Three Sisters (22 page)

She smiled up at the nice young man. “Okay.”

Startled by this mellow response, he blinked. “If you need something done, just ask me. That’s what I’m here for.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Daisy, who was in a
very
good mood, reached out to pat his arm.

From the evidence in his headset, the final commercial was ending. The
Cassandra Sees
logo would hit the screen within a few palpitations of his racing heart. Sax spoke softly to the elderly lady: “Now keep your eye on camera one. When you’re about to go on the air, I’ll point at you.”

Daisy nodded, waited. This was more fun than stepping on a cat’s tail.

Sax counted down. Three. Two. One. He aimed his official assistant director’s finger at the stand-in’s forehead.

Daisy Perika looked directly into the camera displaying the tiny red light, smiled sweetly. “Well, we’re back. At least I’m back—that white woman who runs things here has left for a while—I think she’s upset because she thinks somebody she knows has died. I’m supposed to pick up with what I was saying before, but I can’t remember exactly where I was in my story when I got interrupted. So I’ll just start back at the beginning.” She took a deep breath. “Blue Hummingbird was my favorite uncle….”

Gerald Sax returned to the dining room, took his seat at the control console, checked monitor one, glanced at the meter on the audio panel.
I’m not picking her up clearly. Old lady’s about two heads shorter than Cassandra. I’ll get the mike a little closer.

During the next commercial break, while Mr. Sax was busy with whatever tasks occupy the time of assistant directors, Daisy Perika noticed an old-fashioned telephone on a lamp stand. The instrument was near her elbow, and Cassandra Spencer’s unlisted number was printed on the center of the circular dial. Mumbling them over and over and over, Daisy imprinted the seven digits in her memory. At the end of the broadcast, she would scribble the confidential number on a scrap of paper. One never knows when such information will prove useful. But Daisy did.

At precisely one minute before the end of the television broadcast, Cassandra Spencer opened her eyes.
Oh, I have such a stinking headache!
She rolled onto her back, looked up at Charlie Moon and Sarah Frank.
What are they doing here in my bedroom—gawking at me?
More to the point:
What am I doing here?
She blinked twice, said, “What happened?” The Ute, who was in one of his taciturn moods, let Sarah do the explaining.

When the eventful hour (which had seemed like a week to Gerald Sax) had ticktocked away its full allotment of thirty-six hundred seconds, the assistant director felt much like that proverbial drowning man who has gone down for the third and final time, only to be plucked from the raging waters by an unseen hand. He was, in his peculiar way, grateful to God. The AD was also much-obliged to the ancient Indian woman who had saved the show; he was ready to offer her several pints of his blood, the title to his brand-new Lexus RX 400h, and to name his first girl-child Daisy. As it happened, Daisy Perika was not in need of blood, and both the Lexus and the daughter were but fanciful gleams in Mr. Sax’s eye. But what he did have for tonight’s guest was the standard “special gift package”—a box of one dozen hand-made Cocotal Chocolates (which Daisy accepted with pleasure), and an up-to-date packet of
Cassandra Sees
DVDs which included off-air segments, which Sarah greatly lusted after (as a skilled and sensitive observer of teenage behavior might have deduced from subtle physiological indicators, such as the girl’s clenched fists, hyperventilation, dilated pupils, and whispered, “Yes yes yes!”). Sadly, there was no such observer present. The Ute elder, who did not realize that a recording of
tonight’s
show was included, idly passed the digitized disks to Charlie Moon, who dropped the parcel into his jacket pocket.

The girl was eyeing that pocket, framing the hint that she would drop to let Daisy know that these DVDs would be
such
a cool addition to her collection of
C Sees
videos, which were limited to what could be recorded from on-the air broadcasts—when the assistant director presented Sarah Frank with a yard-long white paper cylinder, tied tightly in a red ribbon. Mr. Sax informed her that the mystery gift was “…a high-resolution full-color printout that I made
especially
for you.” The subject: Cassandra’s highly magnified eye! Well. She wanted to hug the sweet little munchkin man but could not bring herself to do such a thing. Not with her future husband looking on.

Commercial Television

In Denver, the senior director of
Cassandra Sees
was communicating with Assistant Director Gerald Sax, and shaking his head at revelations from his underling in Granite Creek. “I don’t know how this’ll fall out, Jerry—that was some pretty oddball stuff.”

Consider the “stuff”:

The quirky star of
Cassandra Sees
has a vision of her brother-in-law’s death, then has to be carried off the set.

Cassandra’s place in the sun is taken by an old Indian woman. This pinch-hitter, who allegedly communicates with dead people, retells a homespun yarn about (the senior director was not paying close attention) Uncle Redwing Blackbird. Well, what’s in a name.

What matters in TV land are ratings.

As excited viewers had called family and friends to tune in, the surge in the
Cassandra Sees
audience broke records. The old Indian woman was a hoot!

For those who care about such matters, consider this statistic: It did not occur to 97.1 percent of the viewers that the psychic’s clairvoyant powers had not yet been validated by an official police report of an actual death. Such was their faith in the up-and-coming celebrity. Cassandra was never wrong.

As Beatrice Spencer approached the entrance to the long, winding driveway, she pressed the button on the remote-control unit. By the time she turned the Mercedes off the paved highway, the heavy gate was creaking open, pushing an arc through the wet snow. She braked to a crawl, pounded her fist on the steering wheel. “Hurry. Hurry!”

It would not hurry.

Moreover, the more she issued her urgent commands, the more slowly the massive thing moved. Barely half open, the wrought-iron structure ground to a halt in a pile of snow it was pushing. Bea eased the big automobile through the narrow opening, pressed the Close button on the remote control. No response from the stalled gate.

Never mind.

Lickety-splitting up the hill she went, kicking up a spray of snow.

Scott Parris’s black-and-white slipped along the northbound highway though a frivolous, frolicsome could-not-make-its-mind-up snow or rain that would fade into the dark stillness, only to return again with a puff of wind. At mile marker 10, he switched the headlights to low beam, watched for a driveway unmarked by mailbox or sign. Going back a hundred years the Spencers had valued their privacy, and Beatrice carried on the family tradition.
Please, God—let the gate be open
. No. Withdraw that sissy prayer. The hairy-chested fellow amended his petition, resubmitted:
MAKE it be open.

And so it was. Well, half open. Even so…
Thank, you, Sir—and amen!

As the chief of police passed through the constricted portal into the Spencer domain, he caught a glimpse of taillights. Parris switched on his emergency lights, flicked the siren switch on for a couple of heartbeats.

The siren’s momentary howl, the sudden sight of red-and-blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror—these electrifying stimuli tend to engender strong emotions within the breast of the startled motorist, and surprising responses. Which can lead to unexpected consequences.

Beatrice Spencer had grown up in mountain country, where one either learned to drive on slippery roads or ended up as one of those sad statistics whose genes are removed from the motor pool. Precisely
why
the lady did what she did is, at the moment, unclear. Nerves, perhaps. Or perhaps…nerve.

Whatever the reason, she jammed the brakes like some forever-summer lass who had just passed her driver’s test in Key West. But for superb German engineering, the vehicle would have probably skidded off the lane, stopping only to say howdy to a sturdy pine or surly boulder. As it happened, the Mercedes ended up broadside on the driveway, leaving about enough room for a Harley-Davidson (minus sidecar) to pass.

Scott Parris had not arrived on a motorcycle. But he was moving right along, “carrying the mail,” as the old timers say. When he rounded one of the dozen curves in the Spencer driveway, there it was, the big automobile—lights off!—blocking his way. Instinctively, he shifted down to low, barely tapped the brakes with his boot toe, watched the blockading automobile get bigger and bigger….
Please, God—please don’t let me hit it.
He eased to a stop within a yard of the expensive motor car.

Another prayer answered. For which he was immensely grateful.

Ramming the Mercedes at full speed might have ended all his worldly troubles. Even at reduced velocity, the crunching encounter would have added considerably to his woes. It is difficult for a red-faced chief of police to explain to the mayor and the county council how he happened to drive an almost-new, forty-five-thousand-dollar police unit into a stationary vehicle that was “parked” in a prominent citizen’s private driveway, totaling both cars, maiming or killing said prominent citizen.

This particular Christian was having a good night. And, he imagined, using up his quota of positive responses for the next several months. One might have expected a soul so blessed to behave accordingly, which is to say with the grace and generosity befitting one who has recently been the beneficiary of multiple heavenly favors. One might. But if one did, one would be jumping the gun, and expecting too much of a man whose temper can best be described as mercurial.

The beefy chief of police jammed the venerable fedora down to his ears, got out, stomped to the Mercedes driver’s door, shone the beam of a five-cell flashlight into the plush interior, and roared at the woman behind the wheel, “What the hell are you trying to do, Bea—get us both killed?”

There was no response. Which was no great mystery.

There was no driver.

Scott Parris was yelling at an empty automobile.

Feeling the warmth of a blush, he aimed the flashlight uphill, was barely able to see fresh tracks that were already filling with snow.
Bea must’ve skidded, then decided to walk home.
A sigh.
Well, at least I didn’t bung up her fancy car.
Which, being the cultured man that he was, brought to mind something someone famous had said about “all that ends well” was something-or-other.
But this is a helluva note. How am I supposed to investigate a possible vehicle accident if I can’t drive up the mountain?
When it came, the answer seemed so obvious:
I bet I can drive her car out of the way.
He slipped inside. Bea had not left the keys in the ignition.

No matter.

Maybe I can push it just far enough so I can get my unit past it.

Our hero got out, set his cleated boots in the snow, put his hefty shoulder against the heavy Mercedes. Grunted. “Unnngh!” Grunted harder. No dice. Not an inch.

Granite Creek’s top cop was no defeatist.
I’ll call dispatch, get Clara to send me some help.
Parris found his cell phone in his jacket pocket, pressed the button, eyeballed the readout:
LOW BATTERY.
Damn!
He was running out of options. Time for some serious thinking. Parris cogitated. Ruminated. Considered and rejected several plans.

Case in point:
I could back my unit all the way down the mountain in a blinding snowstorm.
No.
Even an oyster has more brains than to try a thing like that.

Another case in point:
I could walk down the mountain, maybe flag somebody down for a ride back to down.
But in this weather, motorists would be few and far between.

Which left him with one viable option.

I’ll hoof it up to Bea’s house through this blizzard, which shouldn’t take too long.
The wind began to blow sleet in his face.
Unless I freeze my feet off and have to walk on bloody stumps, and when I get there I’ll find Bea and Andrew Turner sitting by the fire, swigging hot toddies.
He could picture the cozy little domestic scene.
He’ll be telling his wife how he bumped his fancy sports car against a stump.

Scott Parris buttoned his jacket collar up to his chin, pushed the wet, droopy-brimmed hat down another notch, set his jaw, and began trudging up the driveway. And thinking profound philosophical thoughts.
Why does wind always blow snow in a person’s face—just this once, why can’t the wind be at my back?
He figured it was probably for the same reason as when you were casting your bait from the bank of the lake, the breeze
always
blew the line back at you. It was nature’s way of having some fun. But the situation was getting less funny by the minute. As he made his way uphill, the white flakes were larger, wetter, more numerous. The powerful beam from his big flashlight penetrated less and less into the wind-driven snow. All ten toes were numbingly cold. Ditto the ten fingers. The miserable hiker muttered the same one-syllable comment, over and over. It was hard to hear over the roar of the wind, but the expletive might have been
shoot.
Or perhaps not.

Quite unexpectedly, something happened that got his attention.

The lawman thought he saw something lope across the driveway in front of him. Something big and hairy and—

But no.
That must’ve been a hallucination
. He hoped so.
Maybe I’m going hypothermic, losing my marbles.
He hoped not.

And then, just to his right, he saw something that was definitely
not
a hallucination.

A gnarled, knotty piñon tree. One among thousands. What made this particular gnarled, knotty piñon tree remarkable was that it had about a yard of bark knocked off a gnarly limb, and a sizable chunk of woody flesh was missing from the trunk. He half stumbled off the driveway, swept the flashlight beam back and forth across what he computed as the probable path that Andrew Turner’s Corvette had taken after it bounced off the tree. The snow had long since covered any tire tracks, but about twenty paces from the damaged piñon, near the base of a snowcapped basalt boulder, he spotted something shiny, picked it up. A chunk of headlight glass.

Bad news.

The policeman was standing right on the lip of the Devil’s Mouth, where Andrew Turner’s GM sports car had, he deduced, gone over and down. Way down.

All business now, and oblivious to the cold, Parris followed his faint tracks back to the driveway, set his face uphill. Job number one was to tell Bea that her husband’s automobile had gone into a skid, bounced off a tree and a boulder, fallen into the Devil’s Mouth.

When the chief of police banged his numb fist on the front door, Beatrice Spencer opened on the second knock, stared wide-eyed at the broad-shouldered snowman. “Scott—Andrew’s not here. And his Corvette isn’t in the garage.” She was trembling. “I can’t imagine where he is!”

He told her.