Page 21 of Silent Past

And the growing certainty that Tracy Mitchell's death was just the beginning.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The newscast's blue light flickered across the cabin's pine walls. He sat in an old leather armchair, hands wrapped around a glass of bourbon, still trying to get warm after hours in the caves' perpetual chill. His boots, caked with limestone dust and melting ice, lay by the door where he'd abandoned them.

The local news anchor's voice filled the small space: "Breaking news tonight from Coldwater County, where the body of prominent anthropologist Dr. Tracy Mitchell was discovered in the Wasatch ice caves..."

His fingers tightened around the glass. Too soon. It was too damn soon. The caves were supposed to keep her, embrace her in their ancient silence. The limestone would have gradually claimed her, transformed her over centuries into something permanent, something sacred. That's why he'd chosen that specific chamber, where the mineral-rich water dripped steadily from the ceiling. In time, the cave itself would have turned her to stone.

The bourbon burned his throat as he took another swallow. On screen, footage showed search teams moving in and out of the cave entrance. Their lights bounced off the ice, illuminating the darkness.

His darkness.

"Two spelunkers made the grim discovery yesterday afternoon," the anchor continued. "After their climbing rope was mysteriously cut, the pair managed to find an alternate route to the surface, where they immediately contacted authorities."

He hurled the glass across the room. It shattered against the river stone fireplace, bourbon spattering the rough surface. Sloppy. He'd been sloppy. If there had just been one of them, he could have handled it. But two…

He hadn't been prepared for two.

The camera panned across the search teams' base camp. Yellow police tape fluttered in the mountain wind. A reporter stood bundled against the cold, gesturing toward the cave entrance behind her.

"The ice caves have a dark history," she said. "In 2019, they were closed to the public after a series of disappearances. Only two bodies were ever recovered..."

He wiped bourbon from his hand, the liquid mixing with melting cave ice still crusted under his fingernails. On screen, they showed a file photo of Tracy. She stood before a rock wall covered in ancient paintings, her face bright with discovery. The image twisted something in his chest.

She'd understood so much, seen so deeply into the old ways. If she'd only stopped there...

"Sources close to the investigation say Dr. Mitchell's body was found wearing traditional indigenous ceremonial garments," the reporter continued. "The FBI has been called in to assist, given the potential cultural significance..."

The FBI. Of course. He should have expected that—anything involving indigenous artifacts triggered federal jurisdiction. Which meant they'd be thorough. Methodical. They'd process every inch of those caves, document every passage, every alcove.

They'd find Kane.

The thought sent a spike of cold fear through him, sharper than any cave chill. He rose, moving to stoke the dying fire. The flames reflected in the fragments of broken glass on the hearth. Like ice crystals. Like the ones that had formed on Tracy's skin while he'd arranged her body, positioned her hands just so, wrapped her in garments she'd spent years studying.

She'd known what those garments meant. In those final moments, when she'd turned her back to him—had she understood? Had she seen it as the honor it was?

The reporter was interviewing someone now, a professor from the university. "Dr. Mitchell was a leading expert in indigenous burial practices," the academic explained. "Her work on preserving oral histories—"

He clicked off the TV, plunging the cabin into firelight-flickered darkness. His hands shook as he gathered the broken glass. Despite all the care he'd taken with Mitchell and Kane, that effort would now be wasted. The police would find Kane, even if it took them months of searching. A body ought to have gone undisturbed for centuries would be dragged back out into the light.

Just like Mitchell's.

He tossed the glass shards into the trash, discouraged. What was he to do now? He couldn't stop them from finding Kane—any attempt to do so would just compromise his identity. He was helpless. All he could do was wait and watch as his work was undone.

Then again, perhaps Kane's body was the perfect distraction. Once they found him—assuming they did—they might grow ever more eager to search the caves in case there were more hidden bodies. But if they didn't immediately get results? How long would they keep searching?

Everything comes down to money for them, he thought bitterly. They have no vision, no greater purpose.

He, on the other hand, had a grand, world-changing vision. While they searched the ice caves, he would find his next specimen.

And this time, he would hide it much more carefully.

CHAPTER NINE

The county archives smelled of dust and aging paper. Sheila stood at a metal filing cabinet, its drawer pulled out so far it threatened to tip. Late afternoon sun slanted through high windows, catching motes that danced in the air. Her neck ached from hours of poring over old case files.

She pulled out another manila folder and added it to the stack balanced on her arm. The label read: "MISSING PERSONS—KANE, THOMAS R.—CASE #2019-1147." The paper was crisp despite its age, suggesting no one had opened it since it was filed.

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