Page 57 of Silent Road

"Be careful," Finn said, his voice growing fainter."If Mark's there...might not be alone..."

The radio dissolved into static.

Sheila put the radio back on her belt and cleared her throat."I'm heading to that research station," she said."If you want to turn back, go ahead."

Tommy sighed and shook his head as if to clear it."No, you're right—we can't give up on him now.I don't know what I was thinking—just ready to kick back by the fire with a cup of hot chocolate, I guess."He grinned sheepishly, an expression Sheila would have found endearing before their argument.

Before his mention of Natalie.

"We'd better get going, then," she said, adjusting her coat against the deepening cold.The wind had picked up again, driving snow horizontally through the trees.Even with flashlights, visibility was down to a few feet.

They moved east, fighting through drifts that sometimes reached their thighs.Sheila kept one eye on her compass and the other on the ground ahead, aware that in weather like this, one wrong step could mean a broken ankle.

"What kind of research did they do up here?"Tommy asked after several minutes of silent trudging.

"Finn didn't say."She paused to catch her breath."Probably weather-related, given the location."

"Seems like an inconvenient place for it."

"Maybe that's why they abandoned it."

They walked on.Sheila's thoughts kept circling back to Mark Davidson.Was he really there?And if so, was he still alive?The killer had shown a pattern of taking his time with victims, posing them carefully.That might work in their favor.

"There," Tommy said suddenly, pointing ahead."Power poles."

Sheila squinted through the snow.Dark shapes rose against the white backdrop—old utility poles, their lines long since fallen.

"Finn said follow them half a mile," she said, checking her compass again.

They turned to follow the line of poles, the wind now at their backs.Somewhere ahead in the darkness, an old research facility waited.

And maybe, if they were lucky, they'd find Mark Davidson alive.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Wells moved silently through the darkened corridors of the research facility, letting his hands trail along the concrete walls.He knew every inch of this place, had spent countless nights photographing its slow decay.The facility had been his refuge for years—a place where he could capture authentic moments of nature reclaiming man's abandoned ambitions.

A place where he could hide from his father.

His flashlight remained off.No need to alert his prey.Besides, he could navigate these halls blindfolded.That first year after discovering the facility, he'd spent weeks mapping it, photographing every corner, every shadow.He'd captured foxes denning in old offices, owls roosting in the high windows, even a mountain lion that had made the loading dock its temporary home.

Those had been pure moments.Real.Not like the artificial performances Mark Davidson created for his followers.

A sound echoed from somewhere ahead—paper crunching underfoot.Wells smiled in the darkness.Mark was moving deeper into the facility, probably looking for the maintenance tunnel.Smart.But predictable.

Wells had sealed that exit months ago after realizing the facility's potential as a backdrop for his work.The freezing temperatures, the isolation, the perfect lighting when snow reflected moonlight through those high windows—it was ideal.He'd known someday he'd find the right subject to photograph here.

Another sound.Closer now.Mark was trying to be quiet, but panic made him clumsy.Wells could almost smell his fear—nowthatwas authentic.Real, raw emotion.Nothing manufactured.

Wells paused at an intersection, considering.Left led to the laboratories, right to administrative offices, and straight ahead to the central chamber they'd used for equipment testing.He'd photographed a stunning series in that chamber last winter—ice crystals forming perfect patterns on the curved walls, stark shadows creating abstract compositions.

A faint glow flickered ahead—Mark trying to light a fire?Amateur.The cold was an ally, not an enemy.It preserved moments and made them eternal.

Wells moved toward the light, his boots silent on the concrete floor.Through gaps in the walls, wind moaned like a living thing.The storm was getting worse.Soon, visibility would be too poor for the kind of shot he envisioned.He needed to hurry.

But he couldn't rush this.Each photograph required perfect composition, perfect timing.His father had taught him that—drilled it into him through endless lectures and cruel punishments."Truth requires patience," he'd say, making young Oscar wait hours in freezing conditions for the right shot."Authenticity can't be rushed."

The light ahead went out suddenly.Wells smiled again.Mark had heard something—real or imagined—and extinguished his flame.Fear was making him jumpy.Good.Fear stripped away artifice, revealed true nature.

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