CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Whitman watched as students gathered around the university steps for what the press release had called "an important announcement regarding Dr. Tracy Mitchell's research." He stood at the edge of the crowd, a ghost among the living, maintaining a careful distance.
He'd been monitoring academic message boards, conference schedules, and department newsletters—his usual methods for identifying potential minds worth preserving—when Cooper's press announcement caught his attention.
The young researcher's determination to honor Mitchell's legacy had struck a chord that resonated like crystal struck by winter wind.
He knew it was dangerous showing up at such an event, but he couldn't resist.
James Cooper appeared exactly as expected—young, earnest, slightly rumpled in the way of dedicated academics who forgot to look in mirrors.
The podium dwarfed him, but there was something in his posture that spoke of determination beneath the nervous energy.
Just like Tracy had been, all those months ago, when he'd first studied her from similar shadows.
"Dr. Mitchell understood something fundamental about how knowledge survives through time," Cooper began, his voice carrying across the hushed gathering. "Her work wasn't just about documenting traditions—it was about protecting wisdom that modern society has forgotten how to value."
Whitman shifted slightly, adjusting the baseball cap that helped him blend with the crowd of students and faculty. The air held the bite of coming winter, reminding him of chambers deep beneath the mountains, where temperatures remained constant and mineral-rich water worked its patient magic.
Cooper's words continued to flow, passionate despite his obvious nervousness.
"I've spent the past weeks reviewing her research notes, her theories about cultural preservation.
And I've come to understand that her work can't end with her death.
These traditions she studied—they're like delicate threads connecting us to ancient wisdom. If we don't preserve them..."
Yes, Whitman thought, warmth spreading through his chest. You understand. Just like she did.
The federal presence was obvious, if you knew where to look.
Agent Walsh stood near the building's entrance, trying too hard to appear casual.
Two others—probably tactical team members—lounged on a bench, their attention too focused for genuine relaxation.
They were watching for him, expecting him to appear like some movie villain to snatch their bait in broad daylight.
Amateur theatrics. True preservation required patience, preparation, proper conditions.
The ice caves had been perfect until they contaminated them with their clumsy investigations and evidence markers.
But there were other chambers, other spaces where mineral content and constant temperatures could maintain consciousness through ages.
"Dr. Mitchell believed that certain knowledge was worth protecting at any cost," Cooper said, his voice growing stronger. "She understood that some wisdom can't be preserved in books or databases. It has to be maintained through living tradition, through people who truly understand its value."
He felt it then—that familiar resonance, like a tuning fork struck against stone. Cooper wasn't just speaking Mitchell's words; he understood them. Believed them. The young man's passion radiated across the gathering like heat shimmer, making the federal agents fade to insignificance.
So young, he thought. So perfectly aligned with the work. What insights could be preserved, protected, maintained in crystal clarity through centuries?
The frozen one's words echoed in his memory: "Choose carefully. Only those who truly understand the importance of preservation. Only those whose minds are worthy of surviving through time."
Cooper was still speaking, but he had heard enough. The young researcher's dedication to Mitchell's work, his understanding of what had been lost with her death—these were signs he had learned to read over years of patient observation.
He pulled a burner phone from his pocket as he drifted away from the crowd. The number was already programmed in, ready to make first contact. But not yet. There were preparations to make first, conditions to verify.
Dr. Ethan Banner's credentials were carefully crafted—a respected archaeologist specializing in preservation techniques, current visiting scholar at a small college in Oregon.
The digital trail was thorough enough to withstand scrutiny without being so perfect it would raise suspicion.
He had used variations of this identity before, tweaking details to match his targets' interests.
The mountains rose beyond the campus like ancient guardians, their peaks catching the afternoon light like blade edges.
Somewhere in their depths, chambers waited—perfect combinations of mineral content and temperature, spaces where consciousness could be maintained unchanged through centuries of darkness.
Soon, he promised the distant peaks. Soon, we'll add another vessel of wisdom to the collection. Another mind preserved against the rushing tide of forgetfulness. And with any luck, this one won't be disturbed.
He took one last look at Cooper, who was still speaking with passionate intensity about continuing Mitchell's work. The federal agents remained obvious in their watchfulness, and they would no doubt be ready to pounce as soon as he set up a meeting with Cooper.
No matter. He was nothing if not adaptable.