CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
His lungs burned as he crashed through the underbrush, branches whipping against his face.
Blood trickled from where he'd hit the ground after leaping from the Subaru, but the pain barely registered.
Decades of careful planning, of patient preparation, all unraveling because he'd been careless with Harper.
He should have taken her phone before they left the bar.
Should have realized she was texting someone details that would allow the police to find them quickly.
Amateur mistakes—the kind he hadn't made with Mitchell or Kane.
But he'd been rushed, desperate to continue his work after the FBI had contaminated his sacred space in the ice caves.
The sound of sirens echoed through the forest behind him. They'd be organizing search teams now, setting up a perimeter. He needed to think, to plan, but his mind kept returning to that first cave, to the moment that had changed everything.
He'd found the frozen one three years ago, perfectly preserved in a chamber deep beneath the mountains.
At first, he'd thought it was just another Ice Age hunter, like others discovered in glaciers and permafrost. But something about the clothing, the artifacts with the body—they didn't match any known civilization.
The decision to carefully thaw the remains had been scientific, methodical.
He'd documented everything, following proper archaeological protocols.
But then the dreams had started. The frozen one speaking to him, showing him glimpses of a society that had existed long before recorded history.
A people who had understood things modern humans had forgotten.
"They preserved their wisest ones," the frozen one had told him. "Not just their bodies, but their knowledge, their consciousness. The cold and the minerals in the caves created perfect vessels, waiting to be awakened when they were needed."
He'd thought he was losing his mind at first. But then he'd found the references in old tribal stories—tales of caves where "the old ones sleep," of ancient wisdom preserved in ice and stone. The same stories Tracy Mitchell had been documenting, though she hadn't understood their true significance.
Thomas Kane had come closest to understanding.
He'd recognized the patterns in the ceremonial robes, seen how they matched the clothing on the frozen one.
But Kane had wanted to publish, to expose everything.
He couldn't see that some knowledge needed to be protected, preserved until humanity was ready.
A branch snapped underfoot as he scrambled up a steep incline.
The ceremonial robes were crucial—they weren't just clothing, but conductors, prepared with specific minerals that helped preserve consciousness.
He'd spent years acquiring the pieces from the Window Rock collection, learning their significance.
Matthew Vale's records had led him to the private collectors who'd bought them, and his federal credentials had helped him recover them, piece by piece.
Mitchell had nearly ruined everything when she'd started connecting the sites to modern tribal lands. She'd been going to the tribal council, planning to have the caves declared protected sites. That would have brought oversight, regulations, endless archaeological surveys.
And now Harper... her work on cultural preservation had made her perfect. She would have understood, eventually. Would have seen why certain knowledge needed to be preserved this way.
The distant baying of dogs interrupted his thoughts. They were deploying K-9 units faster than he'd expected. He paused, listening. The dogs were still far behind him, but getting closer. He needed to reach the ridgeline—and fast.
Humanity was moving too fast, changing too quickly. Critical knowledge was being lost with each generation. But if he could preserve the right minds, create vessels of consciousness like the frozen one... future civilizations would have guides, teachers who understood the old ways.
The dogs' barking grew louder. They had his scent now.
He reached the top of the incline and stopped, his breath catching. Below him, barely visible in the darkness, was the railroad line he'd noted during his preparation. The old freight line that connected mining operations in the mountains.
And right on schedule, he heard the distant rumble of an approaching train.
Sometimes, the old ways were still the best ways to disappear.
The freight train's headlight appeared around a bend, its beam cutting through lingering darkness. He checked his watch—12:47 AM. The mining trains always ran on schedule, carrying ore from the mountain operations down to the processing plants in the valley.
The dogs sounded closer now. He could hear voices, too—search teams coordinating their movements through the woods. They'd expect him to head deeper into the wilderness, but he hadn't survived this long by being predictable.
He moved carefully down the steep embankment toward the tracks, his boots finding purchase on loose shale. The train was moving slowly, laboring up the grade. Its wheels screamed against the rails as it took the curve, cars swaying with the weight of their cargo.
The dogs' barking changed pitch—they'd picked up his fresh trail. But it would take them precious minutes to navigate the dense underbrush he'd just pushed through. By then...
The locomotive passed his position, followed by a series of hopper cars filled with ore. He counted them, remembering the train's usual configuration. Near the middle would be...
There. A string of empty box cars, their doors partially open for ventilation. The train's speed here couldn't be more than fifteen miles per hour. Child's play.
A shout went up behind him—someone had spotted his movement through the trees. He didn't look back. Instead, he broke into a run parallel to the tracks, matching the train's speed. His legs burned with exhaustion, but adrenaline drove him forward.
Flashlight beams cut through the trees above him. A voice on a megaphone: "Police! Stop where you are!"
He reached for the ladder on the nearest box car, his fingers finding cold metal. He pulled himself up just as gunshots cracked through the air. But he was already rolling inside the car, concealed by shadows and the growing distance.
The train picked up speed as it crested the ridge. Through the open door, he watched flashlights and emergency vehicles become distant points of light, then vanish altogether. The dogs' barking faded beneath the rhythm of wheels on rails.
He sat back against the car's metal wall, finally allowing himself to breathe. His clothes were torn, his body battered from the escape through the woods. But his pack was intact, and with it, the last set of ceremonial robes.
The frozen one's words echoed in his mind: "There will be others who understand. Who see the importance of preserving wisdom."
He would find them. And next time, he would be more careful.
The train rolled on through the darkness, carrying him toward distant mountains.
Toward new caves, new opportunities to continue his work.
The police would contact the engineer, get the train to stop, but by then he would be long gone, lost to the wilderness.
He would go back to planning and preparing.
After all, there were so many brilliant minds out there waiting to be preserved.