Page 25 of Scorched (Killer #2)

Paul left the coroner’s office within fifteen minutes of arriving with the same story as his previous visit. The victim had been choked from behind by an arm, not by an Ethernet cable.

He had a couple of places he wanted to check out today before heading to the high school to hang out with Elise during her parent-teacher conferences.

Clouds hovered over San Antonio and north into the hill country. Dark clouds laden with moisture from a system moved in from the northwest. A cool breeze promised an end to the Indian summer. Fall had officially arrived in central Texas.

Tiny droplets of rain hit his windshield as Paul left the city behind and followed the interstate northwest toward El Paso.

The closer he came to the exit for Breuer, the harder the rain fell until he slowed his truck to compensate for the limited visibility and to keep from hydroplaning on the oily asphalt.

Cars moved at a snail’s pace through the small town, clumping at stoplights and inching forward when the light flashed a blurry green.

First stop on Paul’s list was the houses surrounding Elise’s. Someone might have seen a man enter her house during the day while she’d been gone to work. Surely in the old neighborhood where Elise lived, some elderly lady with a herd of cats kept a vigilant eye out her window.

Paul parked in Elise’s driveway and dropped down into a puddle of water.

The rain pounded against his shoulders and face.

He pulled an umbrella from behind his seat and popped it open.

With the rain coming in sideways, he had to tip it to keep from being soaked all over, but he couldn’t help the drenching on his legs.

Thank goodness he wore boots. Water ran along the sides of the curbs a foot deep, racing down the street to a drain.

The first house he came to was a modest white wood-framed house with a screened-in porch whose screens had seen better days. A rosebush climbed up the side of one screen, thorns poking holes in the metal mesh.

He pulled the screen door open and stepped onto the semi-dry porch, shaking off the rain from his umbrella. When the screen slammed behind him, a cacophony of yapping erupted from inside the little house.

He pressed the doorbell and waited. The dogs inside let up a frenzy of noise. One pushed his nose through the thin slats of aluminum blinds, its white hairy face and black button eyes shaking with eagerness to see the visitor.

Paul rang the doorbell again. Either the dogs made too much noise for the bell to be heard, or they were the only ones at home. He lifted his umbrella, ready to step off the porch when the door opened, and a white-haired old lady peeked out. “Yes?”

“Pardon me, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Paul Fletcher with the FBI. I’m hoping you can help me.” He flipped his credentials out.

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and her head tipped back so that she could look at his documentation through her bifocals. She opened the door a little wider. “What is it you need?”

“Your neighbor, Ms. Johnson had a break-in yesterday during the day while she was teaching at the high school. Did you happen to see any vehicles parked along the street or notice anyone enter or leave her house?”

The old woman’s hand shook as she pressed it to her chest. “Oh, my. That’s terrible.” She glanced around as if the culprit might be lurking, waiting to break into her own home.

“Yes, ma’am.” Paul wished the woman would hurry and answer his question, but knew it took time. “Did you happen to see anything?”

She shook her head. “No, no. Nothing out of the ordinary.” She frowned, her head tipping to the right. “I did see one of those bug extermination trucks drive by and park several doors down around noon.”

In this part of Texas, an exterminator truck was common with the number of scorpions, fire ants and sugar ants in the area. “Could you point out which house it stopped in front of?”

“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.

She stared at the house and back to him, her brow furrowed.

Frustration hit hard. What were the words in Spanish? “ Vive en esa casa? ”

Her face brightened but she shook her head. “No. Me limpio la casa .” She moved her hand in a circular motion. “Clean la casa .”

Ah, Maria was the cleaning lady. Paul nodded. “ Necesito respuestas . I need answers.” He pointed to Elise’s house .

Rain dripped off her face as she tipped her head back to look up into Paul’s face.

He held the umbrella over her head and smiled down at her reassuringly, though he kept a firm grip on her arm.

“I won’t hurt you or turn you in to the authorities.

I just need to know if you’ve seen anyone hanging around that house.

Has visto a nadie alrededor de la casa ?

” He hoped he’d said that right. His luck, he was asking which way to the farm.

She shook her head. “ No , sólo a la mujer con dos ninos .”

“Were you here yesterday during the day? Aquí fueron ayer ?”

“Si.” She nodded. “ Me limpio la casa de la Senora Slater .”

An image of little Luke talking through the bushes to his friend came to Paul’s mind. Was this where George lived? “ George no vive aquí ?”

The woman nodded and she looked around as if to see if anyone else was watching her. “ Senor George es retrasado .”

Paul didn’t recognize the word. He shook his head. “ No entiendo .”

She looked around as if trying to come up with a way to tell him. Finally, she shrugged and circled her finger beside her temple. “George es muy loco .”

Crazy? “George es poco ?” Paul held his hand out at about Luke’s height.

The woman in front of him shook her head and raised her hand to the same height as Paul.

Luke had been talking through the fence with a crazy man? What had he told him? Could he have let it slip what their last names used to be? Would the little boy have remembered?

“ Dónde está George ?” he asked.

The lady shrugged, her body drenched from the rain. She glanced longingly over her shoulder at a beat-up, rusty car parked in the gravel driveway. “I go. Tengo que ir .”

“Where is George?” Paul insisted.

“ En la escuela.” She pulled free of the hand he still had on her arm and ran for the car.

At the school. George was at the school.

Before Maria had her car cranked, Paul had circled around to Elise’s house and jumped into his truck. Which school? Which school was George at?

Shifting into Reverse, he spun the truck out of the driveway and shot into the street. Then he pressed the accelerator to the floor, spitting water up behind him as he blasted down Highland Street toward the high school.

Managing the turns with one hand, he slid his cell phone open with the other and dialed Agent Bradley. “Mel, check all the bug extermination companies in Breuer and the San Antonio area for a truck scheduled for Highland Street in Breuer.”

Mel didn’t respond right away and then cleared her throat. “Okaayy, I’ll bite. Has Elise got bug problems?”

“One of her neighbors saw an exterminator truck parked on the street yesterday. One with the bug on top of it.”