Page 41 of Silent Past

And right on schedule, he heard the distant rumble of an approaching train.

Sometimes, the old ways were still the best ways to disappear.

The freight train's headlight appeared around a bend, its beam cutting through lingering darkness. He checked his watch—12:47 AM. The mining trains always ran on schedule, carrying ore from the mountain operations down to the processing plants in the valley.

The dogs sounded closer now. He could hear voices, too—search teams coordinating their movements through the woods. They'd expect him to head deeper into the wilderness, but he hadn't survived this long by being predictable.

He moved carefully down the steep embankment toward the tracks, his boots finding purchase on loose shale. The train was moving slowly, laboring up the grade. Its wheels screamed against the rails as it took the curve, cars swaying with the weight of their cargo.

The dogs' barking changed pitch—they'd picked up his fresh trail. But it would take them precious minutes to navigate the dense underbrush he'd just pushed through. By then...

The locomotive passed his position, followed by a series of hopper cars filled with ore. He counted them, remembering the train's usual configuration. Near the middle would be...

There. A string of empty box cars, their doors partially open for ventilation. The train's speed here couldn't be more than fifteen miles per hour. Child's play.

A shout went up behind him—someone had spotted his movement through the trees. He didn't look back. Instead, he broke into a run parallel to the tracks, matching the train's speed. His legs burned with exhaustion, but adrenaline drove him forward.

Flashlight beams cut through the trees above him. A voice on a megaphone: "Police! Stop where you are!"

He reached for the ladder on the nearest box car, his fingers finding cold metal. He pulled himself up just as gunshots cracked through the air. But he was already rolling inside the car, concealed by shadows and the growing distance.

The train picked up speed as it crested the ridge. Through the open door, he watched flashlights and emergency vehicles become distant points of light, then vanish altogether. The dogs' barking faded beneath the rhythm of wheels on rails.

He sat back against the car's metal wall, finally allowing himself to breathe. His clothes were torn, his body battered from the escape through the woods. But his pack was intact, and with it, the last set of ceremonial robes.

The frozen one's words echoed in his mind: "There will be others who understand. Who see the importance of preserving wisdom."

He would find them. And next time, he would be more careful.

The train rolled on through the darkness, carrying him toward distant mountains. Toward new caves, new opportunities to continue his work. The police would contact the engineer, get the train to stop, but by then he would be long gone, lost to the wilderness. He would go back to planning and preparing.

After all, there were so many brilliant minds out there waiting to be preserved.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sheila stared at the freight train's long line of cars, now stopped on a siding near the town of Helper. Red and blue lights from a dozen law enforcement vehicles painted the steel containers in alternating colors. The train hadn't been easy to stop—it had taken multiple calls up the chain of command, finally reaching a Union Pacific executive who had the authority to halt a cargo run.

But those precious minutes of bureaucracy might have cost them everything.

"How long between when we lost him and when the train stopped?" she asked Finn, who was coordinating with railway police.

"Forty-three minutes," he said. "Train was doing about thirty-five through the mountains. That's..." He did the quick math. "About twenty-five miles of track he could have jumped from."

Twenty-five miles of remote mountain terrain, filled with ridges, valleys, and dense forest. The killer could be anywhere by now.

Teams of officers moved systematically through the train cars, checking every possible hiding space. Their flashlight beams swept across steel walls and cargo containers, but Sheila already knew they wouldn't find him. He was too smart to have stayed on the train.

Her radio crackled. "Sheriff? We found something in one of the box cars."

She and Finn made their way to the car in question, where a deputy was photographing scuff marks on the floor.

"Fresh marks," the deputy said. "And this." He held up a scrap of dark fabric, snagged on a rough edge of the door frame.

Sheila examined the tear pattern. "He entered here. The question is, where did he leave?"

"We've got railway police checking all the access points along the route," Finn said. "Places where the track runs close to roads or trails."

But Sheila knew it was too late. The killer wouldn't exit near any known access point—he'd know they were expecting that.

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