CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Tom Martle lived on the western extreme of Brightwater just before the forest began in earnest. He lived in a very well-built log cabin, pitched and weatherproofed, on a third of an acre that included a short loop of a nearby stream. It reminded Faith uncomfortably of West's cabin on the Titmouse River outside of Philadelphia.

Brightwater itself was larger than Granger, though far from large. It boasted a population of just under nine hundred, and, like Granger, occupied a relatively flat space in between the dense pine forest to the west and the craggy Rocky Mountain range to the east. It functioned as the closest thing to a county seat the region had and included a fire detachment, a post office and a larger—though still very small—police station.

Also like Granger, it was spread wide. Each house sat on some amount of land, ranging from a tenth of an acre to a full acre for most homes, with a few mini-estates that occupied five or six acres dotting the foothills to the east. Faith wondered what West would have to say about the American tendency to live as far apart from other people as possible.

Her stomach turned. Why was she still thinking of West as a psychologist? That entire persona was almost certainly fabricated just so he could have an excuse to be close to her. She didn't even know for sure that Franklin West was his real name.

It occurred to her suddenly how easy it would be for West to disappear if he wanted to. She had found him twice so far, but what she had found was the personality he created to interact with her. She believed he was committed to that personality, at least until he was satisfied he had beaten her, but if he felt the noose closing around his neck, he could easily switch that personality off and create a new one, complete with a new and probably radically different appearance and background.

Her heart sank to the floor. West still held all the cards.

"You think we can convince this guy to lead us through the mines?" Michael asked.

Faith pulled her thoughts away from West with an effort. "Well, he still lives near the mountains, but he's as far away as he can be while still being near them. He looked through the mines for one day, then left without a word to his friends and neighbors. Chances are he's not going back."

"Unless he's the killer," Michael offered.

Faith lifted an eyebrow. She hadn't considered that yet. "You think he might be?"

"Probably not," Michael replied. "I looked into his background on the drive over. He's worked as a compliance officer for Telly's Grocery since leaving Granger, and according to their HR manager, he's never missed a day of work."

"He could be moonlighting or weekend as a killer," Faith offered.

"He could be, but it's a stretch. Both of our victims went missing on weekdays, and the coroner's initial impression is that Tyler was killed the day he went missing. We'll have to wait for the full report, but it seems like a stretch that Martle is making every single shift and finding time to kill people who just happen to be in the caves when he just happens to be hunting. We'll get his alibi, but I think he's going to end up just being a source of information for us. Not that that's a bad thing."

It would be better if he ended up being the killer so Faith could know that no one else was going to die, but she supposed Martle wouldn't see it that way.

They knocked on the door, and Turk stared intensely, tail switching back and forth. Faith frowned. That behavior didn't always mean that Turk was suspicious, but sometimes it did.

"Got something, boy?" she asked.

Turk met her eyes and snorted. Not yet.

The door opened, and a man in his mid-forties, who seemed about halfway through the transition from well-fed to heavyset, looked between the three agents. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Special Agent Faith Bold. This is my partner, Special Agent Michael Prince and our K9 unit, Turk."

Turk barked his usual greeting, and Martle jumped. "Why did you bring a dog?" he asked nervously.

Faith frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"I…" Turk moved forward to sniff Martle, and Martle jumped back. "I, um… I'm not really a dog person."

"Don't worry," Faith said, "he only bites if I tell him to."

Martle didn't seem to find that comforting.

"Turk's here just in case he happens to smell something suspicious," Michael said. "You aren't hiding anything suspicious, are you, Tom?"

"Wait, how do you know my name?" Martle asked. "Why are you here? Do I need a lawyer?"

"I can't answer the third question for you," Faith replied, "but the first two questions have the same answer. We're investigating the murders of Tyler Stone and Clara Montpelier."

Martle's eyes registered understanding. "The two kids who went missing in the mines."

Michael lifted an eyebrow. "How do you know their names? The story hasn't been released to the public yet."

"People in this area talk," Martle replied. "I've had a dozen phone calls from people in Granger asking me to help look for them. But I won't do that."

"Why not?" Faith asked. "If my friends and neighbors went missing, I'd want to do anything I could to help."

"I did," he replied. "I told everyone to stay the hell out of the mines and any cave tunnel not already mapped by the state parks department. If they're stupid enough to go poking around in there, they're stupid enough to die."

"That's a rather calloused attitude, wouldn't you say?" Michael pointed out.

"Do you go jumping into shark-infested waters to save someone who was stupid enough to jump first?"

"Yes," Faith replied without hesitation.

"Well, you're a better person than me," Martle said, also without hesitation. "I told people that those mines were unsafe, but every year, there's another moron who wants to ignore me and prove something."

"Well," Faith said, "Tyler Stone didn't fall down a mine shaft or get lost in the tunnels. He was stabbed to death. So whether he was stupid or not isn't really relevant. He was murdered. Since we're talking, why don't you tell me where you were five days ago and twelve days ago?"

"I was at work," he said, "then I came here."

"We've already checked on work," Michael said, "can anyone confirm that you were here?"

Martle gestured to his body. "Look at me," he said, "Do I look like I can go spelunking through caves murdering people?"

Faith thought of Trammell's hugely fat figure and West's slight build. "I've learned not to judge murderers based on appearance," she said.

"Well, then I guess the answer's no," he said irritably. "Should I call my lawyer?"

Faith thought a moment. She looked at Turk, who remained a respectful distance away from Martle. He was sitting now, his ears no longer pricked up, his tail wagging absently. He met Faith's eyes, and she saw no suspicion in his gaze.

That wasn't necessarily a reliable indicator of guilt either, but the thread linking Martle to the killings was already very tenuous. "No," she replied, "but we do need your help."

"How am I supposed to help you?" Martle asked, "I haven't even visited Granger in three years."

"But people are calling you to help look for the missing victims?"

He sighed. "Yeah, I… well, other than these two moro—these two victims—I was the last person to go into the mines. That I know of, anyway."

"You were mapping them, correct?" Michael asked.

"I was. I quit before I finished."

"Well, we have reason to believe that our killer is using the mines to transport his victims. It's possible that he's killing them there too. If you can give us a map of the mines, we might be able to find Clara Montpelier and possibly evidence of our killer."

Martle hesitated a moment longer. "Can the dog wait outside?"

"No," Faith said flatly. "Unless you want to have this conversation outside."

Martle looked anxiously down at Turk. Turk met his eyes with the longsuffering patience of a dog who knew he intimidated nearly everyone he met. "You promise me he won't bite me?"

"As long as you don't try to assault us," Faith said, "He'll stay at my side."

Martle hesitated a moment longer. "Okay. Come on in, then. I was just making coffee."

"At four in the afternoon?" Faith said, lifting an eyebrow.

"Of course," he said, "I need to keep my strength up for my late-night killing spree."

"I strongly advise you not to be sarcastic with us," Michael said stonily.

Martle paled a shade and said, "Right. Sorry. That was in poor taste. I usually drink coffee in the afternoon. I got the habit from my father. This is a little late for me, but not so late I'm not going to drink it. You want some?"

Michael frowned, but grudgingly said, "Sure, I'll take some."

Faith rolled her eyes. "None for me, thanks."

Martle led the agents inside. The house was almost pristine. The décor was spartan and had a rather predictable outdoor theme with a pair of oversized elk antlers, the centerpiece hanging above the fireplace, and most of the furniture constructed of pine and cedar. Martle had evidently remained a bachelor.

Martle invited the agents to sit, then returned to the kitchen for coffee. "I was mapping the mines because I figured that a lot of people were going to want to explore them," he said. "So I thought it would be nice to give people an idea of where was safe and where wasn't. Not to mention an idea of where the hell they were and how to get back to the surface."

"I thought you weren't much for physical activity," Michael said.

"Well, I was a good thirty pounds lighter back then," he replied, returning with the coffee.

He handed a mug to Michael, who sipped and nodded appreciatively. "Good stuff."

"Yeah, my nephew works for some snobby chain in San Francisco," he said. "He sends me some of their stuff from time to time. I don't know crap-all about it, but I guess this stuff's supposed to be some rare varietal."

"The mines," Faith reminded him, "you were mapping them. Why did you stop?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "I mean, I can tell you, but you won't believe me."

"You don't want to be coy with us either," Michael said.

Martle paused a moment. He tapped his finger on the side of his coffee mug, his lips drawn in a thin line. "I heard them."

Faith lifted an eyebrow. She had an idea what he was talking about, but she still asked. "Them?"

"The voices," he said, "I heard them."

Michael sighed and lowered his eyes.

"I'm telling the truth," Martle said testily. "Maybe I was just hearing things. I'll allow that it's a possibility, but if you heard what I heard, you wouldn't go back in there either."

"What exactly did you hear?" Faith pressed.

"The miners. I heard their voices. You know the mine collapsed about twenty years ago, right?"

"Yes," Faith said.

"Well, it trapped about a dozen people. Some of them didn't die right away. They were trapped for six days before they died. There was a rescue effort, but they couldn't get to the miners because the tunnels surrounding them were structurally unsound, and they didn't have the resources to shore them up in time to get to them. They managed to get a radio down to them though."

He shuddered, and his fingers tightened around his mug. "You could hear them," he said. "I wasn't there, obviously, but the people who were could hear them. Do you know what finally killed them?"

The agents shook their head.

"They suffocated," he said. "They ran out of oxygen slowly and eventually suffocated. Eyewitness accounts said that at first, the miners believed they would be rescued. It wasn't until a few days passed that they realized they were running out of air and that no one was coming for them. For the next couple of days, you could hear screaming and sobbing and pleading. Then you could just hear gasps." He sipped his coffee and added, "They didn't mention anything about the scratching, though."

Faith's ears perked up. "Scratching?"

"Yes," he said, "Like something was trying to get out."

"What exactly did you hear, Mr. Martle?" she pushed.

"I told you," he said, "I heard voices."

"And scratching?"

"And scratching."

"And you're sure it wasn't rats you heard?"

He chuckled nervously and sipped more of his coffee. "Well, the scratching could have been rats and the moaning could have been air circulating through the tunnels, but I'm pretty sure that there's no natural explanation for the words."

"Words?"

"Yep. ‘We're going to die now,' ‘It's so cold,' ‘I can't breathe! Help!' and my personal favorite, ‘I'm going to get them for this.'"

Faith and Michael looked grimly at each other. "Why didn't you report this to the police department?" Faith asked.

He chuckled again. "Report what? I went too deep into an abandoned mine and went loopy for a few minutes. I just told them not to go into the mines and suggested they fill them in and seal the entrance. Then I left."

"Why did you move away?" Faith asked. "Did you still hear the voices?"

He met her eyes. "I hear them now, Special Agent."

He downed the rest of his coffee in one huge gulp, and it made sense to Faith now why he would drink coffee so late in the day. Sleep likely brought no rest to him, only dreams of voices in the dark.

In a practical sense, however, this was the best lead they had so far. It was plausible that he had simply gone temporarily—or maybe permanently—insane, but it was also plausible that someone had been making those voices. Someone else could have been in the mines, and if that person was unhinged enough, it was plausible that they were killing the unwary who traveled too deep.

It sounded like a stretch, but it fit with what they knew, especially after learning that Tyler was moved after death.

Something else occurred to Faith. She had been operating under the assumption that the killer used the caves for his murders and then left the scene, but what if the killer lived in the caves or the mine himself? No one had been into the deeper portion of either place in decades. In the case of the caves, it was possible that no one had ever been that deep.

The idea of a crazed killer living underground reminded Faith of a horror movie she had seen once. In the movie, the killers had been subhuman mutants. Then again, how else would normal people deal with the reality of someone so insane and twisted?

Faith had met enough serial killers to know that good old-fashioned people were far more frightening than anything Hollywood could come up with.

"We need the maps you made," Faith said.

Martle chuckled. "Would it be worth my time to warn you to stay out of those mines?"

Faith shook her head. "Not while there's a killer on the loose."

He sighed and lifted his coffee mug to his lips. When he found it was empty, he set it on the coffee table and said, "All right. I'll get them for you. They're incomplete, for obvious reasons, but I've marked what tunnels and shafts are safe and what are unsafe. I don't know how accurate it still is now that they've been excavating, but if you insist on getting yourself killed, I won't stand in your way."

"Agent Bold has a knack for surviving things that would kill other people," Michael said, "Don't count her out just yet."

Faith looked at Michael in surprise. It had been a while since he had shown any kind of admiration for her.

"Well," Martle replied, "she'll need all of the luck she can get."