Page 55 of Silent Past

"What about the caves where we found Kane and Mitchell?" Sheila asked. "How long had he been using them?"

"Years," Neville said, consulting another file. "He mapped the entire system, studied mineral content and temperature variations. Created perfect preservation chambers." She paused. "We found more preparations in other cave systems. He was planning for decades of work."

"A library of consciousness," Kravitz said. "That's how he saw it. Each victim carefully chosen, perfectly preserved, waiting to share their wisdom with future generations."

Sheila stared at the photos, at faces forever frozen in chambers of ice and stone. They had their answers now—the how and why of Whitman's descent into murderous delusion. But those answers couldn't bring back the lives he'd taken in his twisted mission of preservation.

"What happens to him now?" she asked quietly.

"Psychiatric evaluation," Kravitz replied. "Treatment. He'll likely never be free again, but maybe we can help him find his way back to reality."

Light began to seep through the windows, painting the crime scene photos in shades of dawn. Somewhere in a secure facility, James Whitman waited in darkness, his mission of preservation ended in a chamber that would hold neither his body nor his madness.

As the others finally went home, leaving case files and crime scene photos scattered across the interview room like fragments of a nightmare, Sheila stood at the window, watching dawn paint the mountains in shades of promise and threat. Behind her, Finn gathered empty coffee cups—evidence of their long night of piecing together Whitman's descent into murderous delusion.

"You should get some rest," he said softly.

"So should you." She turned from the window, weary to the bone. The fight with Whitman in the cave seemed like days ago rather than hours. "I can't believe we actually caught him."

"We did." Finn moved closer, his presence steady and grounding. "It's over."

But even as he said it, something nagged at Sheila's tired mind. A memory surfaced through layers of exhaustion—the strange phone call she'd received about her father.

"My father," she said suddenly. "That call I got—someone claiming to be his friend."

She pulled out her cell phone again, trying her father's number. It rang several times before going to voicemail. The familiar gruffness of his recorded voice sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with lingering cold from the cave.

"He's not picking up." She looked at Finn, worry cutting through her exhaustion. "Something's wrong. Dad always answers, or at least calls back quickly."

"Even this early?"

"He's an early riser. This isn't like him."

"When was the last time you spoke to him?"

"Yesterday morning, I think?" She ran a hand through her hair, thinking. "He was going to keep digging into Carlton Vance, see if he could track him down."

Finn straightened, fatigue falling away as he caught her concern. "You want to check his house?"

"Yeah." She was already moving, gathering her jacket. "I know we're both exhausted, but..."

"But it's your father," Finn finished. "Come on. I'll drive."

The sun had fully cleared the mountains as they headed for Gabriel's house. Sheila stared out the window, her mind racing with possibilities she didn't want to consider.

"Tell me about the call again," Finn said as they turned onto the road leading to her father's place. "The one from his supposed friend."

"He wouldn't give his name. Said he had information, but couldn't discuss it over the phone." She rubbed her tired eyes. "Gave me an address—some abandoned farmhouse on the edge of the county."

"Sounds like a setup."

"Yeah." She watched familiar landmarks slide past, each one bringing them closer to answers she wasn't sure she wanted. "But for what?"

Gabriel's house sat silently, the mountains rising behind it like weathered guardians. His truck stood in the gravel drive exactly where it always did, and nothing seemed immediately out of place. But something about the stillness felt wrong to Sheila—a silence too complete for a house that should have held her father's presence.

"His truck's here," Finn said quietly, drawing his weapon as they approached the front door.

"And his gym bag's on the porch," Sheila added, unholstering her own gun. The worn duffel sat propped against the wall where Gabriel always left it after training. "He made it home at some point."

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