rachel took a step backward. Her hand found her phone, but before she could pull it out—
"They've been so patient," Angel continued, turning around. "Waiting for someone who understood. Who could help them return."
As her unease deepened, she glanced over her shoulder, measuring the distance back to her vehicle. She felt an insane urge to just start running, but she told herself that was foolish. This Dr. Angel might be a little unhinged, but surely there was no real danger—
She cried out, and something sharp pierced the base of her skull. Her last thought before darkness took her was of Mark, waiting at home with dinner in the oven.
Then nothing.