Three Sisters (4 page)

Cassandra’s hypnotic eyes looked
through
the camera,
out of
the television sets,
into
the souls of a hundred thousand viewers, more or less. Well, certainly
one
less.

“He is dead.” She frowned, shook her head, appeared to address the deceased man’s loved ones from the depths of her heart: “I am so
terribly
sorry.”

Fade to black.

“Oh!” Sarah Frank said (more to herself than to Mr. Zig-Zag, more to her cat than to the wrinkled old woman). “How did Cassandra know about the shooting?”

Unaware of her status as one notch below a spotted cat, Daisy Perika pointed out an indisputable factoid: “We don’t know that anybody got shot.”

But they did, of course. Daisy knew and Sarah knew and thousands upon thousands of other viewers knew—Cassandra was
never
wrong.

It would be reported on early-morning news broadcasts all over the state, then in newspapers, and by tomorrow evening the major television networks, radio talk shows, and Internet news sites would be buzzing with accounts of the Colorado woman’s amazingly accurate vision of a drive-by shooting at a truckers’ restaurant on the interstate. As the authorities conducted a thorough investigation, Cassandra would be questioned by the Huerfano County sheriff, Granite Creek Chief of Police Scott Parris, several state-police detectives, agents of the United States Department of Transportation, and an attorney representing the National Truckers Association. What they got out of the psychic, which wasn’t much, can be summed up by Cassandra’s remark to Parris: “I see what I see; it’s as simple as that.” Which was true. More or less. Well, less. There was nothing
simple
about it.

Oh, by the way: The ratings on the quirky television program increased nine points following the lady’s uncanny, real-time vision of the trucker’s shooting. When Nicholas “Nicky” Moxon (Cassandra Spencer’s enthusiastic business manager) saw the numbers, he whistled, shook his shiny bald head. “This is dynamite, Cassie. Absolute
dynamite.
”

Since November, the unseasonable weather has confused man and beast alike. Following a hard winter, the approach of springtime has produced a series of balmy, shirtsleeve days suitable for roof repairs, softball games, and leisurely strolls in the park. Robins are afoot in search of earthworms. Bears have left cozy dens to break a winter-long fast. The chirp of the hungry chipmunk is heard in picnic grounds
.

On this Monday in mid-March, as the solar system’s gigantic thermonuclear furnace sinks to its nightly rest in the west, silent pools of twilight seep into valleys, a soothing coolness envelopes granite mountain, pine forest, the soon-to-be-sleeping town. For many, the pleasant end of a perfect day. But for one unsuspecting soul, the ultimate misfortune is only a few hours away
.

After the calamity, Cassandra Spencer, the eldest of the sisters, would declare to Nicholas Moxon that she had been caught quite off guard—such a violent event had not been “in the stars.” (Among her several esoteric pursuits, which include spirit photography and Persian numerology, the television psychic also dabbles in astrology.)

Beatrice Spencer (by age, the middle sister) was more reserved than her psychic sibling, and kept a tight lip about an act of violence so utterly excessive as to be considered an obscenity.

The third, and lastborn, of the Spencer sisters?

Patience. Nothing shall be withheld. Momentarily, Astrid Spencer-Turner shall make her appearance—in a manner of speaking. The antithesis of that ideal child of yesteryear, Astrid will be heard but not seen. Listen for the telephone to ring.

Brrriiiinnnng!

The sound is made by the instrument that Andrew Turner usually carries in an inside jacket pocket. Usually. At the moment, which is late in the evening, the communications device is in his leather briefcase, which is in his hotel room, which is on the fourth floor of the Brown Palace, which is where it has been since 1888—on Seventeenth Street in downtown Denver. As it happens, Mr. Turner, husband of Astrid Spencer-Turner, is not in his hotel room with his briefcase, wherein the telephone resides. He may be found in the Brown’s famous Palace Arms Restaurant. Having finished his lobster enchiladas, the diner has his attention focused on the dessert menu. Ah, so many delectable delicacies to titillate the tongue—but too little time to taste each one.

This is why he does not hear his cell phone ring. Nine times.

The agitated caller, Astrid Spencer-Turner, his wedded wife of barely one year, is in their home on the so-called Yellow Pines Ranch, which is situated approximately ten miles northwest of Granite Creek, Colorado. The family homestead is a five-hour-and-twenty-minute drive from downtown Denver, which is precisely how long it took Andrew Turner to get to the Brown Palace after he kissed his wife goodbye at 10:00
A.M.
on the dot. Turner, who has a master’s degree in computer science from Georgia Tech (the clever fellow graduated in the top 10 percent of his class), is one of those types who does everything by the clock. Precision is his
thing
. Somewhere, there must be women who appreciate these qualities in a man. Astrid is not one of them. What she appreciates is a husband who remembers to keep his telephone in his pocket and turned on—and answers it when she calls.

On the ninth ring, Astrid slams her telephone into the cradle hard enough to rattle other items on her bedside table. “Dammit!”
Now what should I do?
“I’ll call the front desk.” (The young woman has developed the endearing habit of talking to herself. Especially when she is alone in the ancestral family home.)

“Excuse me, Mr. Andrew Turner?”

The owner of Granite Creek Electronics and Computers looked up from a four-thousand-calorie slab of cherry cheesecake, flashed a smile at the young man who had addressed him. “That’s me.”

“I apologize for disturbing you, sir.” The hotel employee offered a cordless telephone to the guest. “You have a call from Mrs. Turner.” He lowered his voice, added discretely: “Urgent.”

“Thank you.” Turner held his hand over the mouthpiece. “She’s probably just lonely. Or there’s a problem with the plumbing.”

The young man, who also had a wife, smiled. Excused himself.

Turner pressed the electronic appliance to his ear. “Hello, dear. What’s up—well pump on the fritz again?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Ah, you’re lonely then.”

“I always am when you’re away.”

“You should have invited one of your splendid sisters over to spend the night.” He smiled.
I’d be glad to spend the night with either one of ’em.

“I called Bea and Cassie just minutes before I rang your cell phone. But neither one answered.”
Which is odd, because they’re usually at home on a Monday evening
. “Andy, I hate being here all by myself. Especially at night.”

“Tell you what, babe—next time I come to Denver, I’ll bring you with me. And I’ll take you to the telecommunications show in Vegas. We’ll take in some great floor shows, donate a few dollars to the casinos.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” Her shudder reverberated along the telephone line. “It feels awfully spooky in this big house.”

“Spooky? Really, now—Cassie is the one who talks to ghosts of long-dead Egyptians and such.”

Astrid sniffed and said, “I don’t mean like ghosts and goblins. It’s a
different
kind of spooky.”

“Different how?”

“For one thing, there’s this peculiar odor.”

The smile slipped off Turner’s perfectly tanned face. “Probably the septic tank. I’ll have someone take a look at it.”

“It’s not that kind of odor, it’s more like—” She paused to listen. “And I hear strange noises.”

“Define ‘strange noises.’” This is the sort of response one learned to expect from the Andrew Turners of this world. “Creaks and squeaks, chains rattling in the attic?”

“Please don’t be flippant, Andrew.”

“Uh—sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to seem—”

“I hear it at our bedroom window—like something shuffling around outside. And just a few minutes ago, I heard a snuffing-snorting sound.”

“Probably a wandering porcupine looking for some bark to chew on.”

“I certainly hope so. But I’ve made certain that all the downstairs doors and windows are securely closed and locked. Except for the French window in our bedroom—I can’t shut it. It’s stuck. So there’s nothing between me and whatever’s out there on the patio but the screen—” This remark was interrupted by a shriek, a thump as the telephone slipped from her hand, struck the floor.

Turner spoke loudly enough to startle other guests in the restaurant: “Astrid—what’s wrong?” His wife’s pitiable, pleading screams were intermixed with guttural growls. Abruptly—the screaming ceased. The absence of sound was so utterly complete that he assumed the line had been broken. The dead silence was suddenly interrupted by gruesome sounds that Andrew Turner would never be able to speak about—not to Astrid’s sisters, not even to the police. But the haunting memory would never, ever leave him. In his darkest nightmares, he would hear it again and again—the ripping of flesh, crunching of bone, gluttonous, snarling grunts—and finally, as the meal progressed—
the smacking of the satisfied diner’s lips.

Despite the mind-numbing circumstances, there were things to be done. Turner proceeded to do them with a relentless, some would say
cold,
efficiency. Astrid’s husband broke the connection, removed a card from his wallet, scanned a list of telephone numbers, and dialed one that was underlined.

The police dispatcher responded on the first ring: “Granite Creek Police.”

“Clara, is that you?”

“Yes, it is. Who’s this?”

“Andy Turner. I’m in Denver, at the Brown Palace.” His words had the effect of a hammer striking nails. “I was just speaking to my wife on the telephone. I am
certain
that she has been attacked in our home. Please get someone there as soon as you can. I’m going to have my car brought around; I’ll call you on the way home.”

Flinching at the decisive
click
in her ear, Clara Tavishuts alerted the nearest unit, which was dealing with a bar fight on Second Street. The officer who took the call agreed to check out the possible assault at the Yellow Pines Ranch, gave her an ETA of forty minutes. At best. The second unit was responding to a domestic dispute, where the wife was threatening to decapitate her mate with a seven-hundred-year-old samurai sword. Clara knew exactly what to do—pass the buck up to the boss. An effective dispatcher always knows where all the cops are, including the chief of police. On this particular evening, Scott Parris was a guest at Charlie Moon’s ranch, and the Columbine headquarters was not all that far from Yellow Pines. Clara steeled herself.
Whenever I call him on his poker night, the chief always grumbles. But if I don’t contact him, he’ll get all red in the face and tell me I should have alerted him to the emergency call.

Scott Parris was holding a pair of fives and some trash. After asking for three cards, the player was holding a pair of fives and some trash. He looked over his hand, across the table at Charlie Moon’s world-class poker face. “How’s your aunt Daisy getting along?”

“About the same.”

“And that orphan girl that’s staying with her—what’s her name?”

Moon pretended to be shocked. “You don’t remember?”

Parris pretended to be offended. “If I did, would I be asking you what her name was?”

“Sarah Frank,” Moon said. “First the memory goes and then the hearing….”

Parris leaned forward. “What?”

Moon repeated the statement at full volume.

“Charlie, nobody likes a big smart aleck.”

“That’s not so, pardner.
I
like you.”

Parris snorted, pushed a pair of shiny Tennessee quarters to the center of the table. “There’s not a thing wrong with my memory.”

“Okay, then what’s Sarah’s cat’s name?”

“That’s not fair. Nobody should have to remember the name of a cat.”

“Don’t let Sarah hear you say that.” Moon glanced at his hand, then: “I’ll see you.” He sweetened the pot with a crisp new dollar bill. “And raise you four bits.”

Parris folded, glumly watched the Ute rake in his winnings. “Charlie, how come we never get to play any big-time high-stakes poker like them high rollers on TV?”