CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sheila stared at the freight train's long line of cars, now stopped on a siding near the town of Helper.
Red and blue lights from a dozen law enforcement vehicles painted the steel containers in alternating colors.
The train hadn't been easy to stop—it had taken multiple calls up the chain of command, finally reaching a Union Pacific executive who had the authority to halt a cargo run.
But those precious minutes of bureaucracy might have cost them everything.
"How long between when we lost him and when the train stopped?" she asked Finn, who was coordinating with railway police.
"Forty-three minutes," he said. "Train was doing about thirty-five through the mountains. That's..." He did the quick math. "About twenty-five miles of track he could have jumped from."
Twenty-five miles of remote mountain terrain, filled with ridges, valleys, and dense forest. The killer could be anywhere by now.
Teams of officers moved systematically through the train cars, checking every possible hiding space. Their flashlight beams swept across steel walls and cargo containers, but Sheila already knew they wouldn't find him. He was too smart to have stayed on the train.
Her radio crackled. "Sheriff? We found something in one of the box cars."
She and Finn made their way to the car in question, where a deputy was photographing scuff marks on the floor.
"Fresh marks," the deputy said. "And this." He held up a scrap of dark fabric, snagged on a rough edge of the door frame.
Sheila examined the tear pattern. "He entered here. The question is, where did he leave?"
"We've got railway police checking all the access points along the route," Finn said. "Places where the track runs close to roads or trails."
But Sheila knew it was too late. The killer wouldn't exit near any known access point—he'd know they were expecting that.
Finn's phone rang as they watched railway police searching along the tracks. He stepped away from the noise of the search teams, checking the caller ID.
"Maria? Tell me you found something." He put the phone on speaker.
"Your storage unit tip paid off," Detective Suarez said. "I'm standing in it right now. Finn, this place is like a research library. Vale wasn't just documenting sales—he was studying these artifacts, especially anything related to preservation ceremonies."
"What kind of preservation?"
"The ceremonial robes from Window Rock? They weren't just valuable pieces. They were treated with specific mineral compounds. Vale documented everything—the compositions, the ceremonial arrangements, even which cave formations were considered most effective for preservation."
Finn caught Sheila's eye and motioned her over.
"The robes that were stolen," Suarez continued, "Vale tracked them through multiple private collectors.
But here's what's interesting—Mitchell contacted Vale's widow a few months ago, asking about caves where ceremonial items had been found.
She was investigating unauthorized access to sacred sites. "
"Did she find who was behind it?" Sheila asked.
"If she did, it's not here. But someone's been through these files recently. There are gaps in Vale's cataloging system, missing documents. Very precisely removed—whoever did it knew exactly what they were looking for."
Headlights swept across them as a line of black SUVs pulled into the rail yard. Agent Walsh stepped out of the lead vehicle.
"Maria," Finn said quickly, "secure everything. Photograph all documents, catalog any gaps in the records."
"Already on it. I've got two of my best evidence techs here."
Finn ended the call as Walsh approached. The FBI agent's expression was tight, controlled.
"Agent Walsh," Sheila said. "Long drive from Salt Lake."
"We need to talk." Walsh's eyes flicked to the phone in Finn's hand. "About Vale's records."
Sheila crossed her arms. "What do you want?"
"Information. What exactly do you know?"
"Why don't you tell me what's really going on with the FBI's interest in these caves? Why you've been watching them since Kane disappeared?"
They studied each other in the predawn darkness. Finally, Walsh sighed. "Your station. One hour."
***
Sheila's office felt too small, with Finn leaning against the frame of the door and Walsh sitting across from her desk. Two cups of gas station coffee sat cooling between her and Walsh. The sun was just starting to peek through the blinds.
"What I'm about to tell you," Walsh said, opening a manila folder, "is classified.
But you've earned the right to know." She slid a photograph across the desk—an old excavation site, a body preserved in ice.
"This was found in 1989, in a cave system in Montana.
Perfectly preserved, wearing ceremonial robes similar to the ones on your victims."
"You've seen this before," Finn said. It wasn't a question.
"We've been tracking cases like this since 1989," Walsh explained.
"Three other incidents where disturbed individuals found preserved bodies in caves and developed fixations about preservation.
Each killer used ceremonial artifacts, chose academic victims. But we've never caught one alive—they've always killed themselves or died during capture attempts.
That's why we're so interested in this case. "
"Our killer found one of these bodies."
"Yes. And became obsessed with the preservation process.
It seems he believes he's creating a... library of human consciousness.
Freezing brilliant minds at their peak." Walsh looked tired.
"We've been trying to keep this quiet. If word got out about these preservation sites, every amateur archaeologist and treasure hunter would be tearing apart sacred caves. "
"A library of human consciousness?" Sheila leaned forward, brow furrowed. "What exactly do you mean by that? How do you know what he believes?"
"From a journal we recovered at a previous scene," Walsh explained. "That particular killer was convinced that these caves could somehow preserve not just bodies, but knowledge, consciousness itself. I'm guessing the person you're after has a similar motive."
"You could have told me this earlier."
"We needed to verify the connection first. The mineral traces Dr. Jin found on the robes—they match samples from other sites. Your killer isn't just copying an ancient ritual. He's trying to perfect it."
Sheila absorbed this. Finally, pieces were falling into place—the killer's obsession with academics, the precise positioning, the careful selection of caves.
"Vale's records," Sheila said. "What do they tell us?"
"He documented the private collectors who bought pieces of the Window Rock collection.
One of them was particularly interested in preservation ceremonies—spent years studying the mineral properties of ceremonial textiles.
" Walsh pulled out another document. "A Dr. James Whitman.
Anthropology professor at Berkeley until 2021.
Disappeared after leading an expedition to study cave formations in Utah. "
"He found a preserved body," Sheila said, understanding dawning on her. "And it changed him."
"We think so. His research notes show an increasing obsession with preservation techniques. He believed these ancient cultures had discovered a way to maintain consciousness through specific combinations of minerals, cold, and ceremonial practices."
"Whitman is our killer."
Walsh nodded. "His knowledge of cave systems, his academic background, his access to ceremonial artifacts—it all fits. We've been tracking his movements, but he's careful. Changes vehicles, uses elaborate disguises."
"Until now," Sheila said. "He's getting sloppy. Desperate."
"Because we've contaminated his sacred spaces. The FBI's presence in the ice caves forced him to find new locations. Rush his preparations."
Sheila thought of Rachel Harper, how quickly the killer had moved to take her. "So what's the plan?"
"We've identified other academics who match his victim profile. People studying cultural preservation, indigenous ceremonies. We're monitoring them, but he's already proved he can get to protected targets."
"He'll need a new location," Sheila said. "Somewhere cold, isolated, with the right mineral content."
Walsh pulled out a map. "We've identified three possible cave systems that match his requirements. All within a day's drive of where he abandoned the train."
"That sounds promising," Finn said.
Walsh spread her hands across the map, her expression shadowed in the harsh office lighting.
"Unfortunately, these caves span hundreds of miles of wilderness.
Some haven't been properly surveyed since the 1950s.
The mineral content matches what Whitman needs, but actually finding him.
.." She shook her head. "It would be like looking for a ghost in a graveyard. "
"There must be something more we can do," Sheila pressed. "Some way to track him, predict where he'll go next."
"Whitman's spent years studying these systems." Walsh gathered her papers with precise movements. "For now, all we can do is protect potential targets and wait for him to make a mistake."
"Like he did with Rachel Harper?" Sheila's voice carried an edge that made Walsh pause. "How many more bodies are we willing to risk while we wait?"
"I understand your frustration, Sheriff.
But Whitman's too smart to leave us an easy trail.
He's been planning this for years—the ceremonial robes, the preservation techniques, the cave locations.
Everything carefully chosen." Walsh stood, straightening her jacket.
"We'll keep you updated on any developments. "
After Walsh left, silence settled over the office like a heavy blanket. Sheila stayed at her desk, staring at crime scene photos spread across its surface—Mitchell's body arranged with ceremonial precision, Kane preserved in his icy chamber, Rachel Harper's life cut tragically short.