37
The word that came to her was “surreal”. As if she were in the middle of a snow globe, but the snow was the dust motes that floated in the golden light from the open doorway. Glittering snowflakes falling across the jumping beam of her MagLite.
It floated out of the darkness at her, this strange, cluttered room. Too much to assimilate right now. She didn’t have time.
“Clear!” she called as she ducked into the doorway to her left. Another light—Redbone’s—jumped into the darkness, a weak ray. She was in the kitchen. Counter, sink, refrigerator—
“Kitchen is clear!”
Her flashlight swung in the other direction as Laura heard Oliver scrambling toward the doorway on the other side.
“Bedroom is clear!” Oliver shouted.
They went through the house, systematically clearing every room. Laura saw things that she did not expect to see, but it was so dark she would reserve judgment until they could get light on the situation. They returned to the first room, the living room.
Despite her wariness, respiration was beginning to return to normal. They’d checked every closet, every alcove. No one home.
The place smelled stale.
Oliver holstered his weapon and stretched his neck as Andrew Descartes entered through the front door. Jerry Oliver would not be punished for his inattention today.
“Let’s get some light in here,” Laura said. “Get the rest of that plywood off.”