Page 25 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

The result looked like a spiderweb drawn by a child with too many markers—messy, complicated, and ultimately not functional.

She rubbed her eyes, which were gritty from too little sleep.

A full night had passed since Diana Martinez had entered the Copper Queen Mine.

A full night of MSHA restrictions, protest signs, news crews, and dead ends.

And somewhere in that maze of tunnels, a killer was playing a game whose rules only he understood.

Her father still hadn't called about his meeting with Hank Dawson, even though he'd left to speak with the former sheriff a few hours ago. That worried her. Gabriel had promised no more secrets, but old habits died hard. And Dawson…

What role had he really played in all this? Had he known what Tommy was when he brought him into the department? Or was he just another pawn in a game that had been running since before Sheila was born?

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made her look up. Finn appeared in her doorway, moving naturally again, as if he'd never been shot at all.

"Thought I'd find you here," he said. "Roberts called. Said you never went home last night."

"There was no point. Couldn't sleep anyway." She gestured at the maps. "I keep thinking we're missing something obvious. Some pattern in the private entrances, some way to predict where he might surface."

Finn crossed to her desk, studying the maps. "Star asked about you this morning. She's worried."

"I know. I'll make it up to her." Sheila traced a tunnel route with her finger. "But right now—"

"Right now Diana's still missing, Tommy wants immunity, your father's chasing old ghosts, and you're trying to hold everything together." Finn's voice was gentle. "But you can't help anyone if you burn yourself out."

She started to argue, but movement on one of the security monitors caught her eye. A MSHA inspector was doing his perimeter check.

"Five bullets," she said quietly.

"What?"

"Diana had a Glock 26. Standard magazine holds ten rounds. We heard five shots." Sheila stared at the mine entrance on the monitor. "She has five bullets left. Five chances to defend herself. And we're up here pushing paper and following protocols while she's down there alone with him."

"She's smart," Finn said. "And she knows those tunnels. She might—"

The radio on Sheila's desk crackled. "Sheriff?" It was Deputy Walker. "We just heard what sounded like gunfire. North entrance."

Before Sheila could respond, another voice cut in. "Barnes here. Heard it too, but it seemed to come from the east side."

More reports started coming in—each deputy certain they'd heard shots, each one reporting a different location. The mine's acoustics were playing tricks again, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.

Four more voices came across the radio, all reporting gunshots from different directions.

"How many shots?" Sheila demanded. "Did anyone get a clear count?"

The responses overlapped, contradicted each other. Two shots. Three shots. Maybe just one that echoed. The deputies' uncertainty bled through their voices.

Despite this uncertainty, Sheila felt a burst of hope. Somewhere in the darkness below, Diana Martinez was fighting for her life. She was alive, and by the sound of it, she wasn't going down easily.

Still, Sheila hated that she couldn't rush into those tunnels right away to help Diana. She'd already seen firsthand how unstable those tunnels could be, and getting killed or trapped in a desperate attempt to reach Diana would only make the situation worse.

She pushed back from her desk, needing to move, to think. "Let's go back to what we know," she said, more to herself than to Finn. "Ray said the buyer was older, gray in his beard. Military training. Religious."

"And his father was a miner," Finn added. "That's what you told me, anyway."

She turned to the whiteboard where she'd been tracking leads. Under "Killer Profile" she had listed:

- Military background (special forces?)

- Religious connection

- Local knowledge of mines

- Father was a miner

- Likely 55-60 years old

- Uses night vision equipment

- Patient, methodical

"His father being a miner," she said slowly.

"That's not just background information.

It's central to who he is, how he operates.

" She grabbed the stack of mining accident reports she and her father had previously gone through.

"My dad and I—we were looking at this wrong.

We were focused on miners who died in accidents, thinking our killer might be an orphaned son. "

"But?"

"But what if we're looking for someone whose father survived? Someone whose father worked these mines and lived?" She spread the reports across her desk, pushing the maps aside. "Ray said the killer mentioned something about carrying on a legacy."

Finn moved closer, studying the reports. "You think his father taught him about the mines?"

"More than that." Sheila pulled out the report about the 1961 collapse. "Three miners died that day. But look at the supervisor's statement—it's signed by Frank Whitman, mine foreman."

She grabbed another report, this one from 1963. "Here he is again. And again in '64." She laid out more papers. "Frank Whitman supervised these mines for almost twenty years. He would have known every tunnel, every access point."

"And if he had a son..."

"He would have taught him everything he knew." Sheila was moving faster now, energized by the possibility of a lead. "Pull everything we have on Frank Whitman. Employment records, incident reports, anything."

Finn was already heading for the door when another thought struck her. "And check church records. Ray said the killer wore an old silver cross—might have been his father's. If Frank Whitman was as religious as his son seems to be, he would have been active in a local congregation."

As Finn left, Sheila turned back to the reports, scanning for any mention of Frank Whitman's family.

The man had supervised these mines during their most productive—and most dangerous—years.

He would have known about the illegal mining, the covered-up accidents, maybe even the corruption her father had discovered years later.

But something else nagged at her. Something about the way the killer operated, the way he used the darkness as a weapon. That wasn't just knowledge passed down from father to son.

That was experience.

That was personal.

She picked up her phone to call her father, then stopped. Gabriel was supposed to be talking to Hank Dawson, trying to uncover another piece of this puzzle. But maybe there was someone else who could help—someone who'd been studying these mines and their history for decades.

She dialed his number. He answered on the second ring, the sound of coffee brewing in the background. "Doc Sullivan."

"Doc, it's Sheriff Stone. I need everything you have on Frank Whitman. Especially anything about his family."

"Frank Whitman," Doc Sullivan said, his voice carrying the weight of memory. "Now there's a name I haven't heard in years." Papers rustled on his end of the line. "Give me a minute to pull his file."

Sheila put the phone on speaker so Finn, who had just returned, could hear. More rustling, then the sound of a drawer opening.

"Here we go," Sullivan said. "Frank Whitman, mine foreman from 1959 to 1977. Respected member of First Baptist Church, served on the town council for three terms. On paper, he was a pillar of the community."

"But?" Sheila prompted.

"But there were rumors. Things the older miners still talk about, though never above a whisper.

" A pause. "Frank had... unusual ideas about safety protocols.

Accidents that should have shut down operations for weeks were cleaned up overnight, paperwork filed showing all proper procedures were followed. "

"He was covering up unsafe conditions?" Finn asked.

"More than that. According to these notes, he was actively hiding evidence of rich copper deposits, helping the mining company claim certain veins had played out when they were still viable."

Sheila leaned forward. "Why would they do that?"

"Think about it," Sullivan said. "If they officially closed sections of the mine due to depleted resources, they wouldn't have to follow safety regulations or pay union wages to extract what remained.

They could use unofficial crews, keep the profits off the books.

Frank Whitman would have known everything about those illegal operations.

He had his fingers in every piece of it.

" Papers shuffled again. "But that's not the darkest part of his story. "

"What do you mean?"

"Frank had a son. Peter. Born in '62 or '63, I think.

The boy's mother died in a collapse in '70—one of the accidents Frank helped cover up.

" Sullivan's voice grew softer. "After that, people started noticing things.

Bruises on the boy. Times when Peter would disappear for days, only to show up at school looking. .. different. Haunted."

"Was anything ever done?" Finn asked.

"This was the seventies. People didn't interfere in family matters, especially not with someone as powerful as Frank Whitman.

" A heavy sigh. "But miners would talk about hearing things in the tunnels at night.

A child crying. Religious verses being shouted.

Frank claimed he was teaching his son about faith, about facing darkness to find God's light. "

Sheila felt her stomach turn. "He was using the mines to punish his son."

"That was the rumor. Some said Frank had his own private entrance to the mine system, a place where he'd take Peter for these... lessons." Another pause. "Then in '77, Frank disappeared. People assumed he'd finally had enough of the failing mining industry, moved away to start fresh. But..."

"But?" Sheila asked.

"His body was never found. No forwarding address, no bank activity, nothing.

He just vanished." The sound of more papers being moved.

"Here's something interesting—after Frank disappeared, Peter spent almost a year living with his uncle before leaving town.

The uncle reported Peter had changed, become obsessed with the mines.

Said the boy would vanish for days at a time, claiming he was 'learning what the darkness had to teach. '"

Sheila exchanged looks with Finn. "Do you have any photos? Of either Frank or Peter?"

"Just one. A group shot from '76 at the mine entrance. Frank's in it, and I think that's Peter standing behind him, though his face is partly hidden." A drawer opened. "I can scan it to you."

"Please." Sheila's mind was racing. "What happened to Peter after he left town?"

"Military, according to his uncle's statement. Special forces, I think. After that..." Sullivan trailed off. "After that, nothing. At least nothing in my records."

But Sheila barely heard him. Special forces. Military training. Just like Ray had said about the man who bought the night vision goggles.

"One more thing," she said. "This private entrance you mentioned—any idea where it might have been?"

"I wish I did," Sullivan said. "The miners who knew about it are long gone. Frank would have kept it secret—it was his private domain, his place of..." He didn't finish the thought. "I'll keep looking through the records, see if I can find anything else about the Whitmans."

After ending the call, Sheila grabbed her jacket. "The Whitman house," she said to Finn. "You know where it is?"

"Up on Cedar Ridge. Been abandoned for years, but..." He paused. "You think Peter might have returned?"

"If he's our killer, he'd want to be close to the mines." She checked her weapon, more out of habit than necessity. "And where better to hide than a place everyone's forgotten?"

They headed for her vehicle, the air sharp with approaching winter. As they pulled out of the lot, Sheila thought about Peter Whitman, about a boy whose father had used darkness as both punishment and twisted sacrament.

Now that boy was a man. And he was teaching his own lessons about darkness.

The question was: Would they find him before Diana Martinez became another of his students?