CHAPTER TWENTY
Finn's morning coffee had gone cold, untouched on his desk as he stared at the evidence board.
Dawn painted the sheriff's department in pale gold, but his mind was still working through the shadows of possibilities.
Walsh's files lay spread before him—geological surveys, cave locations, victim profiles that seemed to mock their inability to prevent the latest death.
The sound of boots on linoleum made him look up. Sheila stood in the doorway, something in her posture suggesting both exhaustion and resolution. Mountain light caught the silver in her hair, reminding him of mineral formations in Whitman's caves.
"I've been thinking," she said, closing the door behind her.
"Dangerous habit." He studied her face, reading the familiar signs of a plan taking shape. "Cemetery help clear your head?"
"Maybe." She moved to the evidence board, her fingers trailing across photos of the victims—Kane, Mitchell, Harper. "We've been looking at this wrong."
"How so?"
"We're trying to predict where he'll strike next. What cave system he'll choose." She turned to face him. "But the caves are secondary. It's the victims that matter—finding the right minds to preserve."
Finn felt tension gather between his shoulders. "You have an idea."
"We create the perfect target. Someone whose work aligns exactly with what Whitman's trying to achieve. Research into cultural preservation, traditional knowledge..." She paused, watching his reaction. "Someone he won't be able to resist."
"Using a researcher as bait." The words felt heavy in the quiet office. "That's risky, Sheila. Look what happened to Harper."
"Not a real researcher." Her voice carried steel beneath its surface. "Someone with training. Someone who can handle themselves if things go wrong."
Understanding dawned like the sun climbing Coldwater's mountains. "An undercover operation."
"We build the perfect academic profile. The right publications, the right research focus. Make our candidate irresistible to him." She moved to his desk, picked up his cold coffee. "But this time, when he makes contact..."
"We'll be ready." Finn stood, energy replacing his earlier fatigue. "It could work. But we'd need someone who could sell it completely. The academic language, the research methodology..."
"I know." Sheila set the coffee down, turned back to the evidence board. "And they'd have to understand the risks. Whitman's smart, patient. He'll study them before making contact."
Morning light streamed through the office windows, warming the room. Outside, Coldwater was fully awake now, unaware of the trap being planned in the quiet of the sheriff's department.
"Walsh won't like it," Finn said quietly.
"Walsh wants to wait until Whitman makes a mistake." Steel crept back into Sheila's voice. "I'm done waiting for more bodies to show up in those caves."
Finn watched Sheila move through motes that danced in the sunlight, her shadow stretching across the evidence board where victims' faces stared back with frozen serenity. The office felt charged with dangerous potential, like the air before a mountain storm.
"We'd need to be thorough," he said, his voice cutting through layers of golden light and unspoken risks. "Create a complete academic history. Publications, conference presentations, a digital footprint he can verify."
"Everything has to be perfect." Sheila's fingers traced the edge of Rachel Harper's photo, lingering on the last victim they'd failed to save. "He'll research everything—dissertation committee, grant applications, even social media presence."
Morning traffic hummed beyond their windows, the sound of a world moving forward while they planned to trap a killer who turned people into frozen exhibits.
Each passing minute felt weighted with urgency, with the knowledge that somewhere in the mountains, Whitman was already hunting his next preservation subject.
"There's something else," Finn said, watching Sheila's reflection ghost across the window glass. "Whoever does this... they'll have to understand his mindset. Really understand it. He doesn't see himself as a killer."
"He's a curator," Sheila finished. "Preserving minds he thinks are worthy, using methods he learned from that first frozen body.
" She turned from the window, her face caught between shadow and light.
"Our candidate will need to share his passion for preservation.
If he reaches out by phone, as he's done so far, his mark will have to convince him they understand the importance of what he's doing. "
The implications hung in the air between them like smoke—they would be asking someone to walk into darkness, to dance with a killer who saw murder as sacred duty. The room felt smaller suddenly, pressed in by the weight of what they were planning.
"If this goes wrong..." Finn let the thought trail off, but Sheila's eyes met his with familiar determination.
"If we do nothing, more bodies will show up in those caves. More minds 'preserved' in chambers of ice and stone." Her voice carried the steel edge he recognized from her fighting days. "At least this way, we choose the ground."
Finn leaned against his desk, arms crossed, a familiar crease of worry between his eyes.
"We'd need someone who could convince him," he said. "Someone who understands both academic research and law enforcement procedure. That's a narrow field."
Sheila stood before the evidence board, studying the faces of Whitman's victims.
"I could do it," she said quietly.
The words landed between them like stones in still water. Finn's posture shifted, tension gathering in his shoulders. "No."
"Think about it." She turned to face him, her body outlined against the photos of the dead. "I'm a quick study. Whatever academic jargon I need to know, I can figure it out."
"Sheila—"
"And I've got law enforcement training. Combat experience. If something goes wrong—"
"If something goes wrong, you'll end up like them." He gestured toward the board, toward faces forever frozen in chambers of ice and stone. "You're not invincible, Sheila."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken fears. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance—a reminder of the world they were sworn to protect. Sheila moved to the window, watching morning traffic flow through Coldwater's streets like a river of normality they couldn't quite touch.
"Someone has to stop him," she said finally, her voice carrying the weight of every victim they'd failed to save. "And I won't ask anyone else to take risks I'm not willing to take myself."
"You're the sheriff," Finn countered, but his tone had softened. "This department needs you. Star needs you."
"Star needs to live in a world where killers like Whitman can't just keep taking people." She turned back to him. "I can do this, Finn. I can make him believe I understand his mission. Besides, who else is going to do it?"
Finn moved slowly away from his desk, his shadow stretching across crime scene photos like a man testing ice over deep water.
The office hummed with early morning quiet, broken only by the distant sound of deputies arriving for their shift, unaware of the weight of decisions being made in this sunlit room.
"Even putting aside my concerns for your safety," Finn said, "there are other problems."
"Such as?"
"The fake I.D. our killer created—that was well done. This guy's an expert in his field, so he's going to be familiar with his peers. If we try to create an academic profile out of nowhere, he'll sniff it out."
Sheila was silent for a few moments. He had a point.
"I get the impression you have a better idea," Sheila said.
"What about James Cooper?" he said finally, his voice carrying the careful tone of someone offering an alternative to catastrophe. "Mitchell's research assistant."
Sheila turned from the window, her face caught between shadow and light. "Cooper?"
"Think about it. He knows Mitchell's work intimately—the methodology, the terminology. He could speak about preservation techniques in a way that would feel authentic to Whitman. And more than likely, he's already on Whitman's radar."
Sheila's eyes drifted to Mitchell's photo on the evidence board. "Cooper's already part of the academic world. His credentials would hold up to scrutiny."
"More than that." Finn moved to join her at the board, their shadows merging across faces of the dead. "If he made a public statement about continuing Mitchell's work, about not letting her death be in vain..." He let the implication hang in the air between them.
"He'd be the perfect target," Sheila finished softly. "Young, passionate, already connected to one of Whitman's victims. Determined to carry on research that Whitman considers sacred."
The office fell quiet as they considered the possibility. Outside their window, Coldwater stirred to full wakefulness.
"Cooper would be more believable than me," Sheila admitted, something unclenching in her chest. "Whitman would see him as a natural successor to Mitchell's work, someone who truly understands what was lost when she died."
"And he's young enough, idealistic enough, that Whitman might see him as someone worth preserving." Finn's voice carried the weight of what they were considering—using Cooper as bait for a killer who turned people into frozen exhibits.
"If something goes wrong…" Sheila began. A few moments ago, she'd been more than ready to take the risks on herself. But asking someone else to sign up for those same risks was a different matter entirely.
Sheila studied Mitchell's photo, remembering Cooper's devastation when he'd learned of her death. "He loved her work," she said quietly. "Believed in what she was trying to preserve."
"Enough to risk becoming Whitman's next preservation subject?"
Sheila considered the magnitude of what they would be asking. Cooper was barely out of graduate school, his whole academic career ahead of him. But he was also their best chance to stop Whitman.
"Only one way to find out," she said, reaching for her keys.