Free The Old Gray Wolf by James D. Doss

at Francine Hooten’s domicile. Indeed, the troubles there began some six minutes ago, which requires us to rewind the clock by that amount—and begin at the beginning.

 
    CHAPTER TWELVE
    AN UNFORESEEN AND ALARMING DEVELOPMENT
    After Marcella deposited a chilled Mrs. Hooten in the parlor by the blazing fire in the sandstone hearth, the meticulously vigilant maid returned to the third-floor storeroom to make sure that she had not left the slightest telltale evidence of her recent clandestine presence in that rarely visited space. After the FBI undercover agent had moved the purple velvet armchair so that its maple legs were positioned precisely over their former dustless prints and picked up a long-dead moth that she had stepped on and smashed flat, she reached over to straighten the grubby lace curtains at the window—and glanced through the dingy glass to see Cushing strolling along the pathway toward the rose garden. In an instant, the roles of suspicious butler and spied-on maid were reversed. What’s that sneaky little twerp up to? She thought she knew, and Marcella’s heart literally stopped— skipping a beat as the beak-nosed Englishman stooped to pluck something off the ragged edge of an unclipped hedge. A dark something, about the size of a rubber plug that belonged on the tip of Mrs. Hooten’s titanium walking stick. There could be no doubt about it: He’s found it.
    She might have hoped that the butler would not realize the significance of what he had discovered and decided that she would stick around and see it out to a final showdown—come what may.
    Such follies are for amateurs and absurd characters in lurid novels—not for professionals who want to blow out the candles on their next birthday cake. Her training kicking in, Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton turned to descend the stairway two steps at a time. Before she had reached the landing on the second floor, the lady had removed the mobile phone from her apron pocket and connected to a memorized emergency number where a human being would pick up the phone. She held her breath for three rings, then breathed again when the anonymous voice said, “ID, please.” She responded in a Right Stuff monotone that did not betray the slightest hint of her apprehension, “S. A. Clayton.”
    â€œPlease state your request.”
    â€œEvacuation.”
    â€œSay again?”
    â€œS. A. Clayton—Evacuation. Plan One.”
    â€œRoger, Clayton. We’re on top of it.”
    And that was that.
    A BEARER OF BAD NEWS
    Pleased with the important business she had conducted in the rose garden, Mrs. Francine Hooten was comfortable by the fireplace—and relaxed. Very much so. Indeed, her head was drooped, and she was almost dozing when her rest was interrupted by a polite, “Excuse me, madam.”
    Raising her chin and opening her eyes, the lady of the house murmured irritably, “What is it, Cushing?”
    â€œThis.” He presented an open palm. “I found it lodged in the hedge, at the edge of your rose garden.”
    She leaned forward for a closer look. “Is that a pint Mason jar?”
    â€œYes, madam.” The butler cleared his throat. “But the jar is not what I discovered in the hedge. I thought it prudent to seal the found object inside this handy glass container.”
    He can be so damn irritating. “Are you going to tell me why ?”
    â€œAh—but that is the very point.”
    â€œCushing—you are beginning to get on my nerves.” She blinked at the black object in the pint jar. “What on earth is that ?”
    â€œA small, black rubber cap.” Her bodyguard pointed his finger at the tip of her walking stick, which lay across her lap. “I believe it belongs on the end of your cane—it must have fallen off during your recent visit to the flower garden.”
    Francine took a look at the naked tip of her telescoping support. “No