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The barrier came free with a shriek of tortured metal. As soon as the opening was wide enough, Sheila led two paramedics into the darkness, Rachel close behind. Their lights caught decades of graffiti, water stains, the detritus of abandoned industry.
"Here," Rachel said, pointing to a narrow side passage.
Aware that the killer could be lurking nearby, Sheila drew her weapon and led the way into the cramped tunnel. The passage twisted like a wound in the mountain's flesh, forcing them to move sideways in places. Then her light found Diana.
She lay crumpled against the rock wall, her clothes in tatters, her silver hair dark with blood and filth. One leg was bent at an unnatural angle.
Alive or dead? Sheila couldn't tell.
The paramedics pushed past Sheila, dropping their bags and immediately starting assessment. Words flew between them—medical terminology that painted a grim picture.
"Is she alive?" Sheila asked, holding her breath.
A pause. One of the paramedics pressed her fingers to Diana's throat.
"Her pulse is faint, but it's there," she said. "But she's not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. She's severely dehydrated, possible internal injuries. Decreased breath sounds on the right side."
"We need to move her," another paramedic said. "But carefully. That leg's definitely broken, and there might be spinal involvement."
Sheila keyed her radio. "I need a backboard and collar in here. And more lights. As many as you can get."
They worked quickly but cautiously, stabilizing Diana's neck, splinting her leg, starting an IV. Throughout it all, she didn't stir, didn't respond to voices or touch.
"Come on, Diana," Sheila whispered. "Stay with us. Your sister's waiting."
But Diana's eyes remained closed, her breathing growing more labored with each passing minute.
The backboard arrived, carried by two more paramedics who had to carefully angle it through the narrow passage. Bright halogen work lights followed, casting harsh shadows across Diana's pale face.
"On my count," the lead paramedic said. "One, two, three—"
They lifted her onto the board with practiced precision, but the movement drew a weak moan from Diana's lips. Her eyes fluttered.
"Diana?" Sheila leaned closer. "Can you hear me?"
Diana's lips moved, forming words too quiet to hear. Sheila had to put her ear almost to the injured woman's mouth to make out what she was saying.
"The girl," Diana whispered. "He has... the girl."
"Michelle Waring? Did you see her?"
"Heard screaming. Above..." Diana's voice faded, then came back stronger, urgent. "I fought him off, and he ran. So I tried to find my way out. He must've doubled back, gone through the door…" She trailed off, frowning as if there was something she couldn't quite put her finger on.
"What door?" Sheila asked. "What door, Diana?"
Diana seemed to be fading by the second, as if she had used up most of her strength already. "It's a trap… a trap…" Her eyes fluttered, then closed.
"BP's dropping," one of the paramedics called out. "We need to get her in the ambulance ASAP."
Sheila followed as the paramedics rushed the stretcher away. Had Diana meant the killer was laying a trap for them? If so, what kind of trap?
And where?
They emerged into harsh daylight. Carol Martinez broke away from the gathered crowd, running toward her sister, but deputies held her back as the paramedics rushed Diana to the waiting ambulance.
"She's alive," Sheila told Carol, gripping her shoulders. "But I need you to ride with her. Stay with her. If she wakes up again, if she says anything about where she was, about the trap—"
"Trap?" Finn appeared beside them, his face tight with pain from moving too quickly.