Page 13 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

He moved silently through the darkness, his night-vision goggles illuminating the tunnel in shades of green. The echo of his boots on stone bothered him—any sound could carry for miles in these passages. But he had no choice. He needed to put distance between himself and the authorities.

Marcus Reed's death hadn't gone according to plan.

The man had intended to keep him down here for days, like Tyler, letting the darkness work its magic.

But then he'd heard the voices—law enforcement, discussing search patterns through their radios.

The sound had carried clearly through the old ventilation shafts, giving him just enough warning.

He'd needed to act quickly. Getting Marcus to fall had been almost too easy—it was just a matter of spooking him toward the appropriate tunnel. In the green glow of his goggles, he had watched Marcus stumble forward, camera still recording, until the floor disappeared beneath him.

The crack of bones echoing up from below had been disappointing. Too quick. Too merciful. Nothing like the slow enlightenment that darkness could bring.

He stopped at a junction where three tunnels branched away into darkness.

He swept his gaze across the walls, searching for the mark that would guide him home.

His father had taught him about miners' signs—symbols scratched into the rock to help them navigate.

He had adapted the practice, creating his own subtle marks that only he would recognize.

But where was it? His heart rate increased slightly as he studied the walls.

The mark should be here—a small cross with a curved line beneath it, indicating the path that led to his private entrance.

He'd carved hundreds of these symbols throughout the mine system over the years, each one a breadcrumb leading him safely through the darkness.

"Think," he whispered to himself, the sound dying in the stale air. Had he taken a wrong turn? No—he knew these tunnels better than anyone. The symbol had to be here.

He moved closer to the wall, examining every scratch and groove in the rock. Old mining marks confused the issue—arrows pointing to long-abandoned copper veins, numbers indicating depth and direction, the initials of men long dead.

Then he saw it, half-hidden behind a rotting support beam. The cross and curve, barely visible unless you knew exactly what to look for. Relief flooded through him. He hadn't lost his way after all.

The symbol pointed to the rightmost tunnel. This one would take him deep into the mountain, far from the exits the police were watching. It would be a long journey home—nearly five miles through twisting passages—but he had time. Their search would be thorough, tentative.

Which was to say, slow.

Those boys had seen him, true, but even if they reported what they'd seen, and even if the police acted quickly, they would still be far behind him. They wouldn't know which turns he took, couldn't navigate the darkness the way he could.

The tunnel ahead narrowed, requiring him to duck slightly.

The air grew cooler, heavy with mineral scents that spoke of depth.

Here and there, his light caught other symbols—a circle meaning "danger ahead," a series of dots warning of unstable ground.

He'd mapped every hazard, marked every safe path.

The darkness held no surprises for him anymore.

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.