The Old Gray Wolf by James D. Doss Page B

both of these men will be dead within ten days.”
    â€œThat 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.”
    â€œVery 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.”
    â€œName your price.”
    The assassin did. Including a substantial advance for “miscellaneous expenses.”
    The old woman caught her breath. Held it. Then: “Agreed.”
    â€œThen consider it done.” A pause. “There is,” the concealed visitor said, “one last thing.”
    â€œWhat might that be?”
    â€œIn the pawpaw tree, there is a bird feeder hanging from a branch—within easy reach.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œYou may. And it is to be used only in the case of an emergency.”
    â€œOh, my—a cyanide capsule?”
    â€œNothing 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.”
    â€œI understand.” Francine Hooten’s eyes were focused intently on the feeder. “But such an eventuality seems unlikely.”
    â€œLet 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