Page 37 of Silent Past

"It spoke to me." His voice had changed, becoming almost dreamy. "Told me about the others. The ones who wait in the deep places, in caves we've forgotten. They remember everything, you see. Every story, every ceremony, every secret."

Rachel took a step backward. Her hand found her phone, but before she could pull it out—

"They've been so patient," Angel continued, turning around. "Waiting for someone who understood. Who could help them return."

As her unease deepened, she glanced over her shoulder, measuring the distance back to her vehicle. She felt an insane urge to just start running, but she told herself that was foolish. This Dr. Angel might be a little unhinged, but surely there was no real danger—

She cried out, and something sharp pierced the base of her skull. Her last thought before darkness took her was of Mark, waiting at home with dinner in the oven.

Then nothing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"The storage unit records go back to 1992," Deputy Sarah Neville said, spreading manila folders across Sheila's desk. Outside the office windows, Coldwater slept under a moonless sky. "You were right—Matthew Vale's widow kept paying the fees through an automatic withdrawal. Unit's still active."

Sheila leaned forward, examining rental agreements and payment records illuminated by her desk lamp. Beside her, Finn flipped through the older documents.

"Here's something," he said. "Three months after Vale's death, someone accessed the unit. Used the secondary key code."

"Vale's records would have been valuable," Sheila said. "Lists of collectors, sale prices, locations of artifacts. The kind of information that could make someone rich—or dangerous."

"Or both," Finn added. He held up a visitor log. "Look at this pattern. Every few years, same access code. Always late at night. Last entry was six months ago."

Sheila's phone buzzed. She didn't recognize the number, but her instincts told her it might be important.

"Sheriff Stone," she said, clearing her throat.

"This is Mark Harper." A pause.

"Mr. Harper?" Sheila asked. "You still there?"

"Yes." His voice was shaky, tight with worry. "Listen, my wife Rachel—she went to meet someone about her research. She's a sociologist, you see." He paused, as if unsure how to go on. "Anyway, she's not answering her phone, and her location sharing stopped updating twenty minutes ago."

Sheila frowned. "Who was it she was supposed to meet?"

"A Dr. Nathan Angel from the University of Colorado. My wife's been researching how small communities preserve their traditions, especially in isolated areas." His voice steadied slightly as he focused on the details. "This Angel fellow—he emailed her tonight, said he'd found evidence of some ancient cultural practices in local cave systems. Said it was exactly what she'd been studying."

Sheila gestured for Finn to pull up the University of Colorado website. "Did your wife verify his credentials?"

"She did. Found his faculty profile, publication history, everything. The email even came through the university system."

Finn was already typing. "Found him," he said, turning his monitor. "Department of Anthropology. Impressive CV."

Sheila studied the distinguished-looking man on the screen. "Run him through our system."

Finn's fingers moved across the keyboard. His expression changed. "That's weird. No DMV record, no property records, no tax records—nothing. And look at this." He pulled up the faculty profile again. "Publications are all listed, but when I search for the actual papers..." He shook his head. "They don't exist."

"Someone created a digital facade," Sheila said. "Good enough to fool an initial check, but it doesn't go deep." She turned back to the phone. "Did she tell you anything specific about his research?"

"Just that he was an archaeologist studying cave systems. She was excited—said it could be important data for her project." Mark took a shaky breath. "She texted when she got to Coyote Run, said she'd update me after meeting him. Then another text saying she was following him to some research site. Forest service road off Highway 40, past mile marker 23."

Sheila's hand tightened on the phone. The pattern was too familiar—an academic lured out by the promise of significant research findings, a location near cave systems, a supposed expert who understood their work.

"Her research," Sheila pressed, "was it about how traditions survive over time?"

"Yes. She's been interviewing people in small towns across Utah, documenting how they maintain their cultural practices despite all the changes happening. She's particularly interested in religious and ceremonial traditions." He paused. "Sheriff, please tell me I'm overreacting here."

Sheila was already grabbing her keys. "Mr. Harper, stay home in case she contacts you. We're heading out now. Did she tell anyone else about this meeting?"

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