CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
"Hell no!" Cooper said, pushing back from his desk so violently that papers scattered across his cramped university office like startled birds. Light filtering through venetian blinds striped his face in bands of shadow that emphasized the fear in his eyes.
Sheila stayed where she was, leaning against a bookshelf lined with anthropological texts and carefully labeled binders—Mitchell's research, preserved with an assistant's devotion. The small office smelled of old coffee and printer ink, the familiar perfume of academic dedication.
"Just hear us out," she said quietly. Beside her, Finn remained silent, his presence solid and steady against the waves of Cooper's panic.
"Hear you out? You want me to basically announce myself as bait for a serial killer.
" Cooper's voice cracked slightly, betraying his youth.
His laptop cast blue light across scattered papers—drafts of articles he'd been working on, attempts to continue Mitchell's work even after her death.
"A killer who arranges his victims in ceremonial robes and freezes them in caves. "
"We would have eyes on you the whole time," Finn said. "Every precaution, every safeguard."
Cooper laughed, a brittle sound that seemed to shatter against the office walls. Outside his window, students crossed the quad in carefree groups, their normalcy a stark contrast to the tension filling this small academic space.
"Dr. Mitchell trusted me with her research," he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Asked me to protect her work, not die for it."
Sheila moved closer to his desk, sunlight catching the silver in her hair. "Don't you see? IT has to be you, James. You understand what she was trying to preserve. The importance of protecting traditional knowledge."
Cooper's eyes drifted to a framed photo on his desk—Mitchell at a dig site, her face alight with discovery. The same passion for preservation that had ultimately led to her death.
The silence stretched between them, charged with the weight of what they were asking—for him to walk willingly into darkness, to become bait for the killer who had stolen his mentor's life.
"You don't understand," Cooper said finally. "I see her every night in my dreams. The way they found her, arranged like some kind of... specimen." His fingers traced the edge of Mitchell's photo, trembling slightly. "Like she was just another artifact to be preserved."
Sheila moved closer, her shadow merging with the striped patterns on his desk. "And now we're offering you the opportunity to give her justice. To put a stop to this."
"You really think he'll buy it? Just because I was her assistant?"
"He'll buy it because you understand what she was trying to protect," Sheila said. "The importance of preserving traditional knowledge. Of keeping certain wisdom alive."
Silence filled the office again, broken only by the distant sound of a campus bell marking the hour. Cooper's eyes drifted to Mitchell's photo, to the passion in her face as she examined ancient artifacts. The same passion that had drawn Whitman's attention.
"If I did this," he said finally, each word careful as footsteps on thin ice, "what exactly would you want me to do?"
"Make a public statement," Finn explained. "About continuing her work. About not letting her death stop the research she believed in."
"Bait for a killer who turns people into frozen exhibits." Cooper's hands splayed across his desk, pressing against papers filled with Mitchell's methodology, her insights, her dreams of preservation. "And if he takes it? If he comes for me?"
"We'll be there," Sheila promised. "Every step. Every moment. You won't face him alone."
Cooper stared at Mitchell's photo for a long moment, his reflection ghosting across the glass like a man balanced on the edge of a decision that could cost him everything.
"She believed some knowledge was worth dying for," he said finally, his voice steady despite the fear evident in his eyes.
"That preserving certain truths mattered more than personal safety.
" He looked up at Sheila, sunlight catching tears he refused to let fall.
"I always thought that was academic bravery. Until he killed her for it."
The office held its breath, waiting for his decision. Outside, life continued its normal rhythm, but in here, time seemed suspended between heartbeats.
"I'll do it," Cooper said softly, his hand still resting on Mitchell's photo. "Not because I'm brave. But because she'd want her death to mean something. To help stop him."
Sheila nodded slowly, understanding the weight of what he was agreeing to. "We'll start planning immediately."
He looked up at them. "Just promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"When you catch him? Make sure he knows that knowledge isn't preserved by killing the people who study it."
***
The light of the rising sun crept across Cooper's back yard like a cautious animal, casting long shadows from the scattered research papers that covered his patio table.
The mountains loomed behind him, a dark wall holding secrets in chambers of stone and ice.
He hunched over his laptop as he tried to find words that would draw a killer's attention.
"Not too academic," Sheila said from where she sat across from him, steam rising from her coffee cup like morning mist. "Make it personal. About Mitchell."
Cooper nodded, though his hands still trembled slightly. They'd been at this for hours, crafting the perfect statement—one that would catch Whitman's eye without seeming artificial. The air held a bite of coming winter, and somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove called out to the breaking day.
"What about this?" He cleared his throat, reading from the screen. "'Dr. Mitchell understood something fundamental about how knowledge survives through time. Her work wasn't just about documenting traditions—it was about protecting wisdom that modern society has forgotten how to value.'"
Finn emerged from the house with fresh coffee. "Good. Now make it about continuing her mission."
Cooper's fingers moved across keys, dancing with possibilities that could cost him his life. The mountains watched with ancient indifference as another piece of their trap took shape in the growing light of dawn.
Sheila's phone began to ring. It occurred to her that it had rung earlier, but she'd barely noticed because she'd been so focused on coaching Cooper.
"I need to take this," she told Finn and Cooper, suspecting it could be important. She moved toward the garden gate where autumn leaves gathered in copper drifts against weathered wood.
"Sheriff Stone," she answered, her voice carrying professional neutrality despite the unease crawling up her spine.
"You don't know me." The man's voice was smoke over gravel, each word measured with careful intent. "But I'm an old friend of your father's. We need to talk."
Wind stirred the leaves at her feet, sending them dancing like fragments of scattered thoughts. Behind her, she could hear Cooper and Finn still discussing the statement, their voices muffled by distance and growing tension.
"About what?"
"Things it wouldn't be wise to say over the phone."
The mountains loomed beyond Cooper's yard, holding secrets in their ancient stone. Sheila's hand tightened on her phone. "Who are you?"
"I told you, I'm a friend of your father's."
"Does he know you're calling?"
A pause. "He knows."
"At least give me your name," Sheila said.
"I'll do you one better. Let's meet face to face."
"Where?"
"I'll text you the address."
Sheila had a bad feeling about this. "Why all the cloak and dagger?" she asked.
"Do I really have to spell it out? I'm putting my neck on the line for you. If they find out, I'm even having this conversation with you…"
"Who? If who finds out?"
"Goodbye, Sheriff Stone. I'll text you that address."
The line went dead, leaving Sheila alone with her growing unease.
A few moments later, a message came through, the address of a farmhouse on the edge of the county.
Sheila looked it up on her phone and discovered it was for sale—had been for months.
It was rundown, and the description indicated the house would probably need to be razed.
An interesting place to choose for a meeting.
Sheila tried her father's number, but he didn't answer. She tried again, growing increasingly uneasy, but still there was no response. His voicemail clicked on.
"Hi, Dad," she said. "Call me when you get this. Bye."
She stared at the mountains, their peaks sharp against the autumn sky.
"Everything alright?" Finn asked, startling her.
"You know," she said, "I really have no idea."
She needed to get to that farmhouse, needed to figure out what this 'friend' of her father's wanted—and why her father wasn't answering his phone.
But first, she had a killer to catch.