Page 43 of Silent Grave

He secured the bandage, flexing his shoulder carefully. The pain was manageable. He had endured far worse in these tunnels, especially during those final days with his father.

The memory brought a thin smile to his face. Frank had never expected his lessons about darkness to be turned against him. Had never imagined his son would become so comfortable in the shadows that he could lead his father deep into the maze and simply... walk away.

A sound echoed through the tunnels—perhaps Diana moving, or maybe just the mountain settling. The man remained still, listening. He knew every sound these mines could make, could read them like his father had once read verses. The creaking of support beams, the drip of water, the soft settling of rock—they spoke to him, told him stories of depth and pressure and time.

Through his goggles, he studied the cross he'd painted earlier with Tyler's blood. Diana had seen it—he'd watched her photograph it, watched her make notes about it. Such a scientific approach to something that transcended science. She thought she was documenting evidence, but really, she was beginning her own journey into understanding.

The man set aside his first aid supplies and pulled Diana's pack closer, examining it methodically in the green-tinged vision of his goggles. It was a professional's kit—waterproof, reinforced seams, everything secured in separate compartments. This wasn't some amateur's daypack.

He opened the main compartment first. A tablet in a ruggedized case. Spare batteries. Energy bars. A water filtration system. Emergency thermal blanket. Everything carefully chosen and organized—the equipment of someone who understood the dangers of being underground.

The second compartment held geological tools: a rock hammer, specimen bags, testing equipment he didn't recognize. Field notebooks filled with precise handwriting, diagrams, measurements. This woman had spent considerable time in his tunnels, measuring, documenting, studying. The thought should have angered him, but instead he felt a strange appreciation. She respected the mines in her own way, even if she didn't understand their true purpose.

A photo slipped from between the notebook pages—Diana with an older woman, both silver-haired, both smiling at the camera. Sisters, probably, given the resemblance. The man studied their faces for a long moment before carefully returning the photo to its place. Attachments were important. They made the darkness work harder, dig deeper into the soul.

In a side pocket, he found her phone. No signal this deep, of course, but the screen still lit up. The wallpaper showed the same two women plus a group of children—nieces and nephews, perhaps. Her password lock screen held no religious imagery, no hints of faith.

She would learn. They all learned, eventually.

The last compartment yielded something interesting—a detailed map of the mine system, annotated with her own notes. She'd marked geological features, potential hazards, alternate exits. But she'd also noted inconsistencies—places where the official surveys didn't match what she'd found. She was closer to certain truths than she realized, though not the ones she was looking for.

The man traced one of her marked routes with his finger. She'd been methodical in her exploration, working her way through the tunnels section by section. That meant she'd have a mental map of the main passages, might even be able to find her way out in the darkness if she was careful enough.

Unless...

He pulled out her map again, studying it more carefully. Then he reached into his own pack for a pen. Carefully, precisely, he began adding marks to her map—false routes, nonexistent passages, dangerous areas marked as safe. When she found her pack again—and she would find it, he'd make sure of that—these altered maps would lead her deeper into the maze.

Deeper into darkness. Deeper into truth.

Just as his father had taught him, though Frank had used chains and locks instead of cartography. The methods changed, but the lesson remained the same: darkness strips away everything false, leaving only what truly matters.

He repacked everything exactly as he'd found it, making sure the altered map was clearly visible. Then he stood, ignoring the throb of pain from his shoulder. He knew exactly where he would leave the pack—at a junction where three tunnels met, where she was sure to stumble across it.

And then he would wait. Patient. Silent. Everything the darkness had taught him to be.

Diana wouldn't be his fastest student. But with her supplies restored and her confidence bolstered by recovering her pack, she might just become his best.

CHAPTER TWENTY

A long night of waiting had left its mark on the interview room's cheap government furniture. Coffee rings stained the laminate table. Crumpled papers filled the trash can. The wall clock's steady ticking seemed to mock Sheila's impatience.

The door opened and Katherine Weston strode in, her silver hair swept into an immaculate French twist, her charcoal suit worth more than Sheila's monthly salary. Everything about the attorney suggested old money and older connections—from her pearl earrings to her butter-soft leather briefcase.

"Sheriff Stone." Weston's voice carried the precise diction of someone who'd attended the right schools. "I apologize for the delay. Traffic from Salt Lake was horrible." She settled into the chair across from Sheila, setting her briefcase on the table with practiced grace.

Sheila had done her research on Katherine Weston. Twenty-five years as a defense attorney specializing in high-profile cases. The kind of lawyer who rarely lost and never took on clients unless she was certain she could win. The fact that she'd agreed to represent Tommy suggested he had something valuable to offer.

"How's Tommy?" Sheila asked.

"Nervous." Weston pulled out a leather-bound notebook. "Your deputies—Roberts and Baxter—they're doing an excellent job. Very professional. But my client remains concerned about his safety."

"We've taken every precaution—"

"Yes, yes." Weston waved this away with manicured fingers. "The protective custody, the trusted guards, the secure facility. But we both know that won't be enough if certain people really want to get to him."

The implication hung in the air: The corruption in the department went deep. Deep enough that nowhere was truly safe.

"Tommy has information we need," Sheila said. "About my mother's murder. About who ordered him to kill me. About the corruption that's been poisoning this department for decades."

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