Page 29 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

Sheila's vehicle skidded to a stop in front of Mine Entrance Four, sending gravel spraying. Rachel Tolland stood by the barrier, waving frantically, her clothes covered in rock dust and grime.

"Come quick!" Rachel said.

"Is she alive?" Sheila asked as she jumped out.

Rachel swallowed hard. "I… I don't know. She stopped responding. I tried checking for a pulse, but I was shaking so much…"

The gap in the barrier was just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Sheila grabbed the metal edge, testing its strength. "How far in?"

"Maybe fifty yards, in a side passage." Rachel's face was pale in the harsh daylight. "She was conscious when I found her, but then..." She gestured helplessly at the entrance.

More vehicles were arriving—deputies, paramedics, MSHA inspectors rushing to assess the structural safety of the passage. Sheila heard familiar voices barking orders, saw Finn coordinating with the rescue teams.

"We need this barrier down," Sheila called out. "Now!"

Two deputies attacked the mounting points with prybars while others set up powerful work lights. The barrier groaned as they worked, releasing showers of powdered stone.

"Sheriff." One of the MSHA inspectors approached, clipboard in hand. "We need to check the tunnel stability before—"

"There's a woman in there who could be dying as we speak," Sheila said, cutting him off. "Your procedures nearly got her killed. We're going in."

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.

"She said he has Michelle Waring, and she also mentioned something about a trap. Maybe Whitman's intending to use Michelle as a hostage—I don't know."

The ambulance doors slammed shut. Carol climbed in the front seat, and the vehicle pulled away, sirens wailing. Sheila watched it go, carrying with it perhaps their best chance of finding Michelle Waring before it was too late.

"Anyway," Sheila continued as the ambulance's taillights disappeared around a bend, "it wasn't very clear what Diana was talking about. She was fading in and out—it didn't make sense."

"Could have been delirious from dehydration," Finn suggested. "All that time in those tunnels..."

Sheila's eyes glided to Rachel, who was talking with one of the deputies, apparently asking for a ride.

"What do you want to do?" Finn asked.

"Above," Sheila murmured, her head bent low in thought as she began pacing. "She said he ran, then doubled back through some kind of door. A door 'above'..." She stopped suddenly. "Not a door. A trapdoor."

Finn's eyes widened. "Like a cellar entrance?"

"Or a private access point to the mines.

" Sheila pulled out the list of properties they'd gotten from Sarah Riggs.

"Look at these addresses. Most of them are newer construction, built long after the mines closed.

But some..." She pointed to several listings.

"These are original homes. Built when the mines were still operating. "

"When miners might have wanted their own way in and out," Finn said, following her logic. "Doc Sullivan mentioned that was common—private entrances that weren't on any official maps."

Sheila spread the list on the hood of her vehicle. "Twenty-three houses on Michelle's route. But we can eliminate the newer ones—anything built after 1980 wouldn't have connected to the mine system." She began crossing off addresses. "That leaves nine."

"Still too many to search quickly," Finn said. "We need to narrow it further."

"Okay, think. What else do we know about Whitman?" Sheila pulled out her notebook. "He's methodical. Organized. Military background. He'd want a property that offered privacy and control."

"Considering how important these mines are to him," Finn said, "he's probably living at this place. So none of the seasonal properties or vacation rentals." That eliminated four of the possibilities.

They studied the remaining properties. "This one," Finn said, pointing to an address. "Look at the note Riggs made—'Original mining-era cabin, recently renovated. Current resident unknown.'"

"What else?" Sheila asked, sensing he was onto something.

"It's isolated, set back from the road. Built in 1959, according to the records. Perfect if you wanted to come and go without being noticed."

Sheila felt that familiar tension in her chest—the sense of pieces clicking into place. "What about the other four properties?"

"Two are too close to other homes. One's been empty since a fire last year. And the last one..." He checked the notes. "Elderly couple, lived there forty years."

"So our best bet is the cabin."

He paused, his lips parting in surprise.

"What?" Sheila asked.

"The last-known residents... they were Theresa Whitman's aunt and uncle."

"Theresa died in the mines," Sheila said, remembering Sullivan's research. "A collapse in 1970 that Frank helped cover up."

Finn nodded. "According to these records, her aunt and uncle—the Caldwells—inherited the property. They were the only family Theresa had left. After she died, they tried to get custody of Peter, but Frank wouldn't allow it. They passed away about five years ago. Property's been vacant since."

"Until Peter came home," Sheila said quietly. "Back to his mother's family land—land that connected to the mines she died in."

This was all the confirmation she needed. "How far is it to the cabin?" she asked as she hurried toward her vehicle, followed by Finn.

"About three miles, but there's no direct road. We'll have to approach on foot for the last quarter mile."

"Call for backup," Sheila said, checking her weapon. "But tell them to maintain distance. No sirens, no helicopters. If Whitman hears us coming, he might kill Michelle."

"You think he has her?"

"We have to assume he does, yes."

"In that case," Finn said, "we should probably assume he's ready for us, too—and probably happy to take us down with him, if need be."