The Old Gray Wolf

by James D. Doss

  * * *

  Despite the humiliating failure of her bladder’s sphincter muscle, Louella Smithson had neither left her post nor given up hope of identifying the sinister person who’d parked among the Methodist vehicles and then slipped away on foot in the direction of Francine Hooten’s sprawling house. He’s got to come back to his car sometime, and when he does I’ll be right here.

  You may embroider this motto onto your linen napkin:

  Patience and Persistence Pay

  And indeed, things were beginning to look brighter. About five minutes after Francine Hooten had completed her conversation with the hired killer, Miss Smithson spotted the shadowy figure again—this time advancing on a northerly course to the Logan County Picnic Grounds, where everyone was chowing down on succulent, slow-roasted pig flesh, delicious, deep-fried barnyard fowl, and a variety of tasty and indigestible side dishes that are far too numerous to enumerate. Was the amateur sleuth ecstatic? Yes indeed. This time I’ll get a good look at the rascal!

  Parked in the slowly graying shade atop Noffsinger Ridge, Louella Smithson had her binoculars carefully focused and, to minimize the inevitable jittering, her elbows resting steadily on the steering wheel. When the vehicle exited the picnic grounds and turned in the northerly direction whence it had originally come, she was treated to a glimpse of the profile of the person of interest. The most impressive feature was the driver’s cowboy hat—which attire was not all that unusual in southern Illinois. Unfortunately, the wide hat brim had—from Louella’s elevated vantage point—concealed the upper portion of the face from her view. The features she did get a glimpse of—a moderately strong chin, a determined mouth, and the tip of a pointy nose—had struck her as rather ordinary. Not exactly what you’d expect for a cold-blooded killer. But, having read about Baby Face Nelson and any number of other homicidal brutes who did not fit Hollywood’s notion of seriously bad guys, she was neither greatly surprised nor the least disappointed. As far as our make-believe detective was concerned … I just know it’s him! And, more hopeful still—I’ll know that nose and chin when I see him again. Stowing the binoculars in her pink purse, Miss Smithson started the V-8 engine and eased her blue-and-white 1989 Bronco slowly down the ridge in low gear before easing the old bucket of bolts onto the blacktop. All I’ve got to do now is stay way back so he won’t know that anyone’s tailing him.

  * * *

  Though the Bronco was almost a quarter mile behind the departing vehicle, the driver under the six-hundred-dollar, made-to-order cowboy hat spotted the big SUV right away. Its presence in the rearview mirror raised no immediate concern, but professional assassins who do not pay close attention to what is occurring in their immediate vicinity are not likely to survive long enough to see their first gray hairs sprouting—much less to retire to an idyllic beachside residence in Maui, Bali, or Key West.

  * * *

  Puttering along at a mere forty-five miles per hour, Louella Smithson realized that she was gradually closing on her suspect. He must’ve slowed down. The edgy PI eased off on the accelerator pedal until the Bronco’s speedometer needle jittered around the 40 mark. I hope he’s not onto me. Playing it safe, she pulled into a small service station—one of those nostalgia-provoking ma-and-pa operations with a seventy-year-old Coke sign rusting away in the window and a sturdy cane-back rocking chair on the front porch. There. I’ll give him time get out of sight, then get back on the road again. And she would.

  While Louella waits for a few heartbeats, there is breaking news to report at Francine Hooten’s domicile. Indeed, the troubles there began some six minutes ago, which requires us to rewind the clock by that amount—and begin at the beginning.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AN UNFORESEEN AND ALARMING DEVELOPMENT

  After Marcella deposited a chilled Mrs. Hooten in the parlor by the blazing fire in the sandstone hearth, the meticulously vigilant maid returned to the third-floor storeroom to make sure that she had not left the slightest telltale evidence of her recent clandestine presence in that rarely visited space. After the FBI undercover agent had moved the purple velvet armchair so that its maple legs were positioned precisely over their former dustless prints and picked up a long-dead moth that she had stepped on and smashed flat, she reached over to straighten the grubby lace curtains at the window—and glanced through the dingy glass to see Cushing strolling along the pathway toward the rose garden. In an instant, the roles of suspicious butler and spied-on maid were reversed. What’s that sneaky little twerp up to? She thought she knew, and Marcella’s heart literally stopped—skipping a beat as the beak-nosed Englishman stooped to pluck something off the ragged edge of an unclipped hedge. A dark something, about the size of a rubber plug that belonged on the tip of Mrs. Hooten’s titanium walking stick. There could be no doubt about it: He’s found it.

  She might have hoped that the butler would not realize the significance of what he had discovered and decided that she would stick around and see it out to a final showdown—come what may.

  Such follies are for amateurs and absurd characters in lurid novels—not for professionals who want to blow out the candles on their next birthday cake. Her training kicking in, Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton turned to descend the stairway two steps at a time. Before she had reached the landing on the second floor, the lady had removed the mobile phone from her apron pocket and connected to a memorized emergency number where a human being would pick up the phone. She held her breath for three rings, then breathed again when the anonymous voice said, “ID, please.” She responded in a Right Stuff monotone that did not betray the slightest hint of her apprehension, “S. A. Clayton.”

  “Please state your request.”

  “Evacuation.”

  “Say again?”

  “S. A. Clayton—Evacuation. Plan One.”

  “Roger, Clayton. We’re on top of it.”

  And that was that.

  A BEARER OF BAD NEWS

  Pleased with the important business she had conducted in the rose garden, Mrs. Francine Hooten was comfortable by the fireplace—and relaxed. Very much so. Indeed, her head was drooped, and she was almost dozing when her rest was interrupted by a polite, “Excuse me, madam.”

  Raising her chin and opening her eyes, the lady of the house murmured irritably, “What is it, Cushing?”

  “This.” He presented an open palm. “I found it lodged in the hedge, at the edge of your rose garden.”

  She leaned forward for a closer look. “Is that a pint Mason jar?”

  “Yes, madam.” The butler cleared his throat. “But the jar is not what I discovered in the hedge. I thought it prudent to seal the found object inside this handy glass container.”

  He can be so damn irritating. “Are you going to tell me why?”

  “Ah—but that is the very point.”

  “Cushing—you are beginning to get on my nerves.” She blinked at the black object in the pint jar. “What on earth is that?”

  “A small, black rubber cap.” Her bodyguard pointed his finger at the tip of her walking stick, which lay across her lap. “I believe it belongs on the end of your cane—it must have fallen off during your recent visit to the flower garden.”

  Francine took a look at the naked tip of her telescoping support. “No doubt.” She got a good grip on the titanium cylinder. “If you do not tell me why you have put the rubber thingamabob in the Mason jar, I shall feel compelled to whack you with my stick.”

  “Whack if you wish, madam.” A smirking pause. “But before you resort to unseemly violence, I suggest that you take a closer look at the rubber cap.” He offered her the jar.

  As she squinted through the thick, curved glass, the woman’s lips closed tightly, then pursed to say, “Oh my.”

  Cushing nodded. “You have no doubt noticed that a coin-shaped metallic device has been pressed inside the rubber cap.”

  “I have noticed.” She looked up at her employee. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Cushing nodded
. “Without the least shadow of an inkling of a doubt.”

  “But … who could have put it into my cane?”

  “I can think of only three possibilities.” The butler, who was somewhat of a literalist, cleared his throat. “Firstly, yourself.” Without smiling, he added, “Which conjecture seems sufficiently unlikely as to demand immediate dismissal.”

  “Thank you, Cushing.” Her lips curled in a wry smile. “Please proceed.”

  “Secondly, myself.”

  “I will keep that prospect in mind. Then am I to conclude that Marcella—”

  “It does seem quite likely, madam—especially in light of certain ancillary evidence which supports such a hypothesis.”

  “Please explain.”

  The butler tilted his bald head to indicate the south side of the towering house. “A moment before I entered the premises, I observed your maid entering the detached garage. A moment later, Marcella departed in her hideous little German motor vehicle. She turned north on the paved road, and seemed to be in rather a hurry. Unless you have just dispatched the woman on some urgent errand.…” He let the accusation hang in the air.

  “I see.” The purse snatcher’s momma sighed. “Too bad. I was rather fond of her.”

  “If you like, madam—I will be pleased to take the Rolls and deal with this distressing matter—personally.” He patted his concealed jacket pocket.

  The dead-mobster’s wife shook her head and replied firmly, “Thank you, Cushing, but no.” Francine Hooten knew just what to do.

  Her butler did, too. “Yes, madam.” After making a slight bow, her discreet employee withdrew to prepare a steaming pot of extrastrong English breakfast tea and a silver tray of dainty biscuits.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE DISCONNECT

  Miss Louella Smithson, who pulled into the ma-and-pa filling station to avoid being spotted by the assassin about a quarter mile up the two-lane highway from the picnic grounds, is precisely where we left her. But not for long.

  * * *

  Having counted to ten, Miss Smithson pulled onto the road again—and stared in stunned disbelief at the ramrod-straight section of blacktop stretching for miles ahead of her. The two-lane was as empty as a grinning politician’s election-day promise. She gave the thirsty Bronco a tasty gulp of gasoline, then slowed to cast a hopeful glance at a deserted farmhouse. Except for an antique tractor rusting away in the front yard, there was no sign of a vehicle. “Damn—I’ve lost him!” Major bummer. I should’ve counted to five.

  The dejected gumshoe had two options. I can give up the chase and slink home to Kansas City like a wimp-sissy amateur who doesn’t have an ounce of confidence in herself. Or … I can go with my hunch and drive all the way to Granite Creek, Colorado. If I spot Cowboy’s car there, I’ll ID the bastard before he murders the cops and then spit in his face when they put the cuffs on him. Or (and this scenario was preferable), Maybe they’ll just shoot him down like the mangy, egg-sucking dog he is!

  * * *

  You know what she did. But before we have time to applaud the spunky lady’s fortitude and pluck, another serious player is about to take center stage—one who has gotten a good look at the woman behind the wheel of the aged Bronco.

  A CRITICAL REVERSAL OF ROLES

  As the sleek, silver-gray Ford sedan with Oklahoma plates emerged from behind the deserted farmhouse and pulled onto the paved highway, the driver stared at the slowly receding Bronco and considered the possible downside: She has certainly gotten a look at my rental car and might have read a portion of the plate number despite the mud. Which was no big deal. Tracing the car back to Avis would produce a Visa number on a stolen card, which would lead the snoop nowhere fast. So I’ll ditch the rental at the St. Louis airport, use another bogus credit card to buy an airline ticket to Denver or Colorado Springs, where I’ll rent myself another set of wheels. After a good night’s sleep, I’ll motor over to Granite Creek, do the job, and be out of town before those hick cops know what’s happened.

  All well and good.

  But the seasoned pro could not dismiss that proverbial worst-case scenario. The nosy bitch might have gotten a good enough look at me to recognize my face next time she sees me. And (though this seemed like an awfully long shot) … She might be waiting for me in Granite Creek, ready to ID me for the police.

  A vexing situation, but challenges do serve to keep one’s edge razor-sharp. It also helps to have a sense of humor. “What is the world coming to—me being tailed by a woman!” Finding some comedic relief in the tense situation, the so-called Cowboy Assassin laughed out loud.

  * * *

  A typically sexist attitude? In more commonplace circumstances one might reasonably conclude so, but in a dicey situation where the presumed chauvinist lout pays the rent by offhandedly murdering fellow citizens—does it not seem somewhat nitpicking to dwell upon such relatively minor issues as political correctness? And who among us, whether deliberately or without intent to offend, has not committed a similar or equivalent transgression—including Miss Louella Smithson?

  But enough of these pesky semirhetorical questions. The urgent issue at hand is (in a manner of speaking not intended to cast canine aspersions on either party) that the fox is now following the hound.

  Or would have been—except for the interruption.

  A MINOR COMPLICATION

  The person referred to as “Cowboy” did not flinch when the cheap cellular telephone warbled like a robin choking on a knotty earthworm. I really must reprogram that piece of junk for something less grating on the nerves. With a wan smile, the assassin answered the presumably urgent summons: “So soon?”

  Francine Hooten’s unmistakable raspy voice responded, “My apologies. I have grave concerns about one of my employees, who has apparently been taking an unseemly interest in my personal business—and possibly, in yours. Even as we speak, she is headed north in a pale green Volkswagen Bug.” A pause. Or do they call them Beetles? “Will you be able to resolve this troublesome issue—per our agreed financial arrangement?”

  Cowboy smiled as the described automobile passed. “Consider it done.” I do lead a charmed life. “Goodbye.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IN THE MEANTIME, WHAT’S HAPPENING AT THE COLUMBINE?

  Probably not a whole lot, but a Rocky Mountain westerner who stays away from his natural habitat for too long—even in the pleasant environs of rural southern Illinois—tends to get homesick for alpine peaks that keep their winter frosting on all summer long, lonesome cowboys who sing sad songs about love gone wrong—and stream water so crystal clear that Mr. Rainbow Trout stands out like a multicolored mitten dropped on a snowbank. Not to mention that thin, chilly high-country air, which is a surefire elixir for just about every ailment known to those altitude-deprived folk who spend their lives no more than a few hundred feet above sea level.

  PREVIOUS REFERENCES—A THUMBNAIL SUMMARY UPDATE

  The unwary Columbine cowboy who got gored by the bull is recovering at Snyder Memorial Hospital in Granite Creek, and assuring every pretty nurse who’ll listen that upon his return to Charlie Moon’s ranch, he is going to de-horn that danged Hereford with a butcher knife. And if a ten-inch blade don’t get the job done, he’ll have a go at it with an ax.

  Six-Toes (that big, stupid galoot who got decked by “Little Butch” Cassidy during the knock-down-drag-out bunkhouse brawl) is suffering from a dislocated jawbone and missing a pair of molars and a front tooth, which makes it hard to chew a wad of tobacco and hit the red coffee can when he spits. Mr. Cassidy is suffering from a sore right hand, and the bitter regret that he didn’t hit Six-Toes hard enough to break the halfwit’s neck.

  The whirlwind-wrecked windmill? That had looked like a total loss, but the Columbine blacksmith—a brawny man with hands big as catcher’s mitts and hairy forearms like cedar posts—has been known to work wonders with mangled machinery. The smithy is convinced that he can repair the damage, and despite Charlie Moon’s doubts about the
outcome—is about halfway there.

  Which gets us around to those three souls who reside under the roof of the two-story log headquarters building. It’s a long way past sundown, but let’s look in upon them.

  SARAH FRANK

  Shhh. (The young lady, who went to bed worried about the man in her life, seems to be deep in the sweet, dreamless sleep of the innocent.) Seems to be. But in Sarah’s melancholy night-vision, she is driving her red Ford pickup away from the Columbine and Charlie Moon—forever. And compared to a week or maybe two, that’s a long time to be gone.

  Never mind. Now and again, anxious young folk tend to suffer from excessive angst. But they get over it. Usually.

  DAISY PERIKA

  Charlie Moon’s irascible auntie is not numbered among the innocent, and the troublesome tribal elder finds herself dead center in a straight-out nightmare.

  There is no point in going into the nitty-gritty details, but it may be of interest to know that Daisy is dreaming that she is present at Hester “Toadie” Tillman’s funeral. This aged woman has attended more wakes, funerals, and burials than an acre of gnarly old piñon trees has knots, and there’s nothing about such gatherings that is even slightly nightmarish for one with so much experience in saying her goodbyes to the dearly departed, or for that matter, shouting a hearty hasta la vista to those señors and señoritas whom she is glad to have seen the last of.