Three Sisters (18 page)

And in an instant, there it was—so innocent in appearance, so deadly in intent. Even in its deeply encrypted form, the file occupied a mere twelve kilobytes on the hard disk. It would be forwarded anonymously, through a series of untraceable foreign e-mail accounts that would be opened just long enough to transfer the data, then closed immediately following the transmission.

Well, here we are, Andy m’boy—time to start the ol’ ball rolling.

This was one of those rare moments—a life-altering decision. Andrew Turner still had time to change his mind. But not much. Every segment of this evening’s performance had been orchestrated down to the minute.

His index finger rested lightly on the optical mouse.

On the screen, the cursor blinked expectantly over the Send Now button.

The hacker chewed on his lower lip. Held his breath. Once the thing was done, there was no turning back. He felt an odd doomsday chill, as if he had a revolver to his temple, was about to pull the trigger. He hesitated. Cogitated.

There’s no other way…I have to do it.

His finger pressed down, the mouse clicked.

There was an electronically generated whooshing sound, intended to suggest a supersonic mail plane outbound.

His future determined by this daring act, the man’s face—bathed in sickly illumination from the computer screen—seemed to fluoresce bluish green. Seeing the identical glow on his hands, it occurred to Turner that he resembled a corpse. But this clever, ambitious fellow had no time for negative thinking. He voice-commanded the computer to erase the small file he had forwarded (which it did), to write a checkerboard of ones and zeros over the file location (which it also did), and to shut itself down (ditto). He departed from his office.

Once upstairs, Turner opened the door to the attached four-car garage, slipped into his Corvette, eased the low-slung automobile into the waiting night. The falling snow glittered in the headlight beams, coated the graveled drive with a frosty sheen.

As he headed down the steep driveway that wound its serpentine path between the edge of Spencer Mountain and the Devil’s Mouth, the speedometer needle tarried in the neighborhood of thirty-five miles per hour. The wind moaned; naked aspen branches shivered as he passed. Rolling along in high spirits, he went over The Plan, ticking off each element in his mind. He considered the timing. Tried to spot the slightest flaw in the plot. Forty-four miles per hour. He assured himself that the scheme was perfection personified. It could not fail. Andrew Turner was a man with several strong character traits. Excessive humility was not to be counted among them. Forty-nine mph.

He laughed out loud. And, for reasons known only to himself, began to hum Abraham Lincoln’s favorite song. It might well be that he wished he were in
de land ob cotton.
Did Mr. Turner feel the tug of that mythic realm where
old times am not forgotten
? One hesitates to hazard a guess. Whatever the case, as he rounded the tightest curve on the long descent to the paved highway, and the Corvette headlights swept impotently off into the darkness above the Devil’s Mouth, he was well on his way. But to what destination?
To lib an’ die in Dixie?

It seems unlikely. But with such a man as he, who among us would categorically rule out such an eventuality?

Whatever he yenned or yearned for, by the time the low beams illuminated the gravel driveway again—the thing was as good as done.

As Andrew Turner, tucked snugly in to his Corvette, rolled along the winding driveway, Beatrice was already far away, passing the familiar sign that welcomed her to Granite Creek—where a cold, chill rain pelted the dimly illuminated streets. She soon arrived at the corner of Copper and Vine, where her sister Cassandra’s three-story Victorian brick ably played the role of seedy anachronism among a younger cluster of modern glass-and-steel office buildings. The familiar white TV-COM van was parked in the front driveway. She made a right into the paved alley, pulled into the graveled space behind the big, ugly house, parked in the soft, yellow glow of a 75-watt electric bulb concealed in a replica of an antique gas lantern. She was about to open the Mercedes door when a pair of headlights sliced through the night.
Who could that be?
Beatrice waited while the SUV pulled up beside her.

She watched a lean, tall man emerge from a Ford Expedition that had a wildflower logo on the driver’s door—a Colorado columbine. The lanky fellow wore a gray Stetson, gray suede jacket, razor-crease gray slacks, and gleaming cowboy boots.
I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere.
She got out of the Mercedes just as he opened a rear door and a thin little girl in a red coat practically leaped out.
That must be his daughter. His wife is probably in the front seat
. Beatrice called out, “Excuse me—this is a private parking space.”

The man turned. “Soon as my aunt gets out, I’ll be glad to move the car to the street.” A friendly smile flashed across the dark face. “But the lady of the house said I could park here.”

He’s either lost or lying through his teeth.
“And who would that lady be?”

“Miss Cassandra Spencer.” The smile gleamed with a mischievous glint. “And if I’m not mistaken, the lady I’m speaking to is her sister.”

Beatrice blinked. “And who might you be?”

The gentleman removed his pearl-gray Stetson, which was reserved for special occasions. “Charlie Moon.”

Oh, now I remember.
“You’re the deputy who met Cassie and me when we arrived at Astrid’s home that night. And refused us entry.”
Even threatened to pick us up, one under each arm, and stuff us into the police car. And meant every word of it.
Her face burned.
What a man!

Feeling, but misunderstanding, the heat, Moon hurriedly introduced the shy, thin teenager beside him. “This young lady is my friend Sarah Frank.”

The Ute-Papago teenager cringed at the “my friend,” but smiled and nodded at the pretty white woman.

Beatrice returned the smile. “Cassandra will be quite busy tonight. Perhaps you could tell me what your business is with my sister—”

There was an anxious squawk from the bowels of the Expedition. “Charlie, are you gonna help me outta this big car, or should I try to get out on my own and maybe fall flat on my face?”

He explained; “The sweet little lady in the front seat is my aunt Daisy.”

Daisy?
“Oh—is she the guest on tonight’s show?”

“That’s about the size of it.” He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “And I’m her chauffeur.”

For an instant, Beatrice disremembered that she was a married lady. And that she was a lady.
You could take me for a drive anytime.

Hearing his aunt fumbling to open the car door, Moon went to assist the elderly person. Upon exiting the car, Daisy’s first words were, “This cold rain’ll give me the double pneumonia.”

Beatrice reached into her purse, found the key to Cassandra’s door. “I’ll take you inside.”

In the kitchen, she introduced the Indians to a short, plump, balding, bespectacled man who needed no introduction. No, he was not famous. The name tag pinned to his shirt identified him as Gerald Sax, Assistant Director. The anxious AD nodded at Sarah and Daisy, gave Moon’s extended hand a quick, perfunctory grasp, and murmured to Beatrice; “Cassie’s still putting on her makeup. She should be on the set by now.”
One of these times, she’s gonna be late. I just know it. And when that happens, who’ll get yelled at? The star of the show? Not a chance—me, that’s who!

After assuring the fidgety fellow that all would be well, Beatrice explained a Rule of the House to the newcomers: “My sister is a very private person. Mr. Sax is the only employee from the television production crew that Cassie allows into her home.”

Sax barely allowed himself a momentary roll of the eyes. It was a running affront with the Denver/Salt Lake television company that the star of
Cassandra Sees
was so utterly independent of those experts who applied makeup, maintained the set, operated cameras and lights—all that professional expertise that would have added a definite touch of class to the plain-vanilla production. On the other hand, the fact that
C Sees
was a low-budget production certainly helped the profit margin.

The visitors from the Columbine followed the assistant director into the dining room, where a panel of switches, knobs, digital readouts, and four flat-screen monitors was mounted on a wheeled, stainless-steel cart. As he explained the hardware to the newcomers, Sax’s countenance brightened. “On the day of the broadcast, I drive over from Denver, set up the cameras, microphones, and lights on the
Cassandra Sees
set—which is just on the other side of the wall. I take care of things from this remote-control console.”

Beatrice addressed Daisy Perika: “The broadcast originates in Cassie’s parlor. That’s where she interviews her guests. And where she feels most comfortable.”

Following the white woman’s glance, Daisy looked toward the closed oak door.

Sax seated himself at the cart, pointed to each monitor in turn. “From here, I select the shot I want—camera one, two, or three, each of which you can see on the corresponding ten-inch monitors. The active camera shows up on the larger color screen. The video feed from that monitor is up-linked live, via satellite, to Denver.”

Daisy leaned in to inspect the screens. Two of the cameras were showing different views of a beautifully upholstered high-backed chair. The third was focused on a smaller chair.

“Cameras one and two present Cassandra face-on and profile, respectively,” Sax said to Daisy. “You’ll be on camera three.”

So, two pictures for her, one for me.
Daisy’s stomach was beginning to flutter. “How’ll I know when to talk?”

“Not a problem.” Sax patted the old woman’s hunched back. “It’ll be just like having a chat with one of your friends. To help things along, Cassie will ask you questions.” His round face split in a grin. “Easy as falling off a log.”

The image of falling off a log did nothing to bolster Daisy’s courage. “But how does
she
know when to start talking—and when to stop?”

Daisy had inadvertently hit upon one of Sax’s sore spots. He glowered at monitor one, as if he could see the woman who would be sitting in the star’s chair. “Cassandra refuses to wear a miniature earphone. Says it distracts her. But I’ve rigged up a set of signal lights on the coffee table. The lights provide a countdown till she goes on the air—green for one minute, yellow for thirty seconds, red for five. Once she’s on, the same lights signal the countdown till cameras-off. But Cassandra doesn’t depend entirely on the lights—she has her own little television set stashed under the coffee table. It serves as a monitor to show her what’s being broadcast. The sound is turned off, of course, but she can see when a commercial is ending—and her program logo comes on for three seconds before I take direct feed from the cameras to the satellite uplink.”

Daisy frowned. “When the show’s running, she can see herself on the TV under the table?”

“That’s right.”
And she loves seeing her mug on the silver screen.

The mystery guest shuddered. “If I was trying to talk, and saw myself on the TV, that would make me nervous.”

“Not an issue—you’ll be on the other side of the coffee table, so you won’t be able to see Cassie’s television monitor.”

The worrier had already thought of a new problem: “What if my voice gets scratchy?”

“There’ll be a beverage of your choice on the coffee table. Coffee, tea, water—anything you want.”

“Water will be okay.” Her face screwed up with another worried look. “But what if I drink too much, and need to go pee?”

While Moon grinned and Sarah bit her lip to keep from smiling, Sax’s pale face blushed. “Uh—when Denver runs commercials, you’ll get a break. If you need to go to the bathroom, let Cassie know. It’s just off the parlor, the door between the piano and the bookshelves.”

Moon put his arm around the nervous elder. “You’ll be fine.”

Daisy Perika was not entirely convinced, but her nephew’s encouragement did help. And despite being anxious about this unprecedented experience, she was also delighted at the prospect of appearing on television. Matter of fact, she was feeling quite young tonight. Not a day over seventy-five.

Sax disappeared into the parlor for a last-minute adjustment. Or perhaps to escape Daisy.

“As soon as Cassie is ready,” Beatrice said to the Ute woman, “I’ll introduce you to her.”

“We’ve already met,” Daisy said.

“Oh?”

“I happened to run into your sister and her boyfriend at a restaurant.”

“Boyfriend?”
Well now—what has dear Cassie been hiding from me?
“What did he look like?”

“Great big fella,” Daisy said. “Bald as a boiled potato, shoulders like a buffalo.”

Beatrice laughed. “That has to be Nicholas Moxon. Nicky is Cassie’s business manager.”

Being on her best behavior, the old woman held back a derisive snort.
Call him whatever you want to, but in my day, when a man took a girl to a nice restaurant and bought her lunch, they was the same as engaged.
At the mention of lunch, Daisy’s stomach responded with a peculiar, sickly feeling. Also started making odd little noises.

Cassandra chose this moment to make her entrance from the parlor. And quite an entrance it was. From the shining, raven-black locks that hung to her slim waist, to the perfectly tailored black silk dress that terminated just far enough above her knees to provide an eyeful of shapely legs sheathed in black net stockings, to the matching black heels—the star of the show was a fashion photo of self-assured elegance. The effect of her sudden appearance on those present varied somewhat.

Gerald Sax:
Spider-Woman looks like she’s ready to go to work.

Sarah Frank:
She is so beautiful—even better than on TV!

Charlie Moon:
Wow!

Charlie Moon’s aunt:
She must have laid that lipstick on with a paintbrush. And look at them stockings!
Daisy arched an eyebrow.
She could pass for a Reno street-walker.

Fortunately, the psychic was not a mind reader. After introductions were made, after her long lashes were fluttered at the flustered Indian cowboy
(He is so cute!)
, Cassandra turned her attention to tonight’s mystery guest. “We have a few minutes before the show begins. Would you like to have a look at the parlor, see where you’ll be sitting during the broadcast?”

“Not right now.” Daisy’s stomach made a sound like a pot of oatmeal about to boil over. “Take me to your toilet.”
It must be that beef enchilada Charlie made for lunch. The big doofus put too much powdered red chili pepper in it.