Page 46 of Silent Past

"I'd be endangering someone," she admitted to the silent stones. "Asking them to walk into danger." Her throat tightened. "But if we don't stop him..."

She let the thought hang unfinished. More bodies would follow. The cycle would continue until someone forced Whitman's hand, made him reveal himself.

"Sometimes," she said softly to her mother's grave, "the only way to protect people is to take the fight to the enemy." She turned to Natalie's marker. "And sometimes the hardest part is asking others to share that risk."

The mountain wind picked up, carrying the scent of coming winter. Somewhere in those peaks, Whitman was already planning his next preservation. But this time, Sheila intended to choose his target for him.

She touched both headstones gently before walking back to her truck, her steps carrying new purpose. The idea was dangerous, potentially unethical. But as she drove down the winding cemetery road, she knew it was their best chance to end this.

They would create the perfect target—an academic studying preservation techniques, someone whose research would be irresistible to Whitman. But unlike his previous victims, this one would be ready for him.

The only question was: who would be willing to play bait for a killer who turned people into frozen exhibits?

CHAPTER TWENTY

Finn's morning coffee had gone cold, untouched on his desk as he stared at the evidence board. Dawn painted the sheriff's department in pale gold, but his mind was still working through the shadows of possibilities. Walsh's files lay spread before him—geological surveys, cave locations, victim profiles that seemed to mock their inability to prevent the latest death.

The sound of boots on linoleum made him look up. Sheila stood in the doorway, something in her posture suggesting both exhaustion and resolution. Mountain light caught the silver in her hair, reminding him of mineral formations in Whitman's caves.

"I've been thinking," she said, closing the door behind her.

"Dangerous habit." He studied her face, reading the familiar signs of a plan taking shape. "Cemetery help clear your head?"

"Maybe." She moved to the evidence board, her fingers trailing across photos of the victims—Kane, Mitchell, Harper. "We've been looking at this wrong."

"How so?"

"We're trying to predict where he'll strike next. What cave system he'll choose." She turned to face him. "But the caves are secondary. It's the victims that matter—finding the right minds to preserve."

Finn felt tension gather between his shoulders. "You have an idea."

"We create the perfect target. Someone whose work aligns exactly with what Whitman's trying to achieve. Research into cultural preservation, traditional knowledge..." She paused, watching his reaction. "Someone he won't be able to resist."

"Using a researcher as bait." The words felt heavy in the quiet office. "That's risky, Sheila. Look what happened to Harper."

"Not a real researcher." Her voice carried steel beneath its surface. "Someone with training. Someone who can handle themselves if things go wrong."

Understanding dawned like the sun climbing Coldwater's mountains. "An undercover operation."

"We build the perfect academic profile. The right publications, the right research focus. Make our candidate irresistible to him." She moved to his desk, picked up his cold coffee. "But this time, when he makes contact..."

"We'll be ready." Finn stood, energy replacing his earlier fatigue. "It could work. But we'd need someone who could sell it completely. The academic language, the research methodology..."

"I know." Sheila set the coffee down, turned back to the evidence board. "And they'd have to understand the risks. Whitman's smart, patient. He'll study them before making contact."

Morning light streamed through the office windows, warming the room. Outside, Coldwater was fully awake now, unaware of the trap being planned in the quiet of the sheriff's department.

"Walsh won't like it," Finn said quietly.

"Walsh wants to wait until Whitman makes a mistake." Steel crept back into Sheila's voice. "I'm done waiting for more bodies to show up in those caves."

Finn watched Sheila move through motes that danced in the sunlight, her shadow stretching across the evidence board where victims' faces stared back with frozen serenity. The office felt charged with dangerous potential, like the air before a mountain storm.

"We'd need to be thorough," he said, his voice cutting through layers of golden light and unspoken risks. "Create a complete academic history. Publications, conference presentations, a digital footprint he can verify."

"Everything has to be perfect." Sheila's fingers traced the edge of Rachel Harper's photo, lingering on the last victim they'd failed to save. "He'll research everything—dissertation committee, grant applications, even social media presence."

Morning traffic hummed beyond their windows, the sound of a world moving forward while they planned to trap a killer who turned people into frozen exhibits. Each passing minute felt weighted with urgency, with the knowledge that somewhere in the mountains, Whitman was already hunting his next preservation subject.

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