The Old Gray Wolf (7 page)

“Your son LeRoy, who died after being injured by those two small-town policemen in Colorado.”

“Yes. Officers Parris and Moon.” She ground her teeth at the memory of the cops' grinning faces on the television screen. “You are well informed.” Francine inhaled a deep breath of the chill, dank air and expelled the frosty mist with a compliment: “I appreciate that job of work you did for me a few years ago.”

“Thank you. It is my specialty.” The gun for hire added, “You should also appreciate the fact that my rates are high—‘exorbitant' would not be an overstatement.”

The invalid assumed a haughty expression. “Despite my reputation for being miserly—when it comes to important matters, I always go first-class.”

“I am pleased to hear it—a vulnerability to flattery is one of my few weaknesses.”

After the partners in crime enjoyed lighthearted laughs, the assassin said soberly, “Assuming that you agree to my standard fee—I can give you my personal guarantee that both of these men will be dead within ten days.”

“That would be gratifying—if their immediate demise was what I had in mind.”

Judging by the brief silence, the person concealed on the forested side of the hedge might have been slightly taken aback. “What
do
you have in mind?”

After explaining her intent in some detail, Francine added, “I want those two grinning cops to suffer—like I am suffering. But I don't want either of them killed—not until I am in my grave. Then, you may feel free to deal with them in any manner that suits you—at my expense, of course. I will arrange payment through our trustworthy intermediary.”

“Very well. Unless one or both of them gets in my way, I won't harm a hair on their heads while carrying out the immediate assignment. And after your death, I will dispose of them promptly.” Two heartbeats. “But I suggest that you consider the cost—this will be a complex, dangerous task—and even more expensive than my usual work.”

“Name your price.”

The assassin did. Including a substantial advance for “miscellaneous expenses.”

The old woman caught her breath. Held it. Then: “Agreed.”

“Then consider it done.” A pause. “There is,” the concealed visitor said, “one last thing.”

“What might that be?”

“In the pawpaw tree, there is a bird feeder hanging from a branch—within easy reach.”

“I am well aware of that fact. I am the benefactor who provides expensive seed for my famished little feathered friends.” Francine's mouth puckered into an expression that suggested a porcine smile. “May I assume that you have placed something there for me?”

“You may. And it is to be used only in the case of an emergency.”

“Oh, my—a cyanide capsule?”

“Nothing quite so dramatic. Just yesterday, I purchased a matched pair of inexpensive mobile telephones. One for myself, the other for you. I will keep my instrument for … let us say … two weeks.” Two heartbeats. “If something should come up that I absolutely
must
know about, you may call the only number listed in your telephone's directory.”

“I understand.” Francine Hooten's eyes were focused intently on the feeder. “But such an eventuality seems unlikely.”

“Let us hope so.”

 

CHAPTER TEN

HOW MARCELLA (NOT THE NAME ON HER BIRTH CERTIFICATE) IS USING HER TV BREAK

Is Mrs. Hooten's maid enjoying her afternoon television show? In a word—no. In seven more: she cannot stomach
I Love Lucy
reruns.

The Sony portable television in her second-floor bedroom is turned on, the volume set loud enough to be heard downstairs by the nosy butler—and by Mrs. Hooten, should the lady of the house return unexpectedly. Marcella has withdrawn to a third-floor storage room where cherished family heirlooms (along with miscellaneous other junk) have been deposited for a hoped-for posterity that—with LeRoy Hooten having met his untimely end in Colorado—will never be born to inherit. Yes, even mean-down-to-the-marrow mobster moms look forward to darling grandchildren on whom they can dote.

*   *   *

From where the maid was seated in a dusty, purple velvet armchair, she could peer from one of the mansion's rear, east-facing gables. Her sober gaze was presented with a vast, misty vista of forest where the winding ribbon of the Wabash River was shrouded under a vaporous layer of gray, undulating mist. This domestic worker, who earned some eight hundred dollars per month plus room and essential victuals, had little interest in hardwood forests or silty midwestern watercourses, but even if she had, Marcella could see neither the foggy Wabash nor the trees—excepting a few dozen oaks and maples behind the rose garden's bushy hedge. Her tunnel-vision glare was limited to a patch of earth some ten yards in diameter, her alert mind occupied with delectable suspicions.
Unless I'm badly mistaken, the old girl didn't go out there to enjoy some quiet time.

The maid removed a miniature radio receiver/audio recorder from her apron pocket, unwound a twisted cord that was plugged into the instrument, and pressed the tiny microphone on the other end into her right ear to listen intently to—nothing. What she heard was not dead silence … merely a slight whisper of static. Marcella checked the receiver.
I know the thing is turned on.
So what was wrong?
Either this piece of junk has crapped out on me—or the bug I planted in the old woman's walking stick has gone on the fritz.
There was another possibility, which did not bear thinking about. But she did.
Or the rubber plug at the tip of her cane has fallen off and the bug's lying in the pathway—right in plain sight.
She leaned closer to the window, squinting in a futile attempt to see the thing. No matter. Brash as a pit bull on an overdose of steroids, spunky Marcella always dealt with dangerous issues straight-ahead and up front.
When I go out to wheel the old reprobate back in, I'll spot the rubber gimmick, pick it up, and push it back onto Mrs. Hooten's walking stick right under her nose—and get a well-deserved compliment for having eyes like an old-time Indian scout.

All well and good, but before that award-winning performance could be pulled off, there was a more immediate problem to be solved:
One way or another, I've got to make a recording of whatever she says to whoever shows up.
And she knew just how to do it.

Before the invalid in the wheelchair had opened her mouth to say a word, Marcella removed another instrument from her purse. She focused the miniaturized, gyroscope-stabilized digital video camera's zoom lens on Francine Hooten's wrinkled face, centered the frame on the old woman's mouth, and pressed the Record button. The maid was delighted when the woman began to speak. Marcella shifted her gaze from the camera's LCD screen to peer out the window.
I don't see anyone, so whoever she's talking to is keeping well out of sight.
Which was good news. Honest visitors do not sneak around like thieves—concealing themselves behind bushes. But just in case the lowlife did show his face, she set the camera to record a somewhat broader view. Marcella was understandably pleased with her ability to improvise right on the spot, and things went fairly well, except that from time to time an elm branch clustered with dead leaves was wafted by a pesky breeze to temporarily block the video camera's view. Despite this aggravation, the resourceful operative was able to document the movement of Francine Hooten's lips for more than half the words her employer uttered. Right up to … “But such an eventuality seems unlikely.”

When Francine's mouth finally clenched in its usual scowl and stayed that way for quite a while, the maid realized that the conversation was over and her summons imminent. Marcella pulled a mobile telephone from her pocket. Like the cheap telephone the assassin had left for Francine Hooten, this top-of-the-line communications device was reserved for serious business. After using a delicate cable to link her miniature Japanese video recorder to the telephone, she punched in a memorized ten-digit number and placed the call.

Almost immediately, a computer-generated monotone on the other end said, “Connection made. Please provide ID and password.”

Marcella recited her six-character alphanumeric identity code and confirmed it with this week's password (
thunderstorm
).

“You may proceed,” the robo voice said.

After making a terse, factual report, she downloaded the video camera's digital memory—all of which was duly recorded on the other end. When she had completed the task, the maid said, “Goodbye,” which would automatically break the connection. She slipped the mobile telephone back into her ample apron pocket and put the video camera into her purse.

This communication had required precisely seventy-two seconds.

*   *   *

When the buzzer in the kitchen sounded a minute later, Marcella Clay (aka FBI Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton) was downstairs at the back door. The Emory University graduate put on her dull, slack-jawed smile, exited the house, and sallied forth to wheel Mrs. Francine Hooten back into the warm comfort of her home. Falling into character, the counterfeit maid assumed her southern accent as she mumbled, “I'll fuss at that silly ol' lady for stayin' out in the cold so long.”

It would never do the trick in Atlanta, Vicksburg, or Little Rock, but it was sufficient to deceive her singular audience. On her way to retrieve Mrs. Hooten, Marcella kept an eye peeled for the bug, but didn't get the least glimmer of anything resembling a rubber plug. She prayed …
Oh, please please please let it be on the tip of her walking stick.
As all those who petition the Almighty know, sometimes the answer is no. Which observation gives the game away. Yes, sad to say, when the maid approached her employer, the bug's rubber enclosure was
not
on the tip of Mrs. Hooten's titanium walking stick.

All the way back to the rear door of the Hooten mansion, as Marcella's mouth kept up a running commentary on the folly of “an ol' lady like you exposin' her feeble self to cold, damp weather,” the special agent's sharp eyes flicked left and right, examining every inch of the dead grass beside the path. What did she see?

Nada. Zilch. Naught.

Which is to say—not what she was looking for. Which was vexing. Sufficiently so to cause the maid's speech to drift out of character—but only in her thoughts.
Damn. That thing must've grown wings and flown away!

As wistful characters in novels said in bygone days, “Oh, would that it had.”

THE
BODYGUARD

Yes. The butler who is endowed with good old Yankee get-up-and-go is on the job.

As the maid looked right and left and speculated about walking sticks' airborne rubber tips, she was observed by the ever-alert Cushing, whose primary mission was to protect the missus of the house from bodily harm, problems with John Law—and deceitful employees. At his lookout post by the kitchen window, the Brit expatriate took note of the American maid's nervous examination of the ground.
It looks like Marcella is searching for something.
He wondered idly what that might be.
The frumpy woman has probably lost a two-dollar plastic earring.

A small drama, unworthy of his interest. But, having nothing of importance to occupy his idle time and in need of some mild cerebral exercise to stimulate his underemployed intellect, the butler (who carried a 9-mm Beretta semiautomatic in his inner jacket pocket) made up his mind to find out what Marcella was looking for along the pathway.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

FOLLOWING THE COWBOY ASSASSIN

As we now know, Mrs. Hooten's caller was the very same infamous hired gun whom Miss Louella Smithson had hoped would show up. But the “Cowboy” designation calls for a comment. Here it is: despite the fact that the Federal Bureau of Investigation has a fat file on the suspect, the criminal's identity has not been ascertained by the nation's premier law-enforcement agency. This being the case, the title of the Bureau file is “Cowboy Assassin.” (No, the shooter does not specialize in popping lead at western horsemen who wear broad-brimmed hats and high-heeled boots with jingly steel spurs mounted thereon.) “Cowboy” refers to the assassin's
reported
choice of apparel. But be forewarned: the evidence along this line is thin and might prove misleading. We trust that more shall be revealed as events unfold.

*   *   *

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.