Page 60 of Silent Grave

Finn examined the rubber gaskets that lined the opening. "Airtight when closed. Probably soundproof too." He pointed to marks on the stairs. "And these grooves—there's another door at the bottom. Probably the same setup."

A sound drifted up from below—perhaps a voice, perhaps just the wind in the tunnels. But it carried an urgency that made Sheila's skin crawl.

"We should wait for backup," Finn said, though his tone suggested he knew what her answer would be.

Sheila checked her weapon, then her flashlight. "He already has Michelle—finding her clipboard made that much clear. We don't have time."

"Then we go careful," Finn said. "Real careful. This guy's had years to set this place up exactly how he wants it."

"I'll take point," she said. "Watch our six."

"Sheila—"

"You're still not a hundred percent," she said, cutting off his protest. "That wound is barely healed. I go first."

Finn clearly wanted to argue, but they both knew she was right. Instead, he just said, "Ten minutes. If we don't find anything, we come back and wait for your father."

She nodded, though they both knew that was unlikely. Michelle was down there somewhere. Every minute they waited was another minute Peter had to hurt her, to break her like his father had broken him.

And that was the only real hope they had: that Peter would be so focused on psychologically torturing Michelle that he would keep her alive. Ironically, the crueler the fate he had planned for Michelle, the greater the chances were that Sheila and Finn might rescue her.

Sheila started down the stairs, keeping close to the wall. The dampening material absorbed the sound of their movements, making their descent eerily silent. At the bottom, just as Finn had predicted, they found another door—this one made of wood.

"This must be how Frank originally came down here," she murmured. "Before Peter raised the level of security."

"It's got to be the trapdoor Diana was talking about."

A rusted padlock lay on a small shelf nearby. Sheila tested the trapdoor and found that it swung open, though not without protest.

Beneath it lay a tunnel, its walls smooth and reinforced. Unlike the rough-hewn mine passages, this had been carefully engineered—a modern bunker connecting to the ancient mine system.

"Ten minutes," Finn reminded her.

Sheila nodded and stepped through the doorway, into whatever darkness Peter Whitman had prepared for them.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

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.

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