Malcador hid his features well at Jaelle's comments, letting her blow off some steam before she zipped off to fulfill her duty. Often-times it seemed like he was just thorough with her, having a penchant for explaining matters to her and talking to her as if he hadn't mentioned the same thing a half a dozen times, and thoroughness was a part of it. But he felt a brotherly responsibility to her, and as quickly as she learned aspects about the modern world, there was always three things she still didn't know connected to what she did. 

He stepped into the store, cellphone at his ear and sunglasses glinting in the reflected sunlight. He cleared his throat, nodding as he passed through the door as if he was listening in on a conversation. Overpriced beef jerky and processed food filled the layout of the store, and a few older folks, a man and a woman, spoke to one another until they noticed he had stepped in. He didn't even look their way, gazing into the back of the store as he conversed on the phone. 

"Look, I don't care what they have to say. I want to speak to him, we need this done noon tomorrow. Have him call me back... Just do it." He turned the phone off and slid it into his pocket, turning to face the couple. They couldn't see which of them he was looking at, and he felt that worked for what he was trying to convey. "Hello, are you the Petersons?" When they looked at one another questioningly, he repeated the question. 

Malcador could fill almost any role, because he had what an old friend used to call 'hollywood syndrome.' The american public was so used to watching movies with people who looked like supermodels, people who looked beautiful playing police, farmers, secret agents, etc. Most farmers did not look like a young Orlando Bloom, but he could play a farmer if cast. So if Malcador waltzed in wearing a suit and sunglasses with a no nonsense attitude, he had the look of a government official, and his movie-quality facial features subtly enhanced the role. 

"We are, who are you?" The husband asked quickly, disrespectfully. Malcador took out his pen and a pad of notepaper with all the casual grace of a professional. 

"I'm Agent Walter with the PIK working with the state police. Don't worry, no one's in trouble, but I wanted to ask you a few questions about a car collision that occurred yesterday about six miles from here. I was told you two spotted it, is that correct?" He asked, already writing down what looked like notes, but was actually a continuation of a stick figure, page-flipping animation he was working on. 

"Yes, we did." The wife said before her husband could speak. "I apologize about Tom, he doesn't like city-folk." Mal could not help but smile, try as he might to hide it. "We drove by the car, we thought someone was drunk at the wheel. Then later we passed by it, crashed into the ditch. We called the police then." 

"Why are you asking us this, wouldn't the police already have told you?" Tom asked suspiciously. 

"Mr. Peterson, if you have nothing to hide then you have nothing to worry about, please answer the questions and I'll get our of your hair. Now did you see who was in control of the vehicle? Male, female, black, white?"

"No, we did not." Tom remarked. 

"I thought I saw two people in the car," his wife remarked. 

"Excuse me, ma'am, what's your name?" 

"Debbie. Debbie Peterson." 

"Debbie, you say there were two?" Maclador pressed, finally writing down the notes. The erractic driving was one thing, but two passengers? "Any other details, ma'am?" 

"No, I don't think so," she said slowly, thinking. As Mal finished scribbling on the pad, a car pulled up out front. He expected a pick-up truck, but it looked like a modified crown vic. Mal's skin began to crawl. He wasn't entirely sure, but only black magic or something similar would do that to him. When one practiced sorcery, anything wrong or at odds with it effected the caster like a prey animal suddenly aware of eyes on it. 

"Mr. Peterson, do you have a licensed firearm behind that desk?" Malcador inquired, pointing with his pen past the counter. The man looked at his wife like Malcador was insane.  

"What? Yeah, so what?" 

[i]You might need it[/i], Mal thought to himself. He cleared his throat and began to categorize what spells he might be able to use to solve whatever situation was about to happen. Mal pressed the button on the back of his pen, a nifty signal to call for Jaelle. He hoped she was close enough to hear his mental shouts of warning.