Page 32 of Silent Past

"Would you be comfortable meeting somewhere public first?" she asked.

"Of course. There's a bar just off Route 40, the Coyote Run. I could meet you there in an hour, then show you the site. It's only fifteen minutes from there."

Rachel considered. The Coyote Run was usually busy even late. She could assess Angel in person before deciding whether to visit his research station.

"Let me check something first," she said. "Can I call you back at this number?"

"Certainly. But please, don't discuss this with anyone else yet. The site's security is paramount until we can properly document everything."

After hanging up, Rachel quickly searched for Dr. Nathan Angel. His university profile appeared—silver-haired, distinguished-looking, impressive publication record in cave archaeology. Everything seemed legitimate.

She called Mark.

"Hey, stranger," he answered. "Finally coming home?"

"Actually..." She explained about Angel's call and the potential significance for her research. "I know it's late, but this could be important data for my project."

Mark was quiet for a moment. "You're meeting a stranger at night?"

"At the Coyote Run first. I'll have my location sharing turned on, and I'll text you his license plate when I see his car." She paused. "This is exactly what I've been looking for, Mark—evidence of how communities maintain traditional practices even during periods of rapid change."

"Just... be careful, okay? Call me when you get there and again when you're heading to the research station."

"Promise." She started gathering her things. "And Mark? Thanks for understanding."

After hanging up, Rachel checked her phone's location sharing, making sure Mark could track her movements. She also texted her research assistant, Emma: Meeting a Dr. Nathan Angel about possible cave artifacts. If you don't hear from me by midnight, call the police. Also, here's Dr. Angel's contact information.

She was just being cautious, she told herself. But something about Angel's insistence on secrecy nagged at her. Still, this was the kind of discovery that could significantly impact her research. Worth a careful look, at least.

She pulled on her coat and gathered her research materials—notebook, recorder, camera. The interview transcripts could wait. Tonight might bring an unexpected breakthrough in understanding how communities preserved their most important traditions, even in an age of rapid change.

That was too good an opportunity to pass up.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The moon was high above the red cliffs when Sheila turned her truck onto a narrow dirt road outside Moab. Richard Keeling's address led them deep into canyon country, where towering sandstone walls caught the moonlight like burning coal.

Finn studied a map on his phone. "About two miles ahead. Property records show he owns twenty acres out here."

They'd left Coldwater immediately after Sheila's call with Keeling. The three-hour drive had given them time to research Keeling's history—decades of legitimate dealings in Southwest art, followed by a sudden retirement in 1990. No criminal record, but several contacts with law enforcement regarding questionable artifacts.

The dirt road wound between rust-colored rock formations until it ended at a low adobe house. A covered porch wrapped around two sides, its posts weathered by decades of desert wind. An ancient Land Rover sat in the carport, coated in red dust.

"Nice place to hide," Finn commented as they parked.

"Or to keep secrets." Sheila stepped out of the truck, taking in the property. Despite the late hour, lights glowed behind the house's windows.

Before they reached the porch steps, the front door opened. Richard Keeling stood in the doorway, tall and lean despite his age. His white hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and his weathered face suggested years spent in the desert sun.

"Sheriff Stone," he said, his voice the same rough baritone from the phone. His eyes moved to Finn. "I thought I said come alone."

"Deputy Mercer goes where I go." Sheila kept her tone neutral but firm. "Especially when discussing murder cases."

Keeling studied them both for a long moment, then stepped back from the door. "Better come inside then. Coffee's hot."

The interior of Keeling's house was surprisingly modest, given his years in the high-end art market. Simple furniture, Navajo rugs on the floor, local landscape paintings on the walls. But Sheila's attention was drawn to the books—hundreds of them filled floor-to-ceiling shelves, many focused on indigenous art and artifacts.

Keeling moved to the kitchen. "How do you take it?" he asked, reaching for coffee mugs.

---