The Old Gray Wolf by James D. Doss Page A

up enough solitude to satisfy me, I shall buzz for you. Now depart this instant.” After glancing at her wristwatch, she added by way of inducement, “That inane television show that you adore came on two minutes ago.”
    â€œOkay, I’m gone.” The sturdy woman from the Missouri Ozarks patted her employer on the shoulder. “But if I don’ hear that buzzer buzz in a hour, I’ll come out here and wheel you back inside whether you want to go or not !” Having had the last word, Marcella stomped away on the flagstone pathway.
    A damp, fetid breeze played with dead leaves.
    Empty minutes ticked away toward yesterday.
    The pale woman was as immobile as the lichen-encrusted iron porpoise that had long ago ceased to spew water into the fountain, which bone-dry ornament was the dreary centerpiece of a garden where a dozen untrimmed rosebushes that bloomed in June were now but a withered memory of warmer, happier days. The dismal effect had not gone unnoticed by the widow who had recently been deprived of her only descendant; the wheelchair’s occupant evaluated her surroundings thusly: This place looks like a scene from an old black-and-white horror movie. Some eighty yards away, at her shambling, nine-gable Victorian home, the rear screened door slammed shut behind the maid with a bang. Actually, this little garden spot would make a nice cemetery. Francine’s twisted smile was bittersweet. Perhaps I shall have LeRoy buried here. A long, weary sigh. Before too long, I will lay myself down beside my only son … who has been such a disappointment.
    As she mused about converting her shabby rose garden into a family graveyard, Francine Hooten’s imagination might well have conjured up the spirits of other members of her close-knit circle who had passed on. Such as the husband who had been shot dead by the Chicago plainclothes cop. Also Francine’s brother, who’d run afoul of a rival South Side gang—and whose body had never been found. Those Oak Park thugs probably set poor Buford into a fifty-five-gallon drum of cement and dumped him into Lake Michigan. The sudden impression of a presence jolted Francine from her reverie. She had sensed neither sight nor sound, merely the slight stirring of another living creature. Her raspy voice rattled a hoarse whisper: “Are you there?”
    The reply, from somewhere behind her, was immediate: “I am.”
    â€œYou’re on the far side the hedge—completely out of sight?”
    Her visitor took no offense at this pointless query. “Certainly.”
    â€œDid our intermediary explain why I require your professional help?”
    â€œThere was no need to.” There was a hint of a smile in the reply. “I manage to keep up with current events.”
    â€œWell, just to be sure we’re on the same page, it’s about—”
    â€œYour son LeRoy, who died after being injured by those two small-town policemen in Colorado.”
    â€œYes. 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.”
    â€œThank 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.”
    â€œI 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