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"We have to assume he does, yes."
"In that case," Finn said, "we should probably assume he's ready for us, too—and probably happy to take us down with him, if need be."
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
The cabin sat in a small clearing, its weathered logs almost black with age. Three outbuildings—a barn, a workshop, and what might have been a storage shed—formed a rough semicircle behind it. Trees pressed close, their shadows already lengthening in the late afternoon light.
"No vehicles," Finn said quietly as they crouched in the tree line. "But look at the ground between the buildings."
Sheila studied the packed earth. Despite the surrounding vegetation, the paths between structures were oddly clear—maintained, but made to look neglected. Someone routinely walked these routes.
They watched the property for a few moments, documenting any movement, any sign of life. Nothing. The whole place felt wrong, like a movie set designed to look abandoned.
"We go in soft," she said finally. "Could be motion sensors, security cameras. He has military training—"
"And resources," Finn added. "All that specialized equipment."
They approached the cabin in stages, using the trees for cover until they reached the edge of the clearing. The windows were grimy but intact, covered from the inside with what looked like heavy fabric. No smoke rose from the chimney despite the cold.
The front steps creaked under their weight. Sheila tested the door handle—unlocked. That raised red flags immediately. Either Whitman was confident no one would find this place, or he wanted them to enter.
She eased the door open, weapon ready. The interior was dark, the covered windows blocking most of the natural light. Their flashlight beams revealed a space that was both lived-in and carefully maintained.
No dust. No cobwebs. Everything is meticulously organized.
The main room held a sleeping bag on a narrow cot, a small table with a camp stove, and shelves lined with military-style supply crates. One wall displayed topographical maps of the area, with certain locations marked in red. Sheila recognized them—mine entrances, but not all were on the official surveys.
"Check this out," Finn whispered, gesturing to a desk beneath the maps. A laptop sat open, its screen dark. Beside it lay a logbook filled with precise handwriting—times, dates, locations. And names.
Sheila's stomach turned as she read the entries. Tyler Matthews. Marcus Reed. Diana Martinez. Each name followed by detailed observations, times of entry and exit from various mine locations. The most recent entry was for Michelle Waring.
"He's been tracking them," Finn said. "Learning their patterns."
"Not just tracking." Sheila pointed to another section of the logbook. "Look—he's timing their 'lessons.' How long they last in the darkness before breaking down. Their reactions to different scenarios he creates."
They moved deeper into the cabin. The kitchen area was sparse but functional—military rations, bottled water, everything arranged with obsessive precision. A generator hummed softly in one corner, powering what looked like communications equipment.
"Military-grade radio setup," Finn said, examining it. "He could monitor emergency frequencies, track search patterns."
In the bathroom, they found recently used towels hanging to dry. The medicine cabinet held basic supplies plus several prescription bottles. Sheila photographed the labels—medications for chronic pain, anti-anxiety drugs, sleeping pills. All in different names, probably stolen or bought illegally.
The bedroom revealed more of Whitman's obsession. Photos covered one wall—surveillance shots of various mine entrances, people exploring them, search and rescue operations. In the center hung an old silver cross, similar to the one from the video but clearly different. A second cross?
"Sheila." Finn's voice drew her to a corner where a clipboard lay on a small table. Michelle's petition was still attached.
There could be no doubt that Michelle had been here. The question was, what had happened to her? And where was she now?
A sound from outside made them both freeze—branches moving in the wind, or something else? They waited, listening. Nothing but the usual forest sounds.
"Where would he keep her?" Finn whispered. "No basement that I can see."
"The outbuildings." Sheila studied the photos on the wall again. Several showed the barn and workshop from different angles, but something was off about them. The perspective seemed wrong, as if—
Her phone buzzed, making them both jump. Gabriel.
"Dad?" she answered quietly. "Kind of in the middle of something."
"I talked to Hank," Gabriel said without preamble.