Page 21 of Silent Grave

"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.

They drove in silence, the trees and plains rolling past their windows.

"There," Gabriel said, pointing to movement among the trees.

They spotted a tall figure in outdoor gear carrying what looked like a heavy pack. The man turned, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sunlight. A rifle was slung across his back.

Sheila stopped the car, drawing her weapon as she emerged. "Sheriff's Department! Hands where I can see them!"

The man raised his hands slowly. He was older than she'd expected, maybe mid-fifties, with a weathered face and a gray beard. His clothes were well-worn but high-quality outdoor gear.

"Easy now," he said, his voice steady. "I'm just out exploring with my family."

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