The Old Gray Wolf

by James D. Doss

  Staggered by this two-punch counterattack, Parris was speechless. For about one second. “That’s not what she’s calling herself here in Granite Creek.”

  McTeague feigned disinterest by glancing at the three-ring binder. “Indeed?”

  “That’s what I said. While Louella Smithson’s here gathering material for her book, she’s using the name ‘Whysper.’”

  The woman in D.C. arched an exquisitely plucked brow. “Whisper?”

  Scott Parris shook his head. Also rolled his eyes. And sighed. Then he spelled it out for her, while Moon tried to swallow a grin.

  “Miss Whysper,” McTeague murmured, and made a mental note to add that data tidbit to the Bureau’s file on Louella Smithson. “Off the record, I do hope that Miss Smithson-Whysper will prove to be less of a nuisance to Granite Creek PD than she has been to the Bureau.” Enjoying Parris’s continuing discomfort, the fed added, “For several months, our hopeful author has been practically stalking Mrs. Hooten—which has created difficulties for our ongoing investigation.”

  Granite Creek’s top cop was feeling a familiar, sinking sensation in his gut. If McTeague’s up to what I think she is, we might as well get this over with so I can go home and strangle myself to death with my bare hands. “While Miss Whysper’s in my town, she won’t be any bother to GCPD. I’ll keep a close eye on her. And if this so-called Cowboy Assassin happens to show his ugly mug in Granite Creek—me and Charlie will take care of that outlaw.” Parris jutted his chin. Now she’ll have to put up or shut up.

  McTeague had tasted the bait and liked it. “I surely need not remind you, Chief Parris—that an assassin dispatched from Illinois to Colorado is not a matter confined to your jurisdiction.” She glanced at her expensive platinum wristwatch. “Approximately forty-four minutes ago, I contacted the Denver Field Office and spoke to the special agent in charge. As a result of our brief conversation, the SAC is assuming jurisdiction of the matter in Colorado. Members of the Denver staff will be dispatched to Granite Creek tomorrow morning, which should allow plenty of time to prevent the C.A. from taking a shot at either you or Charlie. This particular hoodlum is known for taking his time in setting up a hit—Bureau Intel estimates a week to ten days.”

  His mouth dry as Panhandle dust during a ten-year drought, Scott Parris glared at his worthy adversary and—excluding those things a western gentleman cannot utter in the presence of a lady—could not think of a single word to say to the fed.

  Sensing an opportune time to terminate the discussion, McTeague smiled at the aggravated town cop and his Southern Ute sidekick. “Unless either of you has a question or suggestion, I think that about winds it up. When the special agents arrive from Denver, the details of the role of the local police—such as they may be—will no doubt be communicated to you.”

  This barbed remark prompting no response from either the sullen chief of police or his taciturn deputy, Special Agent McTeague nodded at an off-screen technician—whereupon her strikingly attractive face was replaced by the DOJ logo.

  Charlie Moon got up from his armchair for a satisfying stretch of sinewy arms and a wry twinkle of eye. “I’d say that went pretty well.”

  Still glaring at the static flat-screen display, a bearish Scott Parris barely managed a bearish growl.

  How Judy Purvis was aware that the connection had been terminated shall remain a secret of her trade, but by whatever means, Miss P. knew that the conference was over. The district attorney’s ever-efficient secretary arrived promptly to switch off the terminal in the meeting room and nod a curt goodbye to the pair of local cops, who got the hit-the-bricks message, donned their hats, and departed.

  Within one minute flat, Chief of Police Scott Parris and Deputy Charlie Moon were striding along Copper Street in the general direction of the Sugar Bowl Restaurant, their appetites all primed and ready for some seriously tasty caloric intake such as makes the slender figure-watching set quake with horror.

  WHAT IS LILA MAE MCTEAGUE UP TO?

  Hard to tell—this discreet lady tends to play her cards close to the vest. And whatever clever plans she may be contriving might not matter. Regardless of all the efforts of those superalert feds who rarely miss a detail or a trick, unpredictable events have a rude habit of shouldering their way in to fluster and foil the most carefully conceived plans.

  WHITHER THE OLD GRAY WOLF?

  An embarrassing question. It must be admitted that for the moment, we simply don’t know—the freshly trimmed-and-shaved tourist has given us the well-known slip. The so-called OGW has not been seen in town for some time now. He might be treating himself to a scenic tour of the more rural environs of Granite Creek County, perhaps with an eye peeled for a few hundred acres of bargain real estate. Then again, he might not.

  A PLEASANT DIVERSION FROM VEXING MYSTERIES

  So much, then, for the clandestine activities of FBI agents and elderly cowboys. Sooner or later, Lila Mae McTeague and the Old Gray Wolf are bound to show their hands.

  In the meantime, we shall attempt to divert unwarranted attention from fuzzy peripheral issues by checking in on a couple of dependable characters whose precise location and honorable intentions are well known. Indeed, even a rank stranger in town is able to learn intimate details of their supposedly personal lives from talkative locals who have nothing better to do than while away their hours in barbershops.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  THEIR FIRST DAY AT THE BIG HAT

  As he carried an overloaded box into the headquarters of the smaller of Charlie Moon’s ranches, Pete Bushman was painfully aware that the dwelling was not nearly so impressive as its log counterpart over at the Columbine. Indeed, it did not even measure up to the foreman’s residence that he and Dolly had occupied for decades. It was not so much that the Big Hat HQ was only a two-bedroom clapboard house with a pint-size parlor and a barely adequate kitchen; a semiretired elderly couple does not need a lot of space to rattle around in. What Pete’s unease all boiled down to was that the ninety-year-old structure hadn’t been lived in or kept in good repair since Harry Truman was president—and it showed. This was what those folks who advertise real estate describe (with a straight face) as a “fixer-upper” or “needing some tender loving care.” Which, in this instance, meant no end of work fixing leaks in the roof, mending jury-rigged plumbing, replacing cracked windowpanes, and brushing on about forty gallons of paint—and that was just for starters. He muttered upon entering the kitchen, “It’ll take a good two years’ work to get this dump about one notch above Pappy Yokum’s shack in Dogpatch.”

  Dolly looked up from her work. “What’d you say, Pete?”

  “Nothin’.” There’s no point in worryin’ the old woman. Despite his misgivings, Pete was determined to make the place sufficiently comfortable for himself and the missus during their declining years, which were already well under way. Burdened by the big cardboard box of brown crockery dishes and copper-bottom cookware, he grunted his way across the kitchen.

  Busily scrubbing the scummy sink with a scouring pad and Ajax, Dolly stopped long enough to point her chin at an empty space on the counter under the pine cabinets. “Put it there.”

  The husband did as ordered, and paused to rub at the small of his back. “That was like totin’ a box a rocks.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said,” he inhaled a breath, “that was like totin’ a box a—”

  “I heard what you said, Pete.” Dolly brushed a sticky wisp of gray hair from her perspiration-soaked forehead. “What I meant was, ‘What’s that I hear.’” She cocked her good ear. “Sounds to me like a truck coming down the lane from the highway.”

  “I don’t hear nothin’.” The aching man continued to massage his sore muscles. I wonder where she packed that little box of Bayer aspirins. “And you only think you hear a pickup because you know Little Butch is supposed to haul us a load of supplies over from the Columbine sometime today.” Pain tends to make a grouchy man extra-grumpy. “And if you do
hear somethin’, it might just as well be a yella Cadillac convertible.”

  She was about to assert that pickup trucks and big SUVs like Charlie Moon’s Expedition made a different sound on the bumpy lane than regular automobiles did, but this first full day in their new home was no time to encourage an argument. Mrs. Bushman leaned to squint at a dusty windowpane, which she wiped with a wet dishrag. She pointed again with her chin. “There—take a gander at that.”

  Pete squinted. “Well, whatta ya know … there is somebody a-comin’.” Somebody’s comin’ and my hearin’ is goin’. Which failing was too dismal for the senior citizen to admit to. More likely, I got too much wax in my ears. Whatever the correct diagnosis might be, being one-upped by the old woman made the brand-new foreman of the Big Hat Ranch extra-testy. “But it’s still too far away for anybody to tell whether or not it’s a pickup!”

  Dolly rolled her eyes. “You go help Little Butch unload his truck. I’ll start up a fresh pot of coffee.”

  Knowing that she was likely to be right, Pete grumped his way out of the kitchen.

  An inane domestic dispute? Without a doubt. But not so serious, considering that the couple tied the knot fifty-four years ago come November 26.

  And in deference to the man of the house, it shall be stipulated that every once in a blue moon Dolly Bushman was wrong—at least in some particular. What was significant about the approaching vehicle—be it workaday pickup, gas-guzzling SUV, or spiffy yellow Cadillac convertible—was that the driver was not Little Butch Cassidy. That cheerful cowboy would show up sometime later with a bushel burlap bag of dried pinto beans, twenty pounds of cornmeal, an equal amount of flour, a half gallon of cooking oil, and a full side of prime Columbine beef from the headquarters cooler. Not to mention a nice selection of condiments, spices, jams, jellies, and other enhancements that make a home-cooked meal a couple of burps more than just lip-smackin’ good.

  The visitor whom Pete was going outside to meet and greet was bringing something far less palatable. Call it … bad news. Which is just one of the reasons why it can wait.

  But not for long.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  A SUDDEN CONVERGENCE OF EVENTS

  It began about an hour after the Bushmans’ visitor showed up, who didn’t stay long enough to enjoy a fresh cup of coffee from Dolly’s kitchen. It has been observed by Mrs. Bushman, and rightly so, that “everyone these days is in such a big hurry.” And so it was with the Big Hat’s unexpected drop-in. But in a hurry to go where—and do what? In this instance, to Granite Creek—to conduct some pressing business. All of which raises the natural question: who was this hurried visitor who had urgent business to tend to?

  AN AVID COLLECTOR, THAT’S WHO

  Collector of what? Rest assured, neither rare postage stamps, valuable old coins, nor any manner of art—fine or otherwise. This information is deemed insufficient? Patience. All shall be revealed in the fullness of time.

  CONCERNING A CREATURE OF THE ORDER RODENTIA, FAMILY SCIURIDAE (WHO PERCHES IN A CONE-SHAPED EVERGREEN OF THE GENUS PICEA)

  But enough of this pandering to those Distinguished Professors of Zoology and Botany, who would merely sniff and make persnickety corrections to our pathetic display of pretended erudition. Having dispensed with them, here is something for the rest of us: a tufted-ear squirrel sits in a spruce.

  A big ho-hum? Not sufficiently compelling?

  Be forewarned, then: it is time to begin paying very close attention.

  For one thing, this is no idle rodent. Whilst gnawing on a pungent cone whose seeds are deemed as ham and cheese on rye among her kind, she watches a two-legged creature approach the edge of a stream that was known as Granite Creek long before either the county or the incorporated township was so named.

  The coated, booted, hatted bipedal creature stood stock-still for about half a minute, looking this way and that, as if to verify that no one was watching. Apparently satisfied, said biped selected two hard objects from the water’s edge—one much like the other—and concealed the three-pound items stealthily in opposite coat pockets before walking away.

  If bushy-tailed rodents were capable of having their say (and expressing their opinions in English), this one might have said, “Human beings are very strange creatures, indeed.”

  Indeed they are. We are. But more to the point, the aforementioned fullness of time has blossomed, and you have already guessed the revelation, which is: a collector of rocks.

  Two of them, if you weren’t counting.

  Black-and-yellow-speckled granite, to be more precise—each made tolerably smooth by eleven dozen decades of slowly tumbling along in an icy-cold creek bed, all the while bumping coarse elbows with others of their durable tribe until all the rough, grainy edges rubbed off. Not a particularly interesting existence, but imagine how honored one (or two) such individuals must feel to be selected from such a multitude of her (or his) fellows for some significant purpose—which shall be revealed in a second (just-around-the-corner) fullness of time, which is to say right away.

  SHORT AND TO THE POINT

  Just minutes after the sun had set, Professor Tiffany Mayfair responded to a tentative tap-tap on her front door. As the hospitable citizen opened it with a smile, Scott Parris’s lady friend was struck firmly on the forehead with a you-know-what. (Rock.) Not wishing to disturb the neighbors unduly, her courteous assailant closed Professor Mayfair’s door with a barely discernible click and departed as silently as the clack-clack of hard boot heels would allow.

  YE OLDE GRAY WOLF DOTH APPEAR AGAIN

  It would be more colorful to assert that the out-of-towner’s pickup materialized from the shadows of early evening—and (entirely by chance) barely thirty yards behind the 1989 Bronco piloted by that lady who prefers to call herself Missy Whysper. But such descriptors (as materialized) should be limited to learned articles on honest-to-goodness actual quantum mechanics, dodgy (unfalsifiable) speculations on parallel universes, and whatever category of science fantasy may suit one’s taste.

  As it actually happened, the driver of the pickup had made a left turn at a quiet residential intersection and immediately found himself about a quarter block behind the Bronco. The lean, elderly man behind the wheel eased the toe of his gray boot off the accelerator pedal so as not to close the distance between his vehicle and yonder SUV, which was rolling along rather slowly. “Well … this is a fine piece of luck.”

  Maybe so. But a man in his line of work had good reason to be wary of unexpected opportunities—which were liable to turn around and bite him first chance they got. It would probably be smarter to stay as far away from her as I can, at least until I can figure out what she’s up to. On the other hand … Things generally turn out fine if I just go with my instincts.

  “Fine” meant getting to tomorrow alive and spry, and his instinct at the moment was to follow Miss Louella Smithson and find out where she was going.

  There was always the chance that … I might see something that goes against the grain, and if I do I’ll be right on the spot to sort things out.

  Most of us, be we pipe-wrench-wielding plumbers, union-card-carrying electricians, cynical law-enforcement officers—or downright bad outlaws—tend to see ourselves in a role that suits our preferred outlook on life, which is likely to be more self-serving than strictly accurate. Basically, the Old Gray Wolf saw himself as a troubleshooter. With the emphasis on shooter.

  In addition to this fortuitous encounter with the one woman in town who most occupied his thoughts and concerns, a couple of other surprises awaited him. The first would be Miss Whysper’s destination—none other than the residence of Miss Patsy Poynter, Charlie Moon’s intended. The second was—

  But wait. Miss Whysper has just braked the Bronco at 250 Second Street, which is Patsy Poynter’s address. She has also turned the battered SUV into the driveway—which is empty. She frowns as if saying “hmmm.” The absence of a motor vehicle in the driveway might well indicate that Miss P. had not yet retur
ned from some last-minute errand. (Or a round trip to Colorado Springs—which journey Miss Whysper was unaware of). On the other hand, it might be that Patsy’s automobile was parked in the garage, where neither the so-called Miss Whysper nor the so-called Old Gray Wolf could see it.

  That latter citizen cruised slowly past Miss Poynter’s address and squinted as the driver emerged from the SUV. It was hard for him to see the lady with any clarity, because it was moderately dark except for starlight filtered through a swath of clouds that might rightly be described as diaphanous. (The corner streetlights were both a half block away, occupied with helpfully illuminating Stop signs.) Nevertheless, the OGW did get a good look at the woman as she mounted the front porch steps, because Patsy (whether she was inside or en route) had left the over-the-door thirty-watt yellow bulb turned on—presumably so she would be able to see—in an instance such as this—who it was that pressed the buzzer button by her front door.

  Which Miss Whysper did.

  Bzzz.

  Turning her gaze from the buzzer button, Miss Whysper glanced at the passing pickup—and experienced an eerie sensation that the unseen driver was staring at her. Dismissing this suspicion as an amateurish case of the jitters, she pressed the button again. Longer, this time.

  Bzzzzzzzzz.

  She was relieved to hear the click of high heels in the darkened hallway.

  The door opened.

  The visitor was effectively blinded by the yellow bulb, but a familiar voice that she immediately identified as that of Charlie Moon’s pretty fiancée said, “Well, hello.” A silver-bell tinkle of a laugh. “Miss Whysper, I presume?”