Stranded Read Online Free PDF Page B

windows, she made her way to the other side of the house until she found the door Tully had kicked in.
    She paused. Listened.
    “Tully?”
    No answer.
    Damn it
.
    She stopped outside the doorway, her back against the house.Readjusted her grip on her gun. Then she ducked low and spun around into the house.
    Sunlight filled the first room. Furniture covered with white drop cloths reminded her eerily of a crime scene, white covers over bloated bodies.
    “Bathroom at the end of the hallway,” Tully called out.
    “Are you okay?”
    “I’m good. Check the front rooms. I didn’t get to those.”
    She made a careful sweep, pulled off several of the larger covers. Dust filled the air but she was relieved no one was hiding underneath. After she examined every corner and closet she made her way back down the hall.
    She found Tully standing in the doorway, his Glock at his side but his finger still ready at the trigger. He shifted just enough for Maggie to see the intruder. The woman looked about forty, long dirty-blond hair, mascara-smudged raccoon eyes. She was dressed only in pink panties and a tight midriff T-shirt that hugged her emaciated figure, highlighting the lines of her rib cage.
    “Who the hell do you people think you are?” she asked, swiping greasy strands of hair out of her face.
    The gesture provided a better look at her pale face, which was covered in acne and sores. Several were bleeding, as if she had just scratched them open moments ago.
    “She was more concerned about flushing something down the toilet,” Tully said to Maggie without taking his eyes off the woman, “than she was about someone breaking in here.”
    “Can’t a gal go to the bathroom without an audience?”
    Then the woman laughed, a smoker’s dry rasp, and Maggie got a glimpse of blackened teeth, a couple of gaps with only rotted nibs. It was enough for Maggie to start examining the woman’s arms and legs. There were more sores on her forearms but Maggiecouldn’t see any needle marks. She tried to remember what she knew about methamphetamine users. Were they dangerous? Psychotic? They didn’t always inject it. The crystals or “crank” were smoked. The powdered form could be snorted or eaten.
    Maggie glanced across the hall into the bedroom behind her, the one with the paisley bedspread. She saw dirty white sneakers, a pair of jeans, and other clothes left in a pile on the floor where they had been taken off. Beside them was a huge leather shoulder bag surrounded by trash, mostly candy bar wrappers and soda cans.
    On the dresser was an assortment of candles, melted down to different sizes. A hint of white powder blended with dust. An obvious swipe had been made quickly and recklessly through the middle. Also on the dresser top were dollar bills wadded up and discarded like trash. Maybe not dollars, Maggie realized when she noticed Benjamin Franklin on one not crushed as tightly.
    “How ’bout you tell us who you are,” Tully said. “And what you’re doing here?”
    “This is my place.”
    “Of course, it’s your place,” Tully told her. “I really like the decor. White sheets go with everything.”
    “Just ask the owners. They’ll tell you they gave me permission to stay here anytime I want.”
    Maggie noticed that the woman didn’t seem to be fearful, not paying attention to either Tully’s or Maggie’s weapon.
    “Is that so?” a man, accompanied by Sheriff Uniss, said from down the hallway.
    The man wore a suede jacket, blue jeans, and a ball cap. He stood as tall as the sheriff but was in better shape, lean, maybe in his early to mid-thirties. Black glasses framed probing black eyes but his face was friendly.
    “Agent Tully, Agent O’Dell,” the sheriff said. “This here’s Howard Elliott. He’s the executor of this property. In other words, the most recent owner. Do you recognize this woman, Mr. Elliott?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “Miss,” Uniss said in a polite tone, “there hasn’t been anyone living