Page 40 of Silent Past

"Finn?" Sheila's voice was hoarse. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He was already unclipping his seatbelt. "Just bruised. You?"

She did a quick self-assessment. Everything hurt, but nothing seemed broken. "I'm good. We need to—"

An explosion behind them cut her off—the Subaru's gas tank igniting. Orange light filled the forest as flames climbed into the canopy.

They scrambled out of the truck, weapons drawn. But the killer had too much of a head start. In the chaos of the crash and fire, he could have gone in any direction.

Sirens wailed in the distance—their backup finally arriving. Sheila grabbed her radio, trying her best to recall the brief glimpse she'd caught of the man.

"Dispatch, suspect is on foot. Adult male, medium build, brown hair. Armed and extremely dangerous. Last seen entering woods north of Forest Service Road 177, approximately two miles east of the cave entrance. We need K-9 units and air support."

She turned to Finn, who was examining the burning Subaru from a safe distance. "Anything?"

"Look at this." He pointed his light at fresh scratches on the rear bumper. "Paint transfer. Dark blue. He must have switched vehicles recently."

The first Highway Patrol units arrived, lights painting the trees in red and blue. Sheila quickly organized search teams—the killer couldn't have gotten far on foot, not in this terrain. But as she directed officers into the woods, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was still watching.

The flames from the Subaru cast writhing shadows through the trees as more units arrived. Soon the woods would be crawling with officers and K-9 teams. But Sheila's gut told her that finding him wouldn't be easy.

"Sheriff?" A young deputy approached. "We found fresh tracks heading north. Looks like he's making for the ridgeline."

Sheila nodded. "Set up a perimeter. I want every trail, every access road covered. And get me satellite images of this area—I need to know what's up on that ridge."

The killer might have escaped for now. But as the saying went, he wasn't out of the woods yet.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

His lungs burned as he crashed through the underbrush, branches whipping against his face. Blood trickled from where he'd hit the ground after leaping from the Subaru, but the pain barely registered. Decades of careful planning, of patient preparation, all unraveling because he'd been careless with Harper.

He should have taken her phone before they left the bar. Should have realized she was texting someone details that would allow the police to find them quickly. Amateur mistakes—the kind he hadn't made with Mitchell or Kane. But he'd been rushed, desperate to continue his work after the FBI had contaminated his sacred space in the ice caves.

The sound of sirens echoed through the forest behind him. They'd be organizing search teams now, setting up a perimeter. He needed to think, to plan, but his mind kept returning to that first cave, to the moment that had changed everything.

He'd found the frozen one three years ago, perfectly preserved in a chamber deep beneath the mountains. At first, he'd thought it was just another Ice Age hunter, like others discovered in glaciers and permafrost. But something about the clothing, the artifacts with the body—they didn't match any known civilization.

The decision to carefully thaw the remains had been scientific, methodical. He'd documented everything, following proper archaeological protocols. But then the dreams had started. The frozen one speaking to him, showing him glimpses of a society that had existed long before recorded history. A people who had understood things modern humans had forgotten.

"They preserved their wisest ones," the frozen one had told him. "Not just their bodies, but their knowledge, their consciousness. The cold and the minerals in the caves created perfect vessels, waiting to be awakened when they were needed."

He'd thought he was losing his mind at first. But then he'd found the references in old tribal stories—tales of caves where "the old ones sleep," of ancient wisdom preserved in ice and stone. The same stories Tracy Mitchell had been documenting, though she hadn't understood their true significance.

Thomas Kane had come closest to understanding. He'd recognized the patterns in the ceremonial robes, seen how they matched the clothing on the frozen one. But Kane had wanted to publish, to expose everything. He couldn't see that some knowledge needed to be protected, preserved until humanity was ready.

A branch snapped underfoot as he scrambled up a steep incline. The ceremonial robes were crucial—they weren't just clothing, but conductors, prepared with specific minerals that helped preserve consciousness. He'd spent years acquiring the pieces from the Window Rock collection, learning their significance. Matthew Vale's records had led him to the private collectors who'd bought them, and his federal credentials had helped him recover them, piece by piece.

Mitchell had nearly ruined everything when she'd started connecting the sites to modern tribal lands. She'd been going to the tribal council, planning to have the caves declared protected sites. That would have brought oversight, regulations, endless archaeological surveys.

And now Harper... her work on cultural preservation had made her perfect. She would have understood, eventually. Would have seen why certain knowledge needed to be preserved this way.

The distant baying of dogs interrupted his thoughts. They were deploying K-9 units faster than he'd expected. He paused, listening. The dogs were still far behind him, but getting closer. He needed to reach the ridgeline—and fast.

Humanity was moving too fast, changing too quickly. Critical knowledge was being lost with each generation. But if he could preserve the right minds, create vessels of consciousness like the frozen one... future civilizations would have guides, teachers who understood the old ways.

The dogs' barking grew louder. They had his scent now.

He reached the top of the incline and stopped, his breath catching. Below him, barely visible in the darkness, was the railroad line he'd noted during his preparation. The old freight line that connected mining operations in the mountains.

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