The Old Gray Wolf

by James D. Doss

  The moment of frivolity was short-lived.

  As soon as the last word was out of her mouth, the trio of cops turned to watch the ambulances bearing the Poynter sisters pull away. Farther down the block, a fireman detached a few yards of the yellow-and-black barrier to allow the vehicles to pass without breaking the tape. Seconds later, the keening wail of their sirens pierced the chill evening air. Like, Officer Martin thought, silver blades slicing ice.

  Parris turned his gaze on Moon, whose face was bereft of expression. “I’m sorry about your prospective sister-in-law, Charlie.” Raising his voice, he tried to hit a hopeful note. “But we know Patsy’s okay, and with a little bit of luck her sister’ll pull through and be just fine.” And provide us with a good description of the bastard who bopped her on the head.

  Still gazing into the darkness where the ambulances had been swallowed up by night, Charlie Moon directed a routine query to Officer Martin: “When d’you figure the suspect pickup pulled away?”

  “It must have been immediately before the neighbor called 911.” Alicia Martin checked her timepiece. “Which was about twelve minutes ago.”

  The deputy barely heard her response.

  LOOK OUT, CHARLIE—HERE THEY COME AGAIN!

  Yes, those deputy-distracting flashbacks had returned for a third run. Annoying, to say the least—especially when a man is trying hard to sort out his thoughts. But illusions have their issues, too, and sometimes it takes one a little while to get itself organized. Toward that end and during the interim, the formerly jumbled scenes had cleverly realigned themselves into chronological order along one, seamless filmstrip. Not a presentation worthy of Alfred Hitchcock; the resultant motion picture did not offer even a coherent storyline. That defect admitted, it did hint at an underlying plot. One so absurd that Moon tried to put it out of his mind. That’s way too crazy.

  Undismayed by this harsh criticism, the stubbornly sinister suggestion refused to fade to black. It looped back on itself, repeating the performance to its singular audience.

  After a second viewing, Charlie Moon was compelled to admit that the notion did make a twisted kind of sense. Sufficiently so that he could not entirely dismiss the bizarre possibility. But it sure is an awful long shot. Which knotty conundrum resulted in one of those pesky internal conversations: I’m probably way off base, but I ought to at least check it out. And look like a biggest damn fool in Granite Creek County. Which wouldn’t be the first time, or the last. But before I go off half-cocked, I should let Scott do his job. After all, I’m not the chief of police. But I’m his deputy. If I stick my neck out, I’m likely to get my head chopped off. Maybe so, but that risk comes with wearing the badge and doing the job. The outcome had never been in doubt. The man who never backed away from his responsibilities took a deep breath. Well, here goes nothin’. The deputy cleared his throat before addressing his best friend. “Pardner, things are happening so fast that I don’t have time to explain. I’ll have to ask you to trust me—and take my advice without asking any questions.”

  Uh-oh. “What d’you want me to do, Charlie?”

  “Excepting Officer Martin, pull every GCPD uniform off this crime scene. Send every one of ’em—and every off-duty cop you can call in—over to the southeast section of town. Job one is to block off Silver Avenue from Plum Street to Fargo. Nobody gets through except law enforcement. No exceptions whatsoever.”

  Parris’s wide eyes didn’t blink. “That’s it?”

  “Order a silent operation. No sirens within a mile of the quarantined area.” Moon added urgently, “And do it right now.”

  “You got it, buddy.” Parris nodded at Alicia Martin, who promptly passed the order along.

  Scott Parris watched the GCPD black-and-whites pull away, followed by one of the state-trooper cruisers. “Okay, Chuck—so what about you and me—what do we do now?”

  “The hard part, pardner.” The Ute stared at his best friend. “I’m not armed and you’re packing that little .38 peashooter. We’re liable to need some help.”

  Ignoring the crack about the beloved Smith & Wesson snub-nose nestled in his shoulder holster, Parris cocked his head. “Who d’you have in mind?”

  Moon jerked his chin to indicate a tall, thin state policeman who deserved his reputation for getting the job done no matter what. And Officer Jackson was a dead shot.

  Parris arched a fuzzy eyebrow. That cop gives me the willies. “Ice-Eyes Jackson?”

  The Ute nodded.

  The GCPD chief of police shrugged, but made the request to the lean trooper. Jackson immediately agreed—and without asking what was expected of him. Whatever the job was, he’d take care of business. Ice-Eyes was reputed to have shot a convenience-store robber between the eyes while mumbling, “Please drop the pistol, sir—and release the young woman.” (Bang!) “Otherwise, I will be obliged to use deadly force.” Probably apocryphal; neither the terrified cashier hostage nor Jackson’s stand-up partner had mentioned this detail during the obligatory shooting investigation, or would confirm it later after a customer provided a fragmentary account of the trooper’s alleged remarks.

  Charlie Moon was pleased to have a dependable shooter to round out their team.

  Scott Parris was a little uneasy as he eyed the trooper, then his best friend. “Okay, Charlie. So where do we go from here?”

  His grim deputy grinned mirthlessly. Probably to witness my all-time-greatest folly. “You and me and Officer Jackson will pay a courtesy call on the Holiday Inn.” Which hotel was located smack-dab in the center of the about-to-be cordoned-off area.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  THE CRITICAL TELEPHONE CALL

  As Charlie Moon pulled his Expedition away from the Stop sign, he shot a sideways glance at the uniformed policeman in the passenger seat. In a tranquil tone that a man might use to ask a fellow diner to pass the bread, he said, “Please contact GCPD Dispatch, Officer Jackson.”

  Without asking why, the state trooper removed his portable radio from its belt holster, selected the proper channel, and made the connection.

  As the big SUV picked up speed, Moon turned on the defroster. “Ask Clara Tavishuts to place a telephone call to Scott’s lady friend—a Miss … no, make that Professor Tiffany Mayfair. Clara should advise the lady not to open her door to anyone except Scott, or me—or a uniformed police officer.”

  Jackson passed along Moon’s polite request as a priority-one state-police directive, to be taken care of right now—any 911 calls would have to wait.

  Moon enlarged upon his request: “If Professor Mayfair doesn’t answer her phone, Clara should contact the condominium supervisor and ask him to check on the resident.”

  That instruction was also relayed to the dispatcher.

  “Thank you, Officer Jackson.” I wonder what his first name is. An unlikely but appealing possibility occurred to the whimsical Indian: Maybe his momma took one look at her brand-new, blue-eyed baby and said to his daddy, “Let’s call him Ice-Eyes.”

  Jackson uttered his first words since strapping his angular frame into the Columbine SUV: “Anything else, Charlie?”

  “There’s a portable emergency light in the glove compartment. Use it at your discretion.”

  Officer Jackson found the appliance, slipped its plug into the Expedition’s twelve-volt power outlet, buttoned the driver’s-side window down, popped the magnetized emergency flasher onto the steel roof, and raised the window to a crack just wide enough to accommodate the electrical cable. He rested his thumb on the in-line switch.

  With Scott Parris’s black-and-white practically biting at his bumper, Charlie Moon alternately accelerated and slowed, watching for intersecting traffic before running several Stop signs.

  As he had on the way to Patsy’s home, Parris used his transponder to green the occasional red light. In between these legally allowable excesses, the deputy was exceeding the posted speed limit by as much as he could manage without significantly endangering life and limb of nearby citizens. There was
not a second to lose, and the Ute’s flinty face was grim, as if death was right around the next corner. We show up a heartbeat too late, Cowboy is gone for good. Moon realized that he might already be a thousand heartbeats tardy.

  As nifty gadgets sometimes do during emergency situations, Scott Parris’s traffic-light controller went on the blink. Approaching a major intersection where traffic was thick, Moon leaned on the horn as Jackson turned on the emergency flasher.

  A pair of startled motorists stopped dead center in the intersection.

  The situation took several agonizingly long seconds to remedy, but (despite Deputy Moon’s quiet-approach stipulation) Scott Parris eventually dispersed the minor gridlock by blasting three hellish wolf wails from his siren.

  The Colorado state trooper turned off the Expedition’s emergency light, and on they sped toward an uncertain destiny. About a half mile from the Holiday Inn, Officer Jackson took a call from GCPD Dispatch. Clara Tavishuts’s voice on the portable transceiver was loud enough for Charlie Moon to hear about every third word.

  After listening intently until the dispatcher had completed her terse report, Jackson said, “Okay—tell the supervisor to lock Miss Mayfair’s door and sit tight until a uniformed police officer arrives on the scene.” Softly as a lullaby murmured to an infant drifting off to sleep, he added, “But tell him it may be a little while before anyone shows up—we’re all kind of busy right now with one thing and another.”

  Moon swerved to avoid a dressed-in-black bicyclist with neither lights nor reflectors. “I’m guessing that Parris’s sweetheart didn’t answer her phone.” Please tell me that when the supervisor showed up Tiffany wasn’t at home.

  No such luck.

  Officer Jackson made his report in a deathly flat monotone. “The condo supervisor—a retired U.S. Navy nurse—advised Clara Tavishuts that Professor Mayfair had been bludgeoned on the head, and is definitely dead. No pulse. Eyes dilated to the max. Fingers already cool to the touch.” The hardened lawman allowed himself a breath of a sigh. “I guess I’d better put in a call to Scott’s unit.”

  “No.” Moon glanced in the rearview mirror, which was filled with his best friend’s black-and-white. “I’ll tell him.”

  Jackson turned his frigid gaze on the driver. “When?”

  “When the time is right,” Moon said. And when I’m up to it. “Professor Mayfair was murdered by the same person who set the Bronco on fire, and I don’t want Scott to know what’s happened until we’ve apprehended the suspect who drove away in the pickup.”

  “Yeah.” Moon’s passenger smiled thinly. “Scott’d probably freak out and shoot the bad guy dead on sight.” Which would round out the evening nicely—and serve the bastard right.

  “I expect he might.” The driver peered grimly ahead. “Worse still, Scott might shoot the wrong citizen.” It occurred to Moon that Jackson was not privy to recent events. He deserves to know what we’re going up against. The taciturn Ute summed up the situation tersely: “The suspect is a seriously bad character the FBI calls the ‘Cowboy Assassin.’ A professional shooter.”

  A cold-blooded pro himself, Jackson was unimpressed. “You figure this hired gun is holed up in the Holiday Inn?”

  “No, I don’t.” Not inside. Moon jutted his chin. “There’s Officers Knox and Slocum, setting up one of the roadblocks.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  AT THE HOLIDAY INN

  As they approached the hotel’s iconic roadside sign, Charlie Moon asked his passenger to please return the emergency blinker to the glove compartment.

  This direction having been anticipated by Officer Jackson, the process was initiated before the words were out of the driver’s mouth.

  Right on Moon’s tail as he slowed the Expedition, Scott Parris also eased off on the gas, allowing the elastic distance between them to stretch to two car lengths.

  All three lawmen sensed some kind of showdown in the offing, and each of them reacted in his characteristic manner.

  His throat seared by a sudden surge of heartburn, Chief of Police Parris gritted his teeth. I hope I’ve got some Tums in my pockets. (Not a problem; he did.)

  The Ute deputy’s lips whispered a four-word prayer. Charlie Moon was barely conscious of his automatic supplication. (Didn’t matter. His words were heard.)

  Of its own accord, Trooper Jackson’s trusty right hand found his holstered sidearm and rested there with serene expectation, in eager anticipation of that moment when his brain would send a shoot-on-sight command. (When the time came, it would.)

  Jackson: “I assume that we’re looking for the suspect’s vehicle.”

  “Mm-hm.” Charlie Moon glanced left and right. “The pickup might be next door at the Quiznos—or even across the street in the strip mall.” But I don’t think so. Indeed, the Indian cowboy would have bet his fine pair of Tony Lama boots that the truck was behind the Holiday Inn, where Louella Smithson had parked her old Bronco when she checked in yesterday evening. Shifting down to second gear, he eased the Columbine flagship into the hotel parking lot slowly, like a weary, bleary-eyed tourist hoping to find a convenient parking spot and then a comfortable bed.

  Officer Jackson’s cold blue gaze was scanning dozens of parked vehicles. With all of these convention cowpokes in town, most of the vehicles in the Holiday Inn are pickups. “So how’ll we know when we spot the right truck?”

  “It showed up just a few minutes ago, so the engine’s still warm.” Moon eased his pointy boot toe off the accelerator pedal and shifted to Low. “The pickup we’re looking won’t have any frost on the hood.”

  “Oh … right.” Thank you, Sherlock Ute.

  The latter-day consulting detective switched off the Expedition’s defroster fan. “And the windshield will be clear of frost.”

  Thanks again. By force of habit, Jackson unholstered and checked his sidearm. As he knew it would be, the Glock’s 9-mm magazine was fully loaded. With a derisive smirk, he injected a copper-jacketed round into the barrel. “So here we go, Charlie—me’n a full-blooded Ute Indian out gunning for an outlaw cowboy.” I’d sure hate to be in that unlucky hombre’s boots.

  The driver nodded. But this Cowboy ain’t your average cow pie kicker.

  The state cop watched several clusters of well-booted hombres who were topped off with broad-brimmed hats, all meandering this way and that in the parking lot. A few were cold sober; but the rest had been sampling the potent liquid refreshment served up at local dispensaries. “This’ll be like looking for a drunk in the Burro Alley Saloon on a Saturday night.”

  Ignoring the male pedestrians, the driver was looking for the suspect vehicle. “We’re not likely to see the cowboy who owns the pickup strutting around with these other stockmen.”

  “You figure he’s already holed up someplace?”

  Charlie Moon switched off the noisy defroster. “I figure he’ll be in his pickup.”

  “Doing what?” The trooper frowned. “Waiting for us to show up?”

  The Ute slowed his Expedition to a crawl. “In a manner of speaking.”

  I sure wish Charlie would just say straight out what’s on his mind. “So the shooter figures we’ve got him cornered—and intends to run up the white flag?”

  “No. For his kind, surrender is not an option.”

  The state trooper’s hard face split into a grin. “You believe this outlaw intends to stand and shoot it out with the police?”

  Moon shook his head.

  Officer Jackson was an uncomplicated man who liked things simple and straightforward. This whole business is beginning to sound awfully squirrelly. “Then what do you think?”

  “I think we’ve found the pickup.” Charlie Moon braked his SUV to a dead stop and switched off the headlights.

  Close behind them, Scott Parris did the same.

  There was no need for the Ute to point at what he’d spotted. Officer Jackson had also noticed the shiny new GMC pickup with no frost on the hood—and a freshly defrosted windshield.


  Scott Parris, Charlie Moon, and Officer Jackson opened the car doors at their respective elbows almost simultaneously and slipped out like ghostly man-shadows. The trio congregated at the chief of police’s black-and-white. Ready to assume charge of whatever action Charlie Moon had in mind, Parris jutted his square chin at the suspect vehicle. “Is that it?”

  “I believe it is,” his Indian deputy said.

  Jackson was staring doubtfully at the truck. Moon is dead wrong on at least one particular. And he could not resist telling him so. “There’s nobody in the truck, Charlie.”

  “Oh, he’s there all right—just out of sight.” Having temporarily lost interest in the pickup, Moon was now scanning the parking lot.

  Parris leaned forward to squint at the GMC pickup. “Well if he’s in there, I sure don’t see him.”

  “Neither do I,” the Ute said.

  Figuring he’d caught on, Parris nodded knowingly. “Hunkered down, huh?”

  Charlie Moon responded with a nod.

  His companions drew similar conclusions:

  Parris: Ol’ Charlie must’ve got a quick look at Cowboy right before he popped out of sight.

  Jackson: That sharp-eyed Indian spotted the shooter before he ducked. “He’s keeping his head down and waiting for some dumb cop to peep through the window so he can blow his fool head off.” Jackson’s hand took a tighter grip on the butt of his holstered automatic pistol. “But we’ve got him cornered.”

  “You got that right,” Parris said. “This woman-strangling, Bronco-burning yahoo ain’t going nowhere.” Despite this earnest bluster, he knew it wouldn’t be a cakewalk. In a dicey situation like this, the sensible course of action was to quietly evacuate the hotel while stealthily saturating the parking lot with GCPD uniforms and state police. That process would take maybe twenty minutes, and … Before we even got started we could hem that pickup in with my black-and-white and Charlie’s SUV. As soon as there was no way out, they could let the assassin know the game was up … and wait him out. For how long? Long as it takes. Till Houston is snowed in and Tucson freezes over.