Stranded

blood.
    “Ethan,” he said, but it was barely a whisper.
    “Your friend, Ethan. That’s right,” Detective Lopez said more gently now, coaxing Noah.
    Can’t tell. Don’t tell
.
    But Noah slipped and said, “He’s still out there.”
    By the look on his parents’ faces and Detective Lopez’s, Noah realized they thought he meant Ethan, when he really meant the madman. He was still out there and he’d know if Noah told. He’d know and he’d come back and do to Noah what he had done to Ethan.

CHAPTER 8

    Maggie watched from behind the thick shrubs. Behind her, beyond the bushes and trees, was a freshly plowed field. The scent of lilacs and dirt surrounded her. At least it would be difficult for anyone to sneak up from the opposite direction. The afternoon shadows made it difficult to see inside the windows of the house.
    She saw Tully stop to talk to the sheriff. Somehow he managed to keep the man from turning to look back at the farmhouse. In fact, even after Tully disappeared behind the barn, the group continued on as if nothing had changed.
    She checked her watch and waited to give Tully enough time to get in place. Five minutes felt like twenty and the entire time she kept her eyes on the windows. There was no movement. Not even the hint of a curtain swaying. The fabric looked thin enough for someone to see through. But all Maggie could make out was a veil of gray and black.
    She glanced at her watch.
    Time’s up
.
    Maggie searched the ground and found a rock as big as her fist. She picked it up in her left hand. Her right already held her Smith & Wesson. It was the revolver she had trained on, opting out when the bureau went to Glocks. Only six bullets, but she hadnever needed more and her Smith & Wesson had never jammed. Now she clutched the grip. She kept the muzzle down, trigger finger ready. In three steps she was close enough. She pulled back and threw despite thinking how wrong it felt to shatter glass without provocation.
    Then she hunched down. She shoved her back against the side of the house. Not directly beneath the broken window but close enough that glass crunched under her mud-caked shoes. She steadied her breath. Birds had quieted. Even the breeze paused.
    Maggie’s pulse pounded and she strained to hear inside the house.
    Something shuffled. Footsteps? There was a click. The hammer of a gun being pulled back? Or a door latch engaging? Had someone come into the room? Or left? It was killing her not to stand up and glance inside.
    Come on, Tully, where are you?
    Finally she heard the crack. Another crack followed by the sound of wood splintering. Then a crash.
    “FBI. Step out where I can see you.”
    Maggie shot up. Glanced through the broken window. A bedroom. Shattered glass on a paisley comforter. The window was too high for her to climb through. She hurried along the front of the house. She could hear Tully shouting again as he made his way inside.
    Slouched down under the 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