CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sheila leaned forward, examining rental agreements and payment records illuminated by her desk lamp. Beside her, Finn flipped through the older documents.
"Here's something," he said. "Three months after Vale's death, someone accessed the unit. Used the secondary key code."
"Vale's records would have been valuable," Sheila said. "Lists of collectors, sale prices, locations of artifacts. The kind of information that could make someone rich—or dangerous."
"Or both," Finn added. He held up a visitor log. "Look at this pattern. Every few years, same access code. Always late at night. Last entry was six months ago."
Sheila's phone buzzed. She didn't recognize the number, but her instincts told her it might be important.
"Sheriff Stone," she said, clearing her throat.
"This is Mark Harper." A pause.
"Mr. Harper?" Sheila asked. "You still there?"
"Yes." His voice was shaky, tight with worry. "Listen, my wife Rachel—she went to meet someone about her research. She's a sociologist, you see." He paused, as if unsure how to go on. "Anyway, she's not answering her phone, and her location sharing stopped updating twenty minutes ago."
Sheila frowned. "Who was it she was supposed to meet?"
"A Dr. Nathan Angel from the University of Colorado.
My wife's been researching how small communities preserve their traditions, especially in isolated areas.
" His voice steadied slightly as he focused on the details.
"This Angel fellow—he emailed her tonight, said he'd found evidence of some ancient cultural practices in local cave systems. Said it was exactly what she'd been studying. "
Sheila gestured for Finn to pull up the University of Colorado website. "Did your wife verify his credentials?"
"She did. Found his faculty profile, publication history, everything. The email even came through the university system."
Finn was already typing. "Found him," he said, turning his monitor. "Department of Anthropology. Impressive CV."
Sheila studied the distinguished-looking man on the screen. "Run him through our system."
Finn's fingers moved across the keyboard.
His expression changed. "That's weird. No DMV record, no property records, no tax records—nothing.
And look at this." He pulled up the faculty profile again.
"Publications are all listed, but when I search for the actual papers.
.." He shook his head. "They don't exist."
"Someone created a digital facade," Sheila said. "Good enough to fool an initial check, but it doesn't go deep." She turned back to the phone. "Did she tell you anything specific about his research?"
"Just that he was an archaeologist studying cave systems. She was excited—said it could be important data for her project.
" Mark took a shaky breath. "She texted when she got to Coyote Run, said she'd update me after meeting him.
Then another text saying she was following him to some research site.
Forest service road off Highway 40, past mile marker 23. "
Sheila's hand tightened on the phone. The pattern was too familiar—an academic lured out by the promise of significant research findings, a location near cave systems, a supposed expert who understood their work.
"Her research," Sheila pressed, "was it about how traditions survive over time?"
"Yes. She's been interviewing people in small towns across Utah, documenting how they maintain their cultural practices despite all the changes happening. She's particularly interested in religious and ceremonial traditions." He paused. "Sheriff, please tell me I'm overreacting here."
Sheila was already grabbing her keys. "Mr. Harper, stay home in case she contacts you. We're heading out now. Did she tell anyone else about this meeting?"
"Her research assistant, Emma. Said she'd call the police if she didn't hear from Rachel by midnight."
"Text me Emma's number. And Mr. Harper? You did the right thing calling."
She ended the call and turned to Finn, who was shaking his head. "He's a slippery one, this guy we're after."
"Mitchell, Kane, and now Rachel Harper." Sheila checked her weapon. "All academics studying how traditions persist in isolated communities. All drawn to cave systems by someone who'd studied their research."
"The question is," Finn said, "where is he planning to kill her? What's out on that service road?"
***
"The service road isn't on any of our maps," Finn said, studying his phone as they sped down Highway 40. The headlights cut through darkness thick with pine shadows. "But Rachel's location sharing last pinged here." He pointed to a spot on the screen. "Just past mile marker 23."
Sheila pressed the accelerator harder. They'd called for backup, but the nearest units were at least thirty minutes out. Every minute that passed was another minute Rachel could be...
Her jaw tightened. No. Not this time.
The mile markers flashed by: 21... 22…
"There," Finn said suddenly. "Gravel turnoff."
Sheila slowed just enough to make the turn safely. The truck's suspension protested as they bounced down the rough forest service road. Their headlights caught glimpses of dense underbrush and limestone outcroppings.
"Stop," Finn called out. "Tracks."
Fresh tire marks cut through gravel still damp from yesterday's rain. They led around a bend where the road widened into a small turnaround area. Two vehicles sat empty: Rachel's sedan and a green Subaru.
Sheila killed the engine but left the headlights on. They approached Rachel's vehicle carefully, weapons drawn.
Finn peered through the windows with his flashlight. "Nothing obvious inside. Looks clean."
Sheila radioed in the plate number to dispatch. She was just finishing up when she heard Finn say her name.
"Sheila." His voice was tight. He stood near a metal sign half-hidden by brush, shining his flashlight on faded text: "CAUTION—CAVE SYSTEM AHEAD. NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY."
"How far?" Sheila asked, ignoring the sinking feeling in her chest.
"Quarter mile, maybe less." He studied the ground. "Two sets of footprints, heading that way."
Sheila radioed their location to dispatch, then checked her gear. Backup was still too far out, but Rachel might still be alive. The killer had a ritual to complete—the ceremonial robes, the precise positioning. Those things took time.
Unless he'd already…
A branch snapped in the darkness beyond their lights. Both of them froze, listening. The night seemed to hold its breath.
"We go in quiet," Sheila said softly. "He might still be down there with her."
They followed the footprints, moving as silently as possible along a narrow trail. Their lights caught glimpses of worked stone—old trail markers, steps carved into rock. Someone had improved this path, long ago.
The cave entrance was smaller than that of the ice caves, but the air flowing from it carried the same mineral chill. Sheila paused at the threshold, listening. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. And something else—a sound like fabric rustling?
They descended carefully, testing each step. The passage twisted, then opened into a larger chamber. Limestone formations glittered in their light beams. The air grew colder.
"There," Finn whispered, pointing.
A tunnel branched off to their right, sloping downward. Fresh scuff marks scored the dusty floor.
They followed the marks deeper into the earth. The cold intensified, and their breath began to fog. Another chamber opened before them, this one smaller, more intimate. Like a chapel carved by water and time.
Sheila's light found her first—Rachel Harper, arranged with terrible care against the far wall. She wore ceremonial robes, their beadwork catching the light like fallen stars. Her hands were folded in her lap, her head tilted slightly as if in contemplation.
But her skin was still warm.
"Finn," Sheila breathed. "She hasn't been dead more than an hour."
A pebble clattered somewhere in the darkness behind them.
Someone else was still in the cave.
Sheila and Finn swept their lights methodically through the chamber, checking every alcove, every shadow. The killer had to be here somewhere—someone had moved through these passages just minutes ago. But the cave offered only silence broken by the steady drip of water.
"We need backup," Sheila said quietly. "And Jin needs to see her before she gets too cold."
She checked her phone—no service this deep. "Let's head back toward the entrance, call it in."
They moved carefully through the tunnels. The temperature seemed to be dropping even further, as if the cave itself was trying to preserve its latest victim.
They were halfway to the entrance when they saw it—a shadow moving ahead of them, a figure racing through the beam of their lights.
"Police! Stop!" Sheila shouted, but the figure was already disappearing around a bend.
They gave chase, their footsteps echoing off stone walls. The tunnel narrowed and they were forced to run single file. Finn's light caught glimpses of their quarry—a man in dark clothing, moving fast. He reached the cave entrance several seconds ahead of them, disappearing into the night.
They emerged from the cave in time to see him sprinting toward the parked Subaru. The car's lights flashed as the killer unlocked it. By the time Sheila and Finn reached their truck, the Subaru was already moving, gravel spraying as it accelerated down the service road.
Sheila threw the truck into gear and grabbed her radio. "Dispatch, this is Stone. 10-80 in progress, heading east on Forest Service Road 177 toward Highway 40. Suspect is driving a green Subaru, Utah plate Victor-Charlie-Seven-Four-Nine-Eight. The suspect is wanted for homicide. All units respond."
The truck's tires found purchase on the gravel as they gave chase, their headlights illuminating the cloud of dust kicked up by the car ahead. The killer had maybe fifteen seconds on them—close enough to follow, far enough to make stopping him difficult.
"Highway 40 is three minutes ahead," Finn said, checking the map on his phone. "Highway Patrol's setting up spike strips at the intersection."
Sheila pressed the accelerator harder, but the rough road made pursuit dangerous at higher speeds. The killer seemed to have no such concerns—the Subaru bounced and slid around curves with reckless speed.
They were gaining slowly when the killer's brake lights suddenly flashed. He yanked the car hard to the right, onto what looked like an old logging track.
"Don't lose him!" Finn said. Sheila was already turning to follow, their truck's suspension protesting the sharp movement.
The logging track was even rougher than the service road. Tree branches scraped against their windows as they pursued the killer deeper into the forest, away from their backup, away from the highway where Highway Patrol waited.
The green Subaru's taillights glowed like demon eyes in the darkness ahead, weaving through the narrow logging track. Sheila kept pace, slowly closing the distance. The truck's powerful engine gave them an advantage on the rough terrain.
"He's running out of road," Finn said, gripping the dashboard as they bounced over another rut. Their headlights illuminated a wall of pines ahead where the track appeared to end.
But then the Subaru's brake lights flashed. The vehicle fishtailed violently, kicking up gravel and pine needles. For a moment, Sheila thought he'd lost control.
"Sheila!" Finn's warning came just as she realized what was happening.
The Subaru had spun completely around and was now accelerating straight toward them, its headlights blinding. The killer had turned this into a deadly game of chicken.
Through the glare, Sheila caught a glimpse of movement—the driver's door opening. A dark figure leaped from the vehicle, rolling into the underbrush as the Subaru continued its trajectory, now a three-thousand-pound missile hurtling toward them with no one at the wheel.
Time seemed to slow. Sheila's training took over. She cranked the wheel hard to the right, but the truck's tires lost traction on the loose gravel. They slid sideways, the world tilting as the right wheels left the ground.
"Hold on!" she shouted.
The truck crashed through the understory, small trees snapping under its weight. Behind them, the Subaru roared past, metal screaming as it slammed into the larger pines they'd narrowly avoided.
They came to rest at an angle, the truck's front end buried in brush. Steam hissed from somewhere under the hood. The impact had been violent enough to deploy the airbags, which now deflated slowly in the beam of their one remaining headlight.
"Finn?" Sheila's voice was hoarse. "You okay?"
"Yeah." He was already unclipping his seatbelt. "Just bruised. You?"
She did a quick self-assessment. Everything hurt, but nothing seemed broken. "I'm good. We need to—"
An explosion behind them cut her off—the Subaru's gas tank igniting. Orange light filled the forest as flames climbed into the canopy.
They scrambled out of the truck, weapons drawn. But the killer had too much of a head start. In the chaos of the crash and fire, he could have gone in any direction.
Sirens wailed in the distance—their backup finally arriving. Sheila grabbed her radio, trying her best to recall the brief glimpse she'd caught of the man.
"Dispatch, suspect is on foot. Adult male, medium build, brown hair. Armed and extremely dangerous. Last seen entering woods north of Forest Service Road 177, approximately two miles east of the cave entrance. We need K-9 units and air support."
She turned to Finn, who was examining the burning Subaru from a safe distance. "Anything?"
"Look at this." He pointed his light at fresh scratches on the rear bumper. "Paint transfer. Dark blue. He must have switched vehicles recently."
The first Highway Patrol units arrived, lights painting the trees in red and blue. Sheila quickly organized search teams—the killer couldn't have gotten far on foot, not in this terrain. But as she directed officers into the woods, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was still watching.
The flames from the Subaru cast writhing shadows through the trees as more units arrived. Soon the woods would be crawling with officers and K-9 teams. But Sheila's gut told her that finding him wouldn't be easy.
"Sheriff?" A young deputy approached. "We found fresh tracks heading north. Looks like he's making for the ridgeline."
Sheila nodded. "Set up a perimeter. I want every trail, every access road covered. And get me satellite images of this area—I need to know what's up on that ridge."
The killer might have escaped for now. But as the saying went, he wasn't out of the woods yet.