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“Oh yeah, that guy. Yeah, I know him. Real awkward little feller. Why do you ask about him?”
“Well, according to him, you reacted very poorly to news that others survived the storm by using a shelter while your family had to die because you couldn’t afford one.”
His eyes lighted with understanding. “Oh,” he said, “and you think I’m killing the other survivors.”
“Are you?”
“No!” he sighed. “Look, I know I said some things I shouldn’t have said when I was hurting, but I never would have acted on them. I was just angry and hurt. And anyway, why would I have waited ten years?”
“Some people wait longer,” Michael said.
“Well, killing won’t bring anyone back even if I could have done it. My wife and kids are still gone.”
His eyes misted, and Faith felt a now-familiar lump in her throat. God, what was wrong with her?
“I decided to build a shelter instead. I saved up some money, bought the land out here and built this myself.”
“Can you tell us your whereabouts four nights ago and twelve nights ago?” Michael asked.
“Four nights ago and twelve nights?
“Yes, please.”
Malden thought a moment. “I was at the hotel four nights ago. I work there part-time,” he explained. “Just to get me out of the house. I make most of my money investing.”
“And twelve nights ago?”
“Twelve nights ago was my friend Carson’s birthday. I was at his house.”
“And they can confirm you were there?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I know I was angry, Special Agent. I shouldn’t have said the things I said. I never would have hurt anyone though.”
“Just a few moments ago, you threatened to kill me and my dog,” she reminded him.
He lowered his eyes. “I wouldn’t have done that either. I was just scared. If thieves are around here and they're going armed… well, I live alone, Special Agent, and I don't have a dog. Guess I should get me one."
“It’s a better idea than threatening a federal agent with a shotgun,” she said drily.
“Well, in point of fact, I thought you were a thief.”
“We’ll follow up on those alibis, Mr. Malden,” Faith replied. “Hang tight a moment.”
***
Faith had just started the car when the call came in. “Hi y’all,” Sergeant Forster said, weariness in his voice. “We just found another body. ID says Kevin Malloy, thirty-eight. We found him in a grain silo six miles out of Plato.”
Michael swore when he heard that. Faith sighed. “All right. Send us the address. We’re on our way.”
She hung up and smacked the steering wheel. “Well, so much for the tornado theory. The Montgomerys were the only people who survived by hiding in a grain silo. So we’re back to sociopath-unknown type.”
“And now he’s killed again,” Michael added bleakly. “Wonderful.”
Faith sighed, and Turk whined softly in the backseat. "Yeah, I know," she said.
She put the car in gear and started toward the address Forster gave them. The drive took nearly an hour, and it was well past nightfall when they arrived. The moon was a sickly yellow color and cast a pallid light over the old field where Forster waited. They followed the lights of his cruiser to a slightly less overgrown portion of the field where the bent and rusted bottom half of a grain silo stood.
Sergeant Forster looked sick when the two agents approached. His face was pale, and his hand trembled when he extended it to Faith and then Michael. “Sorry to have to call you here again,” he said. “I was really hoping we were done with all of this.”
