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“The rock house three doors down, I think.” She nodded. “Yes, that’s the one.” She smiled up at him. “That’s the only vehicle I saw parked on our street during the day.”
“Do you look out often?”
“Son, I sit by the window all day. I like to see what’s going on since I don’t get out much lately and my children only visit once or twice a year.”
Paul smiled. The woman was probably lonely, watching the world pass her by out her front window.
“Do you remember the logo on the truck? Any distinguishing marks, the name?”
She shook her head. “Noooo....” Then her eyes brightened. “But it was one of those trucks with the big bug on top. Does that help?”
“No other vehicles?”
“No, that’s it.”
“Thank you, Mrs...?”
“Thompson. It’s Mrs. Thompson.” She stuck her hand through the door.
Paul took her shriveled, frail fingers and shook her hand gently. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. You’ve been a big help.”
He left the covered porch, hurrying out into the rain to the house on the other side of Elise’s, hoping to get a corroborating story.
After knocking on the doors of the houses on either side and in front of Elise’s house with no luck, he cut through the backyard to the one behind her, where he’d seen movement the night before.
There wasn’t a doorbell, so Paul opened the screen door and tapped his knuckles against the wood-paneled front door and stepped back, letting the screen door close.
At first he suspected no one was home. But then a round, dark face peered around a curtain at him from the window closest to the door. The curtain jerked closed when the viewer realized she was being viewed.
Still the door didn’t open.
Impatient to be on his way, but certain someone in this house had information that could help him, he knocked louder. “This is the FBI. Please open the door.”
Footsteps pattered against wooden floors inside, headed away from the front door. Whoever was inside was running away from him.
Adrenaline kicked in and Paul leaped from the porch and down into the soggy yard. He rounded the side of the house so fast, he slipped and almost fell.
A door at the rear of the house slammed shut.
Paul sped up, racing after a small figure, bundled in an old coat with the hood pulled up, making a break for the side of the house.
“Stop!” Paul yelled.
The figure glanced over his shoulder, dark eyes wide, mouth open in surprise.
Paul was almost on to the escapee when he came to a halt, shoulders sagging and breaths coming in ragged gasps. “Por favor!”
Paul grabbed an arm and spun the person around to discover a Hispanic woman, her eyes rounded, fearful.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No hablo Inglés.”
Just what he didn’t need, to scare some illegal alien into a heart attack. He thanked his Spanish teachers from high school and college for the little bit he could speak. He switched to his broken Spanish.“Cómo te llamas?”
“Maria.”
“Do you live there?” He pointed to the house she’d come out of.