The car was still here.
Good, Joule thought as she put her own car into park.
She sat for a while, just beyond Gretchen Mueller’s driveway. Though nothing else had happened at least she was doing something. She contemplated going into San Antonio to get a rental car. Was she too late for that though? She was already sitting here in her own car, and maybe alerting Gretchen that things weren’t as they should be.
Also, a rental car would be shiny and bright, it might stand out and be just as recognizable as her own car. Joule held onto a brief thought of driving out into the desert in the rental and throwing fistfuls of sand at it to make it dirty. But she’d have to use a hose to make the sand stick. Maybe, she thought, maybe if she needed to do it. Maybe if Gretchen Mueller recognized her car.
It was an hour before anything happened. And what happened surprised Joule.
The door open and Gretchen Mueller came out with a baking dish in her hands. She walked her very short flagstone front path to the edge of the road where there was no sidewalk. It didn't matter though. Joule had already seen that there wasn't enough traffic in El Indio, and probably not enough taxes either, to warrant the building of sidewalks.
Gretchen Muller walked slowly, balancing the pan. Given the towel she carried it with, it must be hot. Had she been baking this early in the morning? It would appear so. She made a sharp 90 degree turn into another yard that didn't even have flagstones, just a worn path through the gravel. Balancing the pan against one hip, Gretchen knocked on the door, then knocked again waiting until the resident opened.
When it finally happened, it was a small, frail woman, much shorter than Gretchen. The woman, who was old enough to be Gretchen’s grandmother seemed incredibly grateful and held out her hands for the pan. But Gretchen refused and seemed to insist on carrying it inside herself.
A secret rendezvous? Joule thought. Using a frittata for cover? But no, Gretchen reappeared a few moments later, seeming to have simply done a good deed for her neighbor.
Not what Joule wanted, although honestly, maybe what she should have expected for a woman who had been arrested multiple times for helping migrants. Maybe this wasn't the place to be. She thought they'd already interrogated Gretchen. Gretchen was lying low, making casseroles for the neighbors.
The person they'd missed was Salvador Torres. Though Jacob had told her several times that he’d tried to get a warrant for the matching tire prints, even with the gravel stuck in the tread it wasn’t enough.
Not enough for the Maverick County Sheriff's Department. But it was more than enough for her. Putting the car in gear, she drove past Gretchen Mueller as the woman walked back toward her own home.
There was no hint of recognition on the woman's face, perhaps only curiosity that a car she didn't recognize was driving down her street. El Indio was small so she should have been suspicious of a car she didn’t recognize. But it was possible that the addition of the HST workers had made the town more lax about that.
Joule was done with this. Luckily, heading to the other side of town was just a short jaunt. She stopped herself along the way, driving through the one little place that served breakfast lunch and dinner. The heat seeped in through the car window when she rolled it down to pay and though it was morning, there was only so much the air conditioner could do.
How many of these stupid breakfast biscuits had she had? It would have been more if she hadn't skipped breakfast so many mornings. She took the bag, smelling the desert on the air more than the food.
This was more like home cooking than what she usually got at a drive through, but nothing she could synthesize right now. Still, she chewed and swallowed. She needed the energy.
There was no excuse not to be in the best shape. But because she was eating methodically, she ate fast. Wadding the wrapper, she threw it into the passenger seat. She'd get it later.
Then she was there at the apartment building. Her car had been here enough times before so, unlike at Gretchen Mueller’s house, she shouldn't look out of place. But this time she was done watching and waiting. The white car was here. Same plate. Joule was confident the gravel was still there, wedged into the treads of his tire.
Cranking the key and turning the car off, she opened the door and tumbled down into the heat. It wrapped around her, and she took whatever strength she could from it. Even if she didn't like it at least she didn't sweat. She didn't even have the energy for that.
Joule channeled all of it instead and, had anyone been watching, they would have seen her marching angrily across the parking lot. She picked her way right through the small hedge of scraggly bushes directly to apartment 104 where she banged on the door.
Nothing happened. She banged again. And again.
The elderly woman in the next apartment opened her own door and frowned. “Honey. What are you doing?”
Joule didn't even answer. As if it weren't obvious. She banged on the door again.
When nothing happened. She impulsively grabbed at the knob and turned it, surprised when it twisted beneath her hand.
It had to be a sign.
Whether it was from the gods or whatever demons had her brother, she didn’t know.
But she was done messing around. Joule swung the door wide and looked inside Salvador Torres’ apartment, surprised by what she found.