Page 24 of Silent Past

Gabriel's voice was rough with fatigue. "Been making calls about Carlton Vance. Not making much progress tracking him down, though. I'm guessing it's a fake name." He cursed under his breath and shook his head. "Can't believe I worked with him for years and never knew that."

Sheila pinched the bridge of her nose. Another thread to pull, another layer of complexity in her mother's case. She wished with all her heart she could focus fully on taking down whoever had ordered her mother's death, but she couldn't just abandon her present investigation.

"I really can't talk about this right now," she said. "I need to stay focused on these ice cave murders, and—"

"Of course," Gabriel said. There was a hint of woundedness in his voice. "I just thought you'd want to be involved."

"I do want to be involved. I wish I could hand this investigation to someone else—"

"No." Her father sighed heavily. "You're the sheriff, and that comes with responsibilities."

What about my responsibilities to family? she wondered. Before she could speak, however, her father continued.

"I'll keep digging and let you know if I come up with something actionable," he said. "In the meantime, how's the case going?"

Sheila took a moment to absorb the sudden shift in topic. "The case? It's gotten interesting, to say the least. The FBI showed up today. They're trying to take over, citing jurisdiction over indigenous artifacts."

Gabriel was quiet for a moment. "That certainly complicates things."

Sheila watched Finn check the truck's back tires, his movements methodical, grounding. "Look, I should get back to it. But as soon as it's wrapped up—"

"We'll keep digging into Vance," Gabriel finished. "Just watch your back, Sheila. And call me if you need anything."

After she hung up, Finn approached, hands in his pockets. "Everything okay?"

"Just talking with Dad about Vance." She straightened, pushing away from the truck. "Right now, we need to find that second cave entrance before it gets dark."

They drove in companionable silence, following county roads that wound higher into the mountains. The photo of Kane's campsite sat on the dashboard, its details burned into Sheila's memory. A different angle on the caves, a hidden approach that might give them answers.

"Walsh wasn't surprised," Finn said suddenly.

"About what?"

"When you mentioned the similar kill methods. She didn't even blink." He turned to look at her. "Almost like she was expecting it."

Sheila's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "The FBI's been sitting on something for five years. Since Kane disappeared." She glanced at him. "What do you want to bet they've got his research locked away somewhere?"

"If they do, they're not sharing." Finn pulled out his phone, checking a map. "Take the next right. According to Kane's hiking permit, he parked at the Aspen Grove trailhead."

The truck's headlights cut through growing darkness as they turned onto a narrower road. Pine branches scraped against the windows, and patches of early snow dotted the shoulder.

"Jin said the kill method was precise," Sheila said, thinking out loud. "Professional. Someone with training."

"Like federal training?"

She considered this. "Walsh's team didn't feel right. Too aggressive for a cultural artifacts case."

"Could be counter-terrorism," Finn suggested. "If whatever's in those caves is sensitive enough."

The road ended at a small parking area, empty now except for a single Forest Service truck. A trail sign pointed into dense woods, its metal surface reflecting their headlights.

They grabbed their gear—flashlights, climbing equipment, emergency supplies. Sheila checked her weapon, then radioed dispatch to log their location. No sense taking chances, not with a killer still out there.

"The campsite was about a mile in," Finn said, comparing the old photo to their surroundings. "There should be a game trail branching off to the west."

They found it easily enough—a narrow path winding through scrub oak and mountain mahogany. Their flashlight beams bounced off tree trunks, creating shifting shadows that made every movement seem suspicious.

After twenty minutes of hiking, the trail opened onto a small clearing. Sheila stopped, comparing the space to Kane's photograph. The angles matched—the distinctive split boulder, the lightning-struck pine.

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