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Another junction loomed ahead. This one he remembered clearly—the cross mark would be low, near the floor, accompanied by a small arrow. Sure enough, he found it exactly where he expected. Two more miles to go.
Soon, very soon, he would get back to his important work. The darkness had so much to teach, if only people would listen.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sheila emerged from the mine entrance well after midnight, her flashlight beam finally giving way to starlight. Eight hours of searching the Hollow Road and its tributaries had left her bone-weary, her throat raw from breathing mine dust. Yet they'd found nothing—no trace of the figure in night-vision goggles, no sign of where he might have gone.
Gabriel waited by the command post, two cups of coffee in hand. The floodlights cast harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. He'd been coordinating search teams all day, his bad knee probably screaming at him, but he'd refused to leave.
"Here," he said, offering her a cup. "It's terrible, but it's hot."
She accepted the coffee and leaned against a folding table covered in maps. Her muscles protested even that small movement.
"They got Marcus's body out about an hour ago," Gabriel said quietly. "Coroner's doing the preliminary examination now, but I think we have a pretty good idea what happened."
Sheila closed her eyes briefly, trying to shut out the memory of seeing Marcus's body sprawled at the bottom of that shaft.
"I'm guessing from the look on your face," her father continued, "that your search didn't go well."
She shook her head. "We followed the Hollow Road as far as we safely could. Checked every branch, every alcove."
"How far did you get?"
"About two miles in. The tunnels start getting unstable after that—too dangerous without proper equipment." She took a long drink of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. "If he was down there, he's long gone."
"Or he never went that way at all." Her father studied one of the maps, tracing a route with his finger. "Eight hours we've had teams searching that section. Meanwhile, he could have circled back, used any of these other exits."
"While we wasted time following a false lead." She ran a hand through her hair, dislodging mine dust. "There are too many possibilities right now." She hesitated as a new worry nagged at her. "Think there's any chance we screwed up with John?"
Her father's bushy eyebrows pulled together. "What do you mean?"
"Could he have been the killer? Maybe he had his kids make up that sighting of the person with the goggles. Maybe John actually had them and ditched them somewhere."
"You think the killer was really in there with his wife and kids, and they just went along with it?" Gabriel shook his head. "I'm not buying it."
They were both silent for a few moments. Sheila took a big swallow of coffee, then pushed off from the table.
"Where are you going?" Gabriel asked.
I should get back in there, try another section—"
"When was the last time you ate?"
The question caught her off guard. "What?"
"Or slept?" He turned to face her fully. "You can't help anyone if you run yourself into the ground."
"We don't have time for—"
"You sound like me," he said softly. "Back when I was your age, working cases. Always pushing, never stopping."
She recognized his tone—the one he used when he was about to share a lesson wrapped in a story. But right now, she didn't want lessons. She wanted to find this killer before anyone else died.
"Dad, I appreciate the concern, but—"
"Let me tell you something." He settled into a folding chair, gesturing for her to join him. When she remained standing, he continued anyway. "Back in '85, we had a serial arsonist targeting churches. I was lead investigator, working myself to exhaustion. Thought I was being dedicated, doing what needed to be done."
Despite her resistance to taking a break, she found herself asking, "What happened?"