Page 32 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

The tunnel air hit them like a physical presence—cool, heavy with mineral scents, thick with decades of darkness.

Their flashlight beams caught modern construction, gradually giving way to older mine workings.

The transition was deliberate, Sheila realized.

Peter had created a bridge between present and past, between manufactured and natural darkness.

Sound behaved strangely here. Their footsteps seemed to alternate between deadened and oddly amplified, suggesting more of the acoustic treatment Whitman had used above. He was controlling the environment completely—light, sound, even the flow of air through hidden ventilation systems.

"Look at these marks," Finn whispered, indicating the tunnel wall.

Crosses had been carved into the stone at regular intervals, each one slightly different in design.

Some were recent, their cuts still sharp.

Others had aged into the rock, suggesting years or even decades of accumulation.

A record of time spent in darkness, each cross perhaps marking another "lesson" taught.

They reached a junction where three tunnels branched away into darkness. Here, the modern construction ended entirely. They were in the original mine system now, though Sheila noticed subtle changes—reinforced support beams, hidden power conduits, more of the crosses carved into key points.

"Which way?" Finn asked.

Before Sheila could answer, a sound echoed through the tunnels—perhaps a voice, perhaps just the wind playing tricks. But it seemed to come from the leftmost passage.

"There," she said, already moving.

The tunnel sloped downward, following what might have been an original copper vein.

More crosses marked their path, along with other symbols that seemed to be some kind of personal navigation system.

Peter had created his own language down here, turning the mines into a maze that only he could properly read.

They passed old mining equipment, carefully preserved. Ore carts sat on rusted rails, their metal somehow gleaming as if recently cleaned. Tools hung on the walls, arranged with the same precision they'd seen in the workshop above. Everything had its place in Peter's underground domain.

Another sound reached them—definitely a voice this time, though still too distant to make out words. Sheila quickened their pace while still trying to move silently. The tunnel floor had been cleared of debris, making quiet progress easier, but that same preparation made her nervous.

Everything down here was exactly as Peter wanted it.

The tunnel opened into what had once been a major excavation chamber. Support beams crisscrossed the ceiling like wooden ribs. Their flashlight beams caught something that made them both stop—photographs covering one wall, protected from the mine's dampness by plastic sheeting.

"Shit," Finn breathed.

The photos showed people in the mines—workers from decades past, modern-day explorers, even search and rescue teams. But the centerpiece was a collection of what could only be Peter's victims. Tyler Matthews stumbling through darkness.

Marcus Reed examining a tunnel wall. Diana Martinez checking her equipment.

And now, Michelle Waring, her face caught in a moment of dawning fear.

"He documented everything," Sheila said, studying the photos. "Every 'lesson' he taught down here."

"Some of these go back years," Finn added. "Look at the dates. He's been doing this a lot longer than we thought."

A scream cut through the darkness—close now, and unmistakably human. It came from a narrow passage on the far side of the chamber, barely visible behind a stack of old timbers.

Sheila started toward it, but Finn caught her arm.

"Listen," he whispered.

She held still, barely breathing. At first she heard nothing but the usual mine sounds—distant water, settling rock, the soft movement of air through ancient passages. Then she caught it: footsteps, moving with practiced confidence through the darkness. And they were getting closer.

They killed their lights immediately, pressing themselves against the chamber wall. The footsteps grew louder, accompanied now by a gentle humming—an old hymn, Sheila realized, twisted into something darker by the mine's acoustics.

A green glow appeared in the passage ahead—night vision goggles. Peter Whitman was coming.

And they were standing next to his wall of trophies, caught between him and the tunnel where they'd heard Michelle scream.

They pressed against the rough tunnel wall, hiding behind a stack of old support timbers. The beams smelled of age and creosote, decades of darkness sealed into their grain. In the absolute black, Sheila could hear Finn's controlled breathing beside her, feel the tension in his body as they waited.

The humming grew louder. The hymn was familiar—something she'd heard in church as a child—but Peter's rendition made it sound wrong, almost profane. The green glow of his night vision goggles cast a weird glow on the walls as he entered the chamber, turning the crosses into dancing specters.

Sheila's hand tightened on her flashlight. Her other hand found her weapon, though she knew drawing it now would be risky. In the darkness, with his military training and knowledge of the tunnels, Peter would have the advantage in any firefight.

He moved with absolute confidence, his steps sure despite the uneven ground.

Sheila barely breathed. He was closer now. She could smell gun oil and something chemical—probably cleaning supplies. Everything about him was methodical, controlled.

Just a few more steps. Sheila felt Finn shift slightly beside her, ready to move.

Now. It had to be now.

Sheila swung out from behind the timbers, flashlight blazing. The beam caught Peter directly in the goggles, and he staggered slightly. Finn moved with practiced speed, grabbing Peter's arms and forcing them behind his back.

But something was wrong. Peter wasn't resisting. If anything, he seemed to relax in Finn's grip.

"Peter Whitman," Sheila said, keeping her light on him while drawing her weapon. "You're under arrest for the murders of Tyler Matthews and Marcus Reed, the attempted murder of Diana Martinez, and the kidnapping of Michelle Waring."

Peter said nothing. He just stared back at her through his goggles, looking almost… amused?

"Where is she?" Finn demanded, securing Peter's hands with cuffs. He pulled off Peter's goggles and tossed them aside.

"Safe. Learning. Just like I learned." Peter's voice remained calm, reasonable. "My father understood that darkness teaches us who we really are. What we're really capable of."

"This ends now," Sheila said. "Tell us where Michelle is."

Peter smiled, and something about the expression made Sheila's skin crawl. "You can arrest me. Take me away. Process me through your system of justice." His head tilted slightly. "But if you do that, I promise you Michelle will never see the light of day again."

Sheila kept her weapon trained on Peter, studying his face in the harsh beam of her flashlight. He seemed utterly at ease despite the cuffs, despite being caught. His calmness suggested confidence rather than resignation.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"These tunnels are extensive," Peter said. "Miles of passages, hundreds of connecting chambers. Some which only I know about." He spoke as if giving a lecture, sharing interesting facts. "Have you considered how long someone could survive down here? With adequate food, water, air circulation?"

"Stop playing games," Finn said. "Tell us where she is."

"I designed this place carefully," Peter continued, ignoring him. "Multiple sealed chambers, each with its own independent air supply. Each one a perfect classroom for learning what darkness has to teach." His eyes found Sheila's. "Michelle is in one of those chambers. Safe. Comfortable, even."