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A burly man with a long gray beard and a completely bald scalp came around the corner leveling a shotgun at Faith. “You get your ass up on out of here, girl,” he said. “There ain’t nothing here for you!”
Faith brought her own weapon up, and he lowered the shotgun at Turk, who had tried to silently rush him. Turk froze, and Faith's eyes narrowed. "You shoot my dog, and I'm gonna start by shooting you in between your legs.”
“You don’t get off my property right now, I’ll shoot both of you dead right here. I don’t know what the law is where you come from, but in the State of Iowa, someone comes onto your property intending to steal what’s yours by force, you have a right to defend yourself with force.”
“Wait,” Faith replied. “Steal?”
"Don't play stupid with me, girl," Malden said, shaking his head. "I know it's you who took all those tools out of here last week."
“What tools?” Faith asked.
“I’m done talkin’,” Malden replied. “Time to go, and if I ever see you here again, I won’t bother to warn you.”
“My name is Faith Bold,” Faith said, “I’m a Special Agent with the FBI. In my vest pocket is an ID that will confirm that. May I reach into my pocket and show it to you?”
His eyes narrowed. “As long as you remember where my shotgun’s pointed if you lie to me.”
She carefully reached into her vest and pulled out her ID. He stepped closer, keeping his gun on Turk. He peered at the ID, then sighed and nodded. “All right. You are who you say you are. But I want you to lower your gun first, so I know you ain’t lying.”
“Can’t do that,” Faith said, shaking her head. “I don’t know ifyou’relying and will end up shooting me.”
“Well, that sort of leaves us in a pickle,” Malden replied.
“Not really,” Michael’s voice called.
Malden turned to see Michael covering him with his own handgun. “You’re outnumbered here, sir,” Michael said. “You’re going to have to trust that our IDs aren’t fakes. Or, you can do something really, really stupid and suffer the consequences.”
Malden narrowed his eyes but broke the shotgun barrel and carefully lowered the weapon to the ground. “All right,” he said with great dignity. “I’ve disarmed myself. If you turn out to be liars and take the life and property of an old man while he’s helpless to defend himself, then it will be God who you answer to.”
Faith holstered her weapon and said curtly. “Not liars. Actual FBI agents.”
Malden’s eyes widened as Michael holstered his own weapon. “Well, I’ll be darned. What does the FBI want with me?”
"Next time, try asking that first and threatening to murder a K9 unit later," Faith replied.
“Sorry about that,” Malden replied, scratching his head sheepishly. “I just never imagined the FBI would be here. Why are you here?”
“We’re investigating the murders of Dr. Gemma Montgomery and Patrick Jeter,” Faith informed him. “You know anything about that?”
Malden shook his head. “Who are they? Do I know them?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, I would say no, but you and your partner look pretty convinced that I do. Did they say they know me?”
“Well, they’re dead,” Michael reminded him, “so they didn’t say much of anything.”
“So why exactly are you talking to me?”
He seemed genuinely curious and not simply obstinate or evasive. Faith decided to be more direct. “Dr. Montgomery and Mr. Jeter both survived the tornado that killed your family.”
He looked at her as though waiting for her to finish and finally asked. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Do you recall an interview you had with Emilio Franco?” Faith asked.
“Who?”
“A local journalist,” Faith reminded him. “He interviewed you for a book.”
