Read Online The Old Gray Wolf by James D. Doss - Free Book Online

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 ).
    â€œYou 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