Silent Neighbor (Sheila Stone #9)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sheila stepped out of the cramped trailer, the metal steps creaking ominously under her weight. Another dead end.

The pre-dawn air hit her like a slap to the face, crisp and carrying the pungent scent of sage mixed with the underlying mustiness of the desert. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head after hours of fruitless interviews in stuffy, confined spaces.

Finn joined her, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn. "Well, that was less than helpful," he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. In the dim light of the trailer park's single streetlamp, Sheila could see the dark circles under his eyes, a mirror of her own exhaustion.

Sheila nodded, her eyes scanning the trailer park. The neat rows of mobile homes, their windows dark in the early morning hours, seemed to mock their lack of progress. Christmas lights, left up well past their season, twinkled forlornly on a few of the homes, adding a surreal touch to the scene.

They'd spent most of the night tracking down different members of Lucas's climbing group, and thus far, they hadn't learned anything useful. It was good to scratch names off a list, yes, but Sheila was keenly aware that the killer had taken two lives in the course of the same day. How much longer before he struck again?

As they returned to their vehicle, a nondescript sedan that had seen better days, Sheila pulled out the crumpled list of names. The paper was soft from constant handling, the names blurring before her tired eyes.

"How many more do we have?" Finn asked, his voice rough with fatigue.

"A few dozen," Sheila said, then lowered the list. She sighed heavily, leaning against the car. The metal was cool against her back, grounding her in the moment.

"You sure this is the best approach?" Finn asked.

"I don't know. But it can't be a coincidence that both victims were members of this group. The killer has to be connected to them somehow."

"You think the killer is one of them?" Finn asked, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Maybe. Or maybe the killer is targeting the group for some reason. I don't know what to think anymore." Sheila rubbed her eyes.

Then a new idea occurred to her, and she straightened up. "Let's shift our focus. Instead of going through the list one by one, I want to concentrate on the most promising suspects. Can you run background checks on the remaining members?"

Finn nodded, pulling out his tablet. "On it. What are you thinking?"

"I'm not sure yet," Sheila admitted. "But there has to be something we're missing. Some connection we haven't seen yet."

As Finn began his search, fingers tapping rapidly on the screen, Sheila slid into the driver's seat. The familiar smell of old leather and stale coffee greeted her, a small comfort in the uncertainty of the night. She started the engine, the rumble a counterpoint to the quiet of the sleeping trailer park.

As she drove, navigating the empty streets of pre-dawn Coldwater, her eyes were drawn to the landscape around them. Utah's unique beauty surrounded them, even in the darkness. The silhouettes of towering red rock formations loomed against the slowly lightening sky, their shapes both majestic and slightly menacing in the half-light. In the distance, the snow-capped peaks of the Wasatch Range were just becoming visible, towering above the desert lowlands.

The dichotomy of the landscape struck Sheila as oddly fitting for their current situation. They were caught between the harsh reality of the murders and the lofty goal of bringing the killer to justice, much like the meeting of desert and mountain before them.

Sheila's thoughts drifted as she drove, the monotony of the road blending with her exhaustion. The white lines of the highway hypnotized her, and she had to shake herself awake more than once. She knew she was dangerously tired, and Finn was too. But they couldn't stop now, not when they might be close to a breakthrough.

Besides, the killer didn't seem to be stopping, did he?

Finn's voice broke through her reverie, startling her back to full alertness. "I've got something. Mark Thompson, thirty-five. He's got a record of trespassing and vandalism, all related to extreme sports. Broke into a closed ski resort last winter, spray-painted his tag on El Capitan in Yosemite."

Sheila shook her head, her lips pursing in thought. "Sounds more like a kindred spirit to our victims than a killer. Reckless, sure, but not violent. Who else?"

"Okay, how about this one? Cindy Liang, twenty-nine. She's a chemist with access to some pretty dangerous substances. Works for a pharmaceutical company developing new anesthetics."

"Interesting, but not necessarily relevant. Any history of violence? Complaints from coworkers? Unstable behavior?"

"No, nothing like that," Finn admitted, scrolling through his tablet. "By all accounts, she's a model employee. Volunteers at an animal shelter on weekends."

Sheila was about to suggest they move on when Finn spoke up again, his voice taking on an edge of excitement. "Wait, here's something. Robert Crane, forty-two. He's got an interesting background."

"Go on."

"He's a night shift worker at a local factory. But get this—he used to be a professional climber. Competed internationally, won a few big competitions. But he dropped off the scene about five years ago, right around the time these extreme climbing groups started gaining popularity online."

"Any idea why he quit?"

Finn shook his head, still scrolling through the information. "Nothing official. No major injuries reported, no scandals. He just... stopped. Started working at the factory about a month after his last competition."

"What makes you think he could be our guy?"

"I haven't told you the most interesting part. About a year before he quit, Crane was involved in a climbing accident. His partner fell to his death. Crane was cleared of any wrongdoing, but rumors circulated in the climbing community that he might have cut the rope."

***

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to a large industrial complex on the outskirts of town. The sign read "Coldwater Precision Manufacturing," a factory known for producing high-end sports gear and other outdoor equipment.

The parking lot was half-full, a mix of dusty trucks and well-worn sedans hinting at the blue-collar workforce inside. A few workers were gathered near the entrance, sharing a smoke break before their shift, their conversations dying down as Sheila and Finn approached.

They made their way to the main entrance, flashing their badges at the sleepy-eyed security guard. The man straightened up, suddenly alert, his eyes darting between them nervously. "Everything okay, officers?"

"We need to speak with Robert Crane," Sheila said, keeping her voice neutral. "We're told he works the night shift."

The guard nodded, buzzing them through. "He'll be on the assembly line. Building C, second floor."

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of machinery and industrial cleaners, an acrid mix that made Sheila's eyes water. The rhythmic thud and hiss of heavy equipment created a constant background noise, punctuated by the occasional shout or clang of metal on metal.

They made their way through the factory, dodging forklifts and navigating around massive pieces of equipment. Workers in hard hats and safety vests gave them curious looks as they passed, word of their presence spreading quickly through the facility.

After asking several supervisors, they finally found Robert Crane on the assembly line. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, his once-powerful frame now slightly softened by age and a sedentary job. As they approached, Sheila noticed the way his hands moved over the machinery—there was a hesitancy there, a lack of the surety one would expect from a former professional athlete.

"Mr. Crane?" Sheila called out over the noise of the factory. "I'm Deputy Stone, and this is Deputy Mercer. We'd like to ask you a few questions about Jake Pearson and Brad Blackwell."

Robert's face paled at the names, his hands stilling on the machine in front of him. A coworker quickly stepped in to take over his station as Robert stepped aside to speak with them. "I, uh... I knew them, yeah. Extreme Limits. Terrible what happened."

"Maybe telling us where you were earlier today?" Finn asked.

Robert's gaze darted between them, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "I was... I was at home," he stammered, his voice barely audible over the rhythmic clanging of machinery. "Sleeping after my shift."

As he spoke, Robert's hands fidgeted restlessly on the workbench beside him. His fingers twitched and curled as if trying to grasp something just out of reach. Sheila's gaze lingered on those trembling hands, a question forming in her mind.

"Mr. Crane," she began, her voice carefully neutral, "can you tell us about the climbing accident six years ago? The one involving your partner?"

Robert's entire body went rigid. His fidgeting hands suddenly gripped the edge of the workbench, knuckles turning white with the force of his grasp. "That was an accident," he said, his voice low and tight. "I was cleared of any wrongdoing."

Sheila watched as a muscle twitched in Robert's jaw. "We're not accusing you of anything," she said. "We just need to understand what happened."

Robert's eyes darted around, as if seeking an escape route. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders slumping. "We were on a difficult route," he began. "Mark was lead climbing. He... he took a bad fall. The rope... it snapped."

As he spoke, Robert's right hand unconsciously moved to his left wrist, rubbing it as if soothing an old injury. "I tried to catch him," he continued, his eyes unfocused, lost in the memory. "But the force... I couldn't hold on. He fell. And I couldn't save him."

Sheila studied Robert's face, searching for any sign of deception. His pain seemed genuine, the haunted look in his eyes speaking volumes. But there was something else there, too—a flicker of... what? Guilt? Fear? She couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"There were rumors that his rope might have been… compromised," Finn said.

Robert's head snapped up, eyes blazing. "That's a lie!" he said. "I would never... Mark was my friend. My partner. How could anyone think I'd...?" His voice broke, and he looked away, blinking rapidly.

Sheila glanced at Finn, a silent communication passing between them. Robert's reaction seemed too raw, too emotional to be fabricated. And yet, a nagging doubt lingered. Was this the anguish of a man wrongly accused or the guilt of someone hiding a terrible secret?

As Robert passed a trembling hand across his brow, Sheila said, "Mr. Crane, if you don't mind my asking, how much climbing do you do these days?"

Robert's face fell, a look of deep sadness crossing his features. "I don't," he admitted. "Not anymore. I can't."

He held out his trembling hands. "Parkinson's," he explained, the word heavy with resigned grief. "Early-onset. It started about five years ago. That's why I had to quit competing. These days, I can barely hold a cup of coffee steady, let alone climb a rock face. Most of my work here is just jabbing buttons and doing visual inspections. I sometimes wonder, though, if they just keep me on out of pity."

Sheila felt a pang of sympathy for the man. His condition—the loss of control over his own body, the theft of his passion—was a cruel twist of fate. He couldn't be their killer. The physical demands of the murders would have been beyond his capabilities.

"The doctors say it's progressing slowly," Robert continued, a hint of his old determination shining through. "I'm on medication, doing physical therapy. But climbing... that's over for me. This job," he gestured at the assembly line, "it's mind-numbing, but it's what I can manage now."

Sheila nodded, feeling a newfound respect for him. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Crane. We'll get out of your hair."

As they prepared to leave, Robert spoke up again, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "You know, if you're looking to talk with members of Extreme Limits, you should try the newbies."

"The newbies?" Finn asked.

"It's mostly a tight-knit community, but recently a few newcomers joined up. I can vouch for the others—they're good people, upstanding citizens. But the new members…" He shrugged. "There's no telling what they're capable of."

Sheila was about to respond when her phone rang, the shrill tone cutting through the factory noise. She stepped away, pressing one finger to her ear to hear better. As she listened, her face paled, the blood draining from her features.

"What is it?" Finn asked as she hung up, noticing the change in her demeanor.

Sheila's voice was grim as she replied, her words seeming to echo in the suddenly quiet space around them. "Another climber has been found dead. Ellen Reeves. Her body was discovered less than an hour ago."