The Old Gray Wolf (17 page)

She thought wrong.

*   *   *

Having concluded that this was as good a spot as any, the assassin for hire had selected a weapon and was pulling on a pair of soft, thin-as-bat-skin leather gloves.

*   *   *

Oblivious to the mortal danger lurking only a few yards away, Louella Smithson fingered the lever that unlocked the driver's bucket seat from its steel track and pushed it back a few inches. For what purpose? Why, to make room in her lap for a pink laptop computer. In addition to the usual personal information one keeps on hard-disk drives, everything Miss Smithson knew—and
thought
she knew—about the so-called Cowboy Assassin and the Hooten family was stored on that useful device. Not to mention a detailed and much-edited outline of her true-crime manuscript, which was complete except for a compelling opening scene, quite a lot of exciting stuff in the middle, and the triumphant conclusion wherein she would identify the hired gun in Granite Creek and be present for Cowboy's arrest by that pair of local lawmen whom she had come to save from certain doom—namely, Chief of Police Scott Parris and Deputy Charlie Moon.

And speaking of officers of the law …

*   *   *

State Police officer Janie Lawton slowed as she approached the rest stop, which was flagged on her mental map as a hangout for petty thieves who pilfered parked cars, small-time drug pushers, and other objectionable riffraff. Spotting two motor vehicles, she naturally ignored the shiny new one and targeted the rusty scuzzmobile—i.e., Miss Smithson's venerable Bronco. Yes, a clear case of prejudicial selection (transport profiling) but a decision that probably saved Officer Lawton's life—and most certainly preserved Miss Smithson's.

The assassin had already loaded a round into the blued-steel barrel of an automatic pistol and was about to make bad use of that lethal weapon.

*   *   *

Startled by the blinking lights, Louella Smithson sighed.
What now?

As it turned out, nothing much. Merely Trooper Lawton's friendly warning not to tarry too long at the rest stop which was a known hangout for undesirables. Moreover, night was coming on and a snowstorm was rolling in from the west.

“Thank you, Officer.” Louella tapped a painted fingernail on her laptop. “I have some work to do, but I promise I'll be gone before the storm shows up.” And so she would.

The state trooper departed.

Louella Smithson—her mind energized by the mildly startling encounter with the police officer—turned again to the issue of a suitable persona to assume for her brief stay in Granite Creek. To that end, she opened a smallish MS Word file that listed previous aliases, each with an invented background to support the phony ID. After perusing these past deceptions, she recalled that each one had begun with the name—a suitable background story springing naturally from the ring of the moniker. And all those previous names had come to her like bolts from the blue.

This one would, too.

Using the pink-lacquered forefinger nails on each hand, Miss Smithson deftly pecked in “GRANITE CREEK ID.”

That's all it took; inspiration did the rest. Creativity is a mysterious phenomenon.

Now, how the pair of dainty forefingers did fly!

Watching her potential new alias appear on the computer display, the lady smiled at one that fairly jumped out at her: Miss Whysper.
Yes—I do like the sound of that!

Which was fortunate; her burst of inspiration had run its course.

Under “Background,” and at a slower pace, she typed in: SUSAN WHYSPER WAS MY FAVORITE AUNT.

THE
VILLAIN
?

Long gone. Even as the trooper was offering the tourist a free weather forecast and unsolicited sage advice, the driver of the other, more-respectable vehicle had pulled away.

Was the assassin disappointed by the inconvenient arrival of the state cop? Check the box by “Yesiree!” But Cowboy endured this setback with a true professional's philosophical acceptance of a capricious Fate.
A bad break—but maybe it was for the best.
An incurable optimist, the hired gun was confident that there would be another time, a better opportunity—and quite a different outcome.

There would be. (All three.)

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

SUITABLE LODGING FOR A LADY

Louella Smithson eyed a helpful sign that advised the tourist that she was about to enter Granite Creek's city limits; a following sign put the limit at forty-five miles per hour. After a glance at the speedometer, she eased off the brake pedal until the aged Bronco was chugging along at a velocity just under the specified maximum.
I don't want to get off on the wrong foot with the local cops by getting a ticket.
Which concern reminded her of something else to worry about …
I hope Granddaddy remembered to call the local chief of police before he wandered off to his favorite fishing hole.
Old folks (bless their fuzzy minds) were prone to forget about really important business, like looking after their granddaughter's urgent interests. And not only that …
What does he need with a string of smelly old fish to clean when he could buy some nice fillets at the supermarket?

The young woman's idle musings about the unfathomable eccentricities of a certain senior citizen were interrupted by the sudden appearance an iconic Holiday Inn sign. This familiar logo, combined as it was with the alluring neon glow of a
VACANCY
therein was irresistible. The weary traveler turned into a large parking lot that was almost filled with vehicles, the majority being pickups of various description—not a few with rifle racks mounted across the rear windows, many of which prominently displayed a Winchester carbine or a deadly serious look-alike. Capped at either end in cowboy boots and wide-brimmed felt hats, rough-looking men strolled about this way and that. A few of these tough customers had not yet seen forty winters, but most were slightly bowlegged, early models with unfiltered cigarettes hanging limply from their lips or wads of Red Man tobacco bulging in their jaws.

Miss Smithson blinked.
What's this—some kind of old-time cowboy jamboree?
A response to her query was immediately provided by the small marquee under the hotel's the main entrance (which was missing an apostrophe):

WELCOME

ROCKY MTN CATTLEMENS ASSOC

AND

WESTERN STATES BRAND INSPECTORS

She managed a wan smile.
Granddaddy would fit right in here.
And for that matter, so did the little girl inside her who'd grown up on her grandfather's small West Texas ranch. But her nostalgic thoughts were suddenly elbowed aside by an unnervingly sinister realization that the assassin who wore a cowboy hat might take this opportunity to melt into a crowd of genuine westerners.
He might even decide to check in here at the Holiday Inn.
Fear feeds upon itself.
Worse still, he might've arrived a few hours ago.
And if he had, then …
Cowboy could be loading his pistol in the room right across the hall from where I'll be unpacking in a few minutes.

But how long were the odds of such a ghastly coincidence?

Of all the hotels in town, there's no reason to believe he'd pick
this
one.
A sensible and reassuring conclusion. But it was impossible to dismiss the obvious fact that wherever the so-called Cowboy hung his hat in Granite Creek, it would be far more difficult to spot the hired gun among hundreds of real-McCoy convention cowboys who would be meandering around town, half of them looking like the black-hat hardcase in a grade-B Western who'd come to Dodge City to gun down clean-cut, clear-eyed U.S. Marshal Dillon. Or … Miss Kitty.

Since there was nothing she could do about that, the would-be bounty hunter addressed a more mundane issue. Pulling in to check-in parking at the main entrance, the edgy traveler left the Bronco engine idling unevenly and dashed inside to make sure the Vacancy sign could be relied on. She was assured that there was room at the inn; but there were only three left to chose from and these would likely be occupied within a quarter hour.

Louella Smithson promptly selected an accommodation at the rear of the hotel, where (she was advised by the helpful desk clerk), “You won't be disturbed by traffic noise, ma'am.” She crossed her fingers as the dapper young man swiped her almost-maxed-out Visa card and held her breath until the plastic rectangle was accepted. The clerk gave Miss Smithson a pair of room keys, a map of the premises—and a gracious invitation to a complimentary buffet breakfast in the Gold Rush Sun Room. Capping this hospitality off with a genuinely friendly smile, he advised the famished guest that coffee, tea, and cookies were available 24/7 at that same location.

Keys and map clutched tightly in hand, Miss Smithson hurried back to her Bronco, drove around to the rear of the hostelry, and parked on the yonder side of the lot by the creek bank. As often happens when a worn-out traveler reaches her destination, she was suddenly overcome with a mind-numbing fatigue. Indeed, the longing to lean back and close her eyes was almost overpowering.
But I can't sit here in the car or I'll fall asleep.
This being so, she emerged from the Bronco with the pink laptop computer tucked under her left arm, a shabby pink suitcase firmly gripped in her right hand, and the hotel map clenched between her teeth.
Oh—where did I put those room keys?
In her jacket pocket she believed. Hoped. The groggy traveler did not actually remember putting them there, but …
That's where they've got to be.

And so off she went, her face set toward the rear entrance. A playful gust of chill wind snatched her breath away.
Oh, it's so cold!
Moreover, snow was flurrying around her pale face like tiny white moths. Which reminded the tourist that her fleece-lined raincoat was in the Bronco.
Not a problem—I'll come back for it after I get the room unlocked and unpack some things.

Not a problem.
One of those phrases that we toss off so casually. On occasion, almost flippantly.

LOUELLA
SMITHSON
'
S
PROBLEM

The assassin, of course.

The vehicle that had tailed her into town was parked about fifty yards away. Lights out. Engine idling like a purring cougar.

As the intended victim entered the hotel, a pair of serenely calm eyes regarded Miss Smithson with the detached, professional interest of a cleaver-wielding butcher about to dismember a side of prime beef. Between a pair of finely tuned ears, the alert brain considered the laptop and small suitcase and made an informed conjecture:
No woman travels that light
. The head nodded knowingly.
She'll be back for something else.
Under a perfectly straight nose, the compressed, thin lips smiled without a hint of mirth.
And when she does, I'll be waiting for her.
Cowboy was confident that this day's quota of bad luck had been used up.
This time, no meddlesome cop will show up to foul things up.

Perhaps.

But what about
two
meddlesome cops—who are already in the neighborhood?

 

CHAPTER THIRTY

HAVE A GOOD TIME AT THE SUNBURST PIZZA RESTAURANT!

No, this is
not
an advertisement provided in exchange for a free meal and beverage, tip included (except on Saturday evenings)—and anyone who suggests otherwise is an envious rumormonger. The headlined Granite Creek eatery happens to be the high-class feed trough where Scott Parris and Charlie Moon were dining with their lady friends when the chief of police (now officially returned to duty) grudgingly took a call from Dispatch. Possibly because he detested the interruption, Parris's share of the conversation served as an admirable model of lucid brevity: “I'm here.” Six-heartbeat pause. “Got it.” Disconnecting, he directed a sheepish smile at the lady sitting beside him in the booth. “Sorry, sweetie—I've got to run.”

“Oh, pooh!” Tiffany effected a pretty pout. “Official police business?” (This proud holder of an earned PhD is a very discerning lady.)

Parris nodded at his knockout date, who was an assistant professor of English literature at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic. He cast a glance at Charlie Moon. “But nothing that'd interest my deputy.” Grinning thinly at the lean Ute, he added, “This is strictly top-drawer stuff—way beyond Charlie's pay grade.”

The intrepid poker player saw the grin and raised with a show of pearly teeth. “That's right, pardner.” Parleying a hunch, Moon laid his ace of hearts on the table—faceup. “You go take care of the lady.”

Well, that was a low blow! Parris stared like an about-to-be-poached buck caught in an unscrupulous hunter's pickup headlights.

Four pretty, mascaraed eyes widened.

Tiffany's pair glared at her blushing date, who was scowling at his Indian friend. She repeated Moon's provocative phrase: “The
lady
?”

“Well, she's a woman.” Parris shrugged his big shoulders. “I don't know if she's necessarily a
lady
.…” His blush deepened. “What I mean to say is—”

“What Scott means is that she's not necessarily a
shady
lady.” The merry Ute winked at Tiffany. “Let's just say she's a stranger in our fair city—someone
special,
who needs to be escorted around town and generally looked after by a big, strong, hairy-chested man.”

It is not an unwarranted exaggeration to assert that Chief of Police Scott Parris was severely miffed at Moon, or that Professor Tiffany Mayfair was speechless.

Sensing an imminent explosion, Patsy Poynter hastened to defuse the tension. “My goodness, this visitor sounds very
mysterious.
”