Page 11 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

Sheila's heartbeat became an audible drumming in her ears as she pressed forward, listening for any repeat of that scream. None came.

She wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.

Twin flashlight beams cut through the darkness as Sheila and her father moved deeper into the darkness. The temperature dropped, and the musty scent of old timbers and damp earth enveloped them. Their footsteps echoed off the rocky walls, amplifying every sound.

Sheila tried not to think about how many tons of rock and earth loomed above them, tried to ignore the creaking of ancient support beams that seemed ready to give way at any moment.

She'd worked dozens of cases in her career, but something about being this far underground made her pulse quicken, made her want to turn and run back toward daylight.

Gabriel's breathing grew labored after the first hundred yards. His flashlight beam wavered slightly as he limped along, trying to keep pace.

"Sheila, wait." His voice echoed in the tunnel. "We need to slow down."

She turned back, almost grateful for the excuse to pause, to fight back the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The tunnel suddenly felt narrower, the air thicker.

Gazing at her father, she didn't have to be a detective to read the pain etched on his face.

Just one glance told her that he wasn't going to be able to keep up with her.

"You should wait at the entrance. Call for backup," she said.

Despite her own fear, despite every instinct screaming at her to get out, she couldn't risk losing Marcus, not when he might be in the killer's hands this very moment.

"No." He straightened, though she could see the effort it took. "I'm not leaving you alone down here."

"Dad—"

"I already lost your mother." His voice was rough with emotion. "And Natalie. I'm not losing you too."

The words hung between them in the darkness. Sheila felt the familiar ache that came with any mention of her mother or sister, but there was something else too—a warmth at hearing her father express his fears so openly.

"I can take care of myself," she said softly.

"I know." He managed a small smile. "I trained you, remember?"

A cry echoed through the tunnels then, bouncing off the walls until it was impossible to tell its direction. It might have been Marcus's voice, or it might have been the wind playing tricks.

Or someone else's voice playing tricks.

Gabriel directed his flashlight at the ground, illuminating the dusty floor. Dozens of footprints crisscrossed the packed earth—the marks of search parties, investigators, and curious onlookers who'd been here since Tyler's disappearance.

"See the footprints?" Gabriel asked.

"Which ones? There are too many."

"Look closer." Gabriel crouched despite his knee, then pointed to a particular set of tracks. "See how these are laid over the others? Their tennis shoes—that roles out most of our search team, including ourselves."

"They could still belong to another tourist, maybe someone who heard about the murder and came here out of curiosity."

"That's possible, sure. But you show me a set of tracks here that looks more promising."

Sheila stared at the tracks, thinking. The tracks her father had indicated did overlap most of the others, suggesting they were more recent.

"It's worth a shot," she said, feeling the urgent need to get going. "Anything's better than standing around debating."

Gabriel nodded, and together they started forward.

They followed the tracks deeper into the mine, their lights cutting through the darkness. The tunnel had been shored up with heavy timbers, many of them rotting with age. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, a steady plink that seemed to count down the seconds.

Gabriel's limp was becoming more pronounced, but he pressed on, his jaw set with determination. The tunnel branched ahead—one path continuing straight, the other curving to the left.

"The fresh tracks go left," he whispered.

As if in response, they heard footsteps ahead—the distinct sound of boots on stone. Sheila's beam caught movement at the far end of the left tunnel.

A figure stood there, the green glow of night-vision goggles reflecting their light. For a moment, no one moved.

"Police!" Sheila shouted, her voice thundering through the passage. "Don't move!"

The figure turned and ran.

Sheila started forward, but Gabriel's hand clamped on her arm. "Wait!"

His flashlight beam swept the ground ahead, revealing a gaping hole in the tunnel floor. She'd been two steps from plunging into it.

They approached carefully, shining their lights down. The pit dropped at least thirty feet, and at the bottom...

"Oh God," Sheila breathed.

A body lay crumpled on the rocks below. From this distance, she couldn't tell if it was Marcus, but the body seemed to match his physical description.

Sheila's stomach turned over with disgust. They had failed to save Marcus. Still, that didn't mean they couldn't catch his killer.

She edged closer to the pit, trying to measure it with her eyes and decide if she could jump across. It would be risky, but considering the stakes—

"Don't even think about it," her father said, grabbing her arm again. "It's much too far."

"We can't just let him get away!" she said, exasperated. "We have to stop him, Dad!"

"And we will!" he said sharply. Then his voice softened. "We backtrack, radio for equipment and backup, then seal off every exit within a mile. If our friend with the night-vision goggles wants out, he'll have to come through us."

She knew he was right, but leaving anyone down here—alive or dead—felt wrong. "And what if Marcus is still alive?" she asked in a quiet voice. "What if he's just injured, paralyzed?"

"We'll get a team in here to rappel down. But right now, you and I can't help him—getting ourselves killed certainly won't do him or anyone else any good."

The darkness seemed to press in around them, filled with whispers and shadows.

"Okay," Sheila said, composing herself. "But let's hurry—we can't let the killer slip away again."

They started back, neither speaking. In the darkness, Gabriel's breathing was as heavy as his footfalls.

"That shaft in the ground," Sheila said. "It's almost like the killer was trying to lure us into falling down it. Maybe he already lured Marcus in."

"And maybe," Gabriel said, "it was his voice we were hearing, calling us to the same place, the same trap. Like a siren leading ships to wreck on the shoals."

***

The rappelling team made their final safety checks as floodlights illuminated the mine entrance. Amy Reed sat in her car at the edge of the lot, refusing to leave until they confirmed the identity of the body. Sheila couldn't blame her. She'd want to know, too.

They'd enlisted everyone they could trust to watch the exits—a few deputies at the two main entrances, Search and Rescue teams at three others, and experienced members of the local caving club covering the rest. Doc Sullivan had mapped out sixteen known exits within a mile radius.

If the killer emerged, someone would spot him.

"Testing comms," the lead rappeller said, adjusting his radio. Dave Kendrick, the Search and Rescue coordinator, checked the signal strength and gave a thumbs up.

Sheila watched the team secure their lines to heavy steel anchors they'd drilled into the rock. The hole dropped straight down for thirty feet, requiring technical expertise to navigate safely. Three rescuers would descend—two to assess and secure the body, one to document the scene.

"Beginning descent," the lead rappeller announced. His headlamp illuminated the walls as he disappeared over the edge. The second rescuer followed moments later.

Gabriel stood beside Sheila, his bad knee finally getting the rest it needed. He'd refused to leave, despite her suggesting he get it looked at. "Reminds me of that cave rescue in '87," he said quietly.

"The one that messed up your knee?"

He nodded. "Thought I'd lost two men that day. Turned out they'd found an air pocket, survived eighteen hours in near-freezing water." He glanced at her. "Sometimes what looks hopeless isn't."

But Sheila very much doubted this was one of those times.

"We have visual confirmation," the lead rappeller's voice crackled over the radio. "Victim matches the description of Marcus Reed."

Sheila closed her eyes briefly. Even though she'd been expecting it, the confirmation hit hard. She could hear Amy's quiet sobs from the parking lot.

"As far as I can tell," the rappeller continued, "looks like he broke his neck. No signs of foul play here."

That doesn't say much, Sheila thought. She had no doubt that the person wearing the night-vision goggles had caused Marcus's death.

It did, however, create a wrinkle in their case.

A clever defense attorney could argue that Marcus's death had been an unfortunate accident entirely unrelated to Tyler Matthews' death.

But that was thinking too far ahead. The first priority was catching the killer and putting an end to these murders. Everything else was secondary.

"Sheriff?" Her radio crackled with a different voice. Deputy Roberts. "We've got movement at Exit Four. Single male subject emerging, carrying what appears to be climbing gear."

Sheila tensed. "Description?"

"Tall, athletic build. Moving fast toward the old logging road."

She was already heading for her vehicle, Gabriel limping quickly behind her. "Maintain visual contact," she ordered into her radio. "Do not approach. We're three minutes out."

Sheila jumped into her vehicle, started the engine, then drummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as she waited for her limping father to climb up.

He hadn't even shut the door when she hit the gas.

Gravel sprayed as she took the turn onto the logging road.

The suspect was ahead somewhere, near Exit Four—a small opening that Doc Sullivan had marked as a local favorite for amateur explorers.