Page 17 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot of Outdoor Adventures & Surplus as Sheila pulled into a space near the entrance.

The store occupied a weathered strip mall on the outskirts of Salt Lake City, wedged between a discount furniture outlet and a vape shop.

A neon "OPEN" sign buzzed in the window, competing with faded posters advertising camping gear and military surplus.

"Last one on the list," Sheila said, killing the engine. Her voice was rough with exhaustion. They'd spent the past four hours visiting the other two licensed night-vision dealers in Utah, showing them photos of the killer's goggles, coming up empty.

The first store had been almost comically unhelpful—a big-box outdoor retailer whose teenage employees barely knew what night-vision gear was, let alone its sales history. The second had proper records but nothing matching what they were looking for.

"This place is more promising," Gabriel said, studying the storefront. "Type of shop that does cash deals here and there, keeps things off the books."

Sheila glanced at her father. There was something in his tone that suggested he'd dealt with places like this before. She wondered how many contacts, how many sources, how many favors he'd accumulated over his decades in law enforcement.

And how many of those connections he'd kept hidden from her, just like he'd hidden so much else.

"You've been here before?" she asked.

"Once or twice." He shifted in his seat, grimacing as his bad knee protested. "Owner's name is Ray Hutchins. Ex-military, did three tours in Afghanistan. Knows his equipment."

Of course, he knew the owner's background.

Sometimes, Sheila forgot just how deep her father's network ran in Utah law enforcement.

She'd inherited some of those connections when she became sheriff, but others—the unofficial ones, the ones that operated in gray areas—those belonged solely to Gabriel Stone.

And what about his connections within the department? she wondered. Why didn't he expose the money laundering? Was he protecting his family… or was he protecting the people whose crimes he'd discovered?

Gabriel was studying her. "Something wrong?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Just thinking."

Gabriel nodded. "Anyway, Ray knows about every piece of tactical gear that moves through this valley. If anyone can help us, it's him—assuming he wants to. He can be a bit… stubborn."

Sheila studied the storefront again. Bars covered the windows—not unusual for this neighborhood, but these looked newer than the rest of the building. Security cameras mounted in each corner swept the parking lot. Whoever Ray Hutchins was, he took his security seriously.

Sheila began to open her door, but her father's hand on her arm stopped her.

"Let me do the talking at first," he said. "Ray and I have history. Nothing bad," he added quickly, seeing her expression. "Just... complicated."

Sheila felt that familiar twist in her gut—the one that came whenever she discovered another aspect of her father's past he'd never shared. But she pushed it aside. Right now, they needed information more than she needed answers about her father's secrets.

The bell above the door chimed as they entered.

The store's interior was dimmer than expected, illuminated mainly by fluorescent strips that cast everything in a slightly sickly glow.

Glass cases lined the walls, displaying everything from tactical knives to high-end scopes. The air smelled of gun oil and leather.

A man emerged from a back room, and Sheila's first thought was that he moved like a soldier—balanced, alert, always aware of his surroundings.

Ray Hutchins was shorter than she'd expected, but broad-shouldered and fit despite being well into his sixties.

His gray hair was military-short, and a scar traced a pale line from his left ear to his jaw.

"Well, well," Ray said, his voice gravelly but not unfriendly.

"Gabriel Stone. Didn't expect to see you darkening my door again.

" His eyes flicked to Sheila, taking in her badge, her stance, everything that marked her as law enforcement.

"And this must be the daughter I've heard about. The new sheriff."

"Ray." Gabriel nodded in greeting. "You're looking well."

"Better than you, old man." Ray's eyes lingered on Gabriel's knee. "That old injury still giving you trouble?"

"Some days more than others."

Sheila watched this exchange with growing curiosity. There was clearly history here—not just professional courtesy, but something deeper. The way Ray kept his distance, the careful way her father stood... there was a story here she didn't know.

"What brings you by?" Ray asked, though his tone suggested he already knew. "Can't be a social call, not with both of you wearing badges."

Gabriel moved closer to one of the display cases, studying the array of tactical gear inside. "Need your expertise on something, Ray. Been making the rounds of night-vision dealers, trying to track down a particular model."

Ray's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture—a subtle tensing that Sheila might have missed if she hadn't been watching closely.

"Night vision's a specialty market," Ray said. "Not many civilian applications."

"Which is why we're here." Gabriel pulled out his phone, bringing up the still from Marcus's video. "This was captured yesterday. Military grade, probably Gen-3 or better based on the image quality. Ring any bells?"

Ray barely glanced at the image. "Lots of manufacturers make goggles like that. Could be surplus, could be newer civilian models. Without seeing them up close..."

He trailed off with a shrug that seemed a bit too casual to Sheila. She moved to examine a different display case, letting her father handle the conversation as agreed, but keeping Ray in her peripheral vision. The ex-soldier's eyes followed her movement, then snapped back to Gabriel.

"Thing is," Gabriel continued, "dealers are required to maintain records of night-vision sales. Class 3 and above, especially. Mind if we take a look at your logs?"

"Got them right here." Ray moved behind the counter and pulled out a thick binder. "Everything by the book, just like ATF requires."

Sheila noticed how quickly he'd produced the records—almost as if he'd been expecting this visit. She watched him flip through pages of sales records, each one meticulously documented with buyer information, serial numbers, dates.

"Last night-vision sale was three months ago," Ray said, turning the binder so Gabriel could see. "Hunting guide from Idaho. Got copies of his license and everything."

It was all too neat, too clean. Sheila thought about what her father had said about Ray, knowing every piece of tactical gear that moved through the valley. A man like that wouldn't survive just on officially documented sales.

"Mind if I look through these?" Gabriel asked, reaching for the binder.

"Be my guest." Ray's voice was steady, but his hand lingered on the binder a moment too long before releasing it.

While Gabriel examined the records, Sheila studied the store more carefully. Behind the counter, partially hidden by a rack of hunting clothes, she spotted a second door—heavier than the one to the stockroom, guarded by what looked like a keypad lock.

"Quite an impressive security setup," she said, gesturing to the cameras. "Rough neighborhood?"

Ray's eyes narrowed slightly. "Can't be too careful these days. A lot of valuable merchandise here."

"Including what's behind that door?" She nodded toward the heavy door.

"Storage," Ray said shortly. "Nothing interesting."

Gabriel looked up from the binder. "Everything seems in order here, Ray. Appreciate you taking the time."

But Sheila caught the slight emphasis he put on 'here,' and apparently so did Ray. The ex-soldier's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Always happy to help law enforcement," Ray said. His tone was pleasant enough, but there was an edge to it now. "That all you needed?"

"One more thing," Gabriel said. He closed the binder carefully. "Remember that situation in '98? With the missing equipment from Fort Douglas?"

The change in Ray's demeanor was immediate and dramatic. His face hardened, and his hand moved slightly toward his hip—an old soldier's reflex, Sheila guessed, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

At least not as far as Sheila could tell.

"That was a long time ago," Ray said quietly.

"Sure was." Gabriel's voice remained casual, but there was steel underneath it. "Never did figure out where all that gear ended up. ATF was pretty interested for a while, as I recall."

"What's your point, Gabe?"

"No point. Just reminiscing." Gabriel smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Unless, of course, there's something else you think we should know about. Something not in these official records."

The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches.

Sheila found herself unconsciously shifting her weight, ready to move if needed.

But Ray wasn't looking at her anymore. His attention was entirely on Gabriel, and in his eyes, Sheila saw calculation—a man weighing his options, measuring risks and consequences.

Finally, Ray spoke again, keeping his voice low. "Not here. Meet me out back in ten minutes. And leave the badges in the car."

Sheila and Gabriel exchanged glances. This was the moment where their investigation could break either way—Ray could give them what they needed, or this could be a setup. Sheila studied her father's face, looking for any sign of what he was thinking.

"Ten minutes," Gabriel agreed.

Outside, the sun had dipped lower, casting the back alley in deep shadows. Sheila leaned against their vehicle while Gabriel paced slowly, his limp more pronounced after hours of walking.

"Want to tell me what happened in '98?" she asked.

Gabriel paused his pacing. "Someone was stealing equipment from Fort Douglas—night vision, tactical gear, even some weapons. ATF suspected an inside job, but they couldn't prove anything."

"And Ray was involved?"

"Let's just say there was a lot of circumstantial evidence pointing his way." Gabriel looked toward the store's back door. "But sometimes it's better to have leverage than a conviction."

"So you what—helped bury it?"

"I helped ensure the equipment found its way back to the base. No questions asked." He met her eyes. "Sometimes the by-the-book approach isn't the best way to handle things."

There it was again—that gulf between them, filled with her father's compromises and justifications. How many other times had he bent the rules, made deals, kept secrets?

And had those decisions contributed to her mother's death?

Before she could pursue that line of thought, the store's back door opened. Ray emerged, carrying a laptop. He glanced around the alley before approaching them.

"This doesn't leave here," he said quietly. "I've got a business to protect."

"As long as what you tell us is useful," Sheila said, earning a sharp look from her father.

Ray's jaw worked for a moment. "I keep... alternate records. Cash transactions, special orders. Things that don't go in the official books."

"Illegal sales," Sheila said flatly.

"Gray market," Ray corrected. "Nothing that would hurt anyone. Just collectors, enthusiasts, people who prefer privacy."

He opened the laptop, pulling up a spreadsheet.

"About four months ago, guy comes in asking about high-end night vision.

Military grade, latest generation. Said he needed it for spelunking.

Actually makes sense—lot of serious cavers use night vision these days.

Better depth perception than regular flashlights. "

Sheila thought about the killer moving through the mine tunnels with such confidence. "Did you get a name?"

"Paul Wilson." Ray's mouth twisted. "Obviously fake. Paid cash, had all the right paperwork, but something felt off about him."

"What do you mean?" Sheila pressed.

Ray shifted uncomfortably. "Way he moved, the way he carried himself. Military training, maybe special forces. And he knew too much about the equipment—asked about specific models, technical specifications. Not your typical civilian buyer."

"Description?" Gabriel asked.

"Tall, lean. Gray in his beard. Older guy, maybe fifty-five, sixty. Carried himself like someone used to being in charge." Ray scrolled through his spreadsheet. "Bought a pair of PVS-15s. Top of the line, about twelve grand worth."

"You remember anything else about him?" Sheila asked. "Any distinguishing features?"

Ray frowned, thinking. "He wore a cross. Silver, simple design. Caught my eye because it looked old, like a family heirloom maybe."

Sheila's heart rate picked up. The cross from Marcus's video. "Did he say anything else? About where he was from, what he did?"

"Not much. But..." Ray hesitated. "He mentioned something about his father being a miner. Said something about carrying on a legacy, but he was kind of cryptic about it." He looked from Sheila to Gabriel. "Does that help?"

"More than you know," Sheila said. She and Gabriel thanked Ray and walked away.

"Time to do some digging," Gabriel said. "We need to figure out who has motive for the killings, who lost someone in the mine. If we cross-reference that with the details Ray gave us, we might be able to nail this guy."

Sheila nodded and pulled out her phone.

"What are you doing?" her father asked.

"Digging," she said.

He chuckled. "No, no. If you want my help with this investigation, then we do this the old-fashioned way."

"What's that?"

"Paper and ink. Say all you want about the convenience of the internet, but there's nothing so reliable as a stack of dusty old documents."