Three Sisters (5 page)

“Because we ain’t got the ante.”

“‘Ain’t’ ain’t good grammar,” Parris muttered. The cop, who had been dating an English major, was attempting to improve himself.

“Okay, we
isn’t
got the ante, and even if we did—” The Indian’s response was interrupted by the rude warble of his guest’s cell phone.

“Who’d be calling me this time of night?”
Maybe it’s Sweet Thing.
The chief of police glanced at the caller ID. “It’s dispatch.” The middle-aged man pressed the instrument against a once presentable ear that now sprouted unsightly tufts of reddish brown hair. “Why’re you buggin’ me on my poker night, Clara?” He listened to the dispatcher’s terse report. “Okay, I’m practically on my way.” Aiming a sly grin at his best friend, he added, “No, I won’t need any backup—I’ll be taking Charlie Moon along.”
I’d rather have the Ute with me than a battalion of National Guard.
He thumbed the End button.

Moon shed his poker face, which enabled him to assume a mildly inquisitive expression. “Taking me where?”

“Old man Spencer’s Yellow Pines Ranch.”

“I thought the place had been vacant since Mr. Spencer died.”

“Not since Astrid—his youngest daughter, who inherited all six thousand acres of Daddy’s ranch—moved in with her new husband.”

Moon searched his memory. Came up with “Andrew Turner.”

“That’s right. And Turner, who’s in Denver tonight, just called in a report, claimed that while he was talking to his wife on the phone she was assaulted. It’ll probably turn out to be a false alarm, but I’ve got to go check it out and I might need some backup.” Parris had pulled on a jacket, was jamming a decades-old felt hat down to his hair-sprouting ears. “So don’t give me no static about how a big-shot tribal investigator like you ain’t—hasn’t got any jurisdiction offa the Southern Ute reservation.” The broad-shouldered man lumbered down the hallway to the parlor. “Grab your revolver, Charlie—and consider yourself duly deputized!”

Moon was unlocking the gun cabinet. “What’s the compensation?”

“Twelve fifty an hour and the pleasure of my company.”

Strapping on a heavy pistol belt, the brand-new deputy grinned. “Make it ten bucks per and I’ll take the call by myself.”

Six miles north of Castle Rock, Andrew Turner made the second call to GCPD, interrupted the dispatcher’s standard greeting: “Clara—it’s me. Andy Turner. What’ve you found out about my wife?”

“Nothing yet. But Chief Parris is on his way to your home.”

“The moment you hear from him, call me.”

“Will do. What’s your cell number?”

The husband recited the requested digits. Twice.

As he sped south along the interstate, Turner attempted to gain control of his emotions.
I have alerted the police. Now, I must call Astrid’s sisters.
He entered the preprogrammed number for Beatrice Spencer. No answer.
Bea is out rather late
. He tried Cassandra. Seven rings of the TV celebrity’s unlisted number got him Cassie’s answering machine.
I’ll call them again another hour down the road
. He took a deep breath. Another.
Whatever has happened, I must be prepared to deal with it—and in as rational a manner as humanly possible
.

A cool customer? It would seem so.

But from that electric instant when Astrid’s scream had seared a wound in his soul, Andrew Turner had moved like one suspended in a horrific dream. He would awaken, of course, to live for a few hours in the sunshine—only to fall asleep when darkness came around—and dream again. And so would the cycle go. As this long nightmare rolled toward a veiled finale, the
rational
man would discover that logic and reason are applicable only to a certain limit…take one step beyond that invisible boundary, the unwary pilgrim falls into the Deep, twists and flows in dark currents—never to surface again.

Most of the graveled road between the Columbine headquarters and the state highway was sufficiently well graded that a motor vehicle could roll along at a reasonable clip, but a two-mile stretch of tooth-rattling “washboard” spiked Scott Parris’s blood pressure, flushing his beefy face a ruddy hue. Because his countenance was illuminated by greenish dashboard lights, this crimson display went unappreciated by Charlie Moon, who was riding shotgun, so to speak, in the passenger seat. The moment the GCPD unit’s wheels got traction on the paved road, Parris switched on the emergency lights and siren, heavy-booted his almost-new black-and-white into a hair-raising sideways skid, straightened it, grinned while he watched the speedometer climb. Tranquil as a man of his temperament can ever be, his BP gradually drifted down toward normal, which in this instance was 138 over 93.

As Charlie Moon checked his revolver, counted the shiny brass cartridges in the cylinder—he caught a definite whiff of gun smoke.
Now where did that come from?
The Ute was overwhelmed by a sudden suspicion that the cartridges were empty—that someone had fired all six shots from his gun and not reloaded. To make sure the ammo wasn’t spent, he removed the bullets for careful inspection. All was well.

Up yonder, a moon glistening with reflected sunlight was about to be gobbled up by a hungry thundercloud. A great horned owl circled overhead, dragged a winged shadow across the highway. As the automobile roared past a clump of galleta grass, a startled cottontail bolted. In the wake of the black-and-white, hungry Ms.
Bubo Virginianus
blinked her bulbous eyes, made the practiced dive. Though he would not see another sunrise, Mr. Rabbit was, for the moment, intensely alive.

But back to the chase.

Along the stretched-out miles between the Columbine gate and the entrance to the Yellow Pines Ranch, the two-lane highway was mostly straight, except for a three-mile section where it snaked over a cluster of undulating ridges that, even at the posted speed limit, produced a stomach-floating roller-coaster effect in which children and well-adjusted grown-ups took childish delight. At a steady ninety-five miles per hour, the low-slung Chevrolet hugged the highway in the dips, went almost airborne on the peaks. After the road leveled, the speedometer ticked its way up to 110.

Having checked his sidearm, Citizen Moon, the more intellectual of the pair, was pursuing the pleasant pastime of musing about this and that. By way of example: how responding to a trouble call was a small parable of life. Nine times out of ten, when the cop showed up at the other end, things would be okay. The prowler would be gone, the lost child found, the frightened lady unharmed. But then, there was always the possibility of—Number Ten.

As they neared the turnoff, the chief of police shut down the high-pitched siren. When he could see the gate in the high beams, he switched off the emergency lights. If the assailant (assuming that there actually was an assailant) was still lurking on the property Astrid Spencer had inherited from her father, Scott Parris did not want to scare him away.
I’ll trap the bastard.
There was one narrow lane connecting the Yellow Pines Ranch to the highway, and Granite Creek’s top copper was about to plug that jug with his black-and-white stopper.

As Parris jammed on the brakes, did a stomach-turning, skid-sliding turn under the massive sandstone arch and onto the darkened mile-long ranch road the deceased millionaire had spent a fortune to blacktop, the Chevrolet sedan seemed, by some uncanny automotive instinct, to sense the driver’s sense of urgency. It kicked out a few extra horsepower, the all-terrain tread grabbed on to the roadway. As they slipped swiftly along, passing through isolated congregations of dark evergreens, the warm rubber tires hummed a thrumming whine, while in the darkened forest, melancholy woodwinds mourned and pined for a first glimpse of morning sunshine. It was to be a long, long night.

The blacktop, which was never intended to approach too close to old man Spencer’s semirustic abode, terminated abruptly at the outer arc of a long, elliptical driveway. Parris braked again, stopping a few yards from the extensively remodeled home that had once been the headquarters of a working ranch.

Before the hot V-8 engine had stuttered to a stop, two pairs of boots hit the ground.

Parris and his recently deputized Ute sidekick did what sensible lawmen always do before they rush to the rescue: For a half-dozen heartbeats, they stood as still as the trunks of trees. Looked. Listened. And employed other, more primitive senses.

Aside from the yip-yipping of a distant coyote and the discontented rumble of thunder over Spencer Mountain, there was not a sound. Aside from dusty-winged moths batting about the wrought-iron lantern at the center of the porch, there was no movement. The slate roof of the century-old, two-story log house glimmered in cloud-filtered moonlight.

It seemed a scene of perfect peace—a serene night, made for restful sleep.

The lawmen knew better. Neither man could have explained
how
he knew, but this holding-its-breath quiet, this anemic, lifeless light—it did not
feel
right. Whoever slept here would awaken nevermore. Not in this world.

Exchanging nods that conveyed what words cannot, the lawmen split up, Parris to the left, Moon took the direction that was left, which was right, and so the man-shadows melted into the night. Slowly, warily, guns in hand—the hard, silent men began to close the circle around the still dwelling.

God have mercy on any two-legged scoundrel they might encounter.

But whoever had been there was long gone. Which was lucky for him. Or her. Or them. Or
it.

It was the Ute whose nostrils first picked up the unmistakable scent of fresh blood, his dark eyes that perceived the glint of broken glass on the sandstone patio, a crumpled door screen, and—with the aid of a hazy shaft of moonlight—caught a glimpse of mangled flesh. What he presumed to be the remains—the
what-was-left-behind
of Astrid Spencer-Turner—was beyond all human help.

The lawmen spent a long, long three minutes peering about the wrecked, blood-soaked bedroom. Much of what they saw was the ordinary stuff of life. A battery-operated clock on the wall, second hand clicking away precious seconds. On a shelf above the clock, an antique china doll with shy, painted eyes that, no matter where you were, never looked at you. Flung into a far corner, a hardcover novel, crocheted bookmark still in place. The book leaned against a dusty pair of hand-tooled horsehide cowboy boots that were small enough for a girl to wear. In contrast to the overturned bed, the torn quilt, the ripped, blood-splattered sheets—the hideously mutilated corpse—the personal belongings were so normal, so shockingly commonplace. And though it is not always the case, there is often something odd at the scene of a homicide, something queerly out of place—an object or feature that grabs the eye. It might be a hole in the heel of a rich woman’s stocking. A box of crayons and a Peter Rabbit coloring book in a house where there are no children. A “lucky” rabbit’s foot on the victim’s key chain. Astrid Spencer-Turner’s bedroom was not to prove the exception. Almost lost among broken furniture, fractured glass, and torn bedclothes, at the edge of a slightly dusty rectangle of carpet that defined the place where the overturned bed had stood—there was something else. Something that simply did not belong; something a passerby might have left behind.

A single, lusciously plump, red-ripe
strawberry.

Though riveting, such details rarely have anything to do with the crime.

The first order of business was to call in whatever help Scott Parris could muster from his understaffed department—which would require waking every officer who was not already on night duty. The harder part would be notifying the deceased’s nearest of kin.

Approaching an exit to the Air Force Academy, Andrew Turner could see the glow of Colorado Springs. He was about to place another call to the police station in Granite Creek when his cell phone vibrated in his hand. “Yes?”

“Andy, this is Scott Parris. GCPD.”

Astrid Spencer’s husband listened to a slight electronic buzz that hung over the dark silence. “What is it, Scott?”

“I’m awfully sorry to have to tell you this on the telephone, but I didn’t want you to show up and—” Parris cleared his throat, tried again: “I’m afraid it’s
very
bad news.” He inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry.”

“Then Astrid is…”

“Yes. Yes, sir. She is.”

Trailed by the pair of German shepherds, Beatrice was entering the mud room from the garage when she heard the telephone in the hallway ringing. The lady of the house picked it up, checked the caller ID. “Hello, Andy.” She listened to the monotonic voice. “I’m sorry you’ve been having trouble reaching us. Cassie must have her telephone turned off. I’ve been outside, exercising Ike and Spike.” She referred to the dogs.

Andrew Turner broke the bad news.

“Are you absolutely certain?”

He was.

Starting with her hands and feet, Beatrice felt a dull chill begin to creep over her entire body. “I’ll leave immediately for Yellow Pines, pick up Cassie on the way.” She hung up, looked at herself in the mirror. No,
immediately
was not an option.
I’ll take a quick shower. Change clothes.

It was a blessing (which Scott Parris would later thank God for) that he and Charlie Moon had arrived before Beatrice and Cassandra—the
surviving
Spencer sisters.

When Parris saw the headlights approaching, he was in his unit, verifying that Clara Tavishuts had dispatched the requested uniformed officers and the county medical examiner. Almost as an afterthought, he asked her to notify the state police. Diplomacy was part of the job. Next time, the state cops might get the hot call, and the chief of the Granite Creek PD did not intend to provide the troopers any reason to leave his department out in the cold.

Beatrice steered her Mercedes around the sleek black-and-white, which once again pulsated with red and blue lights. The sisters seemed to hit the ground running.

Parris yelled, was ignored by the women, who were sprinting toward the house.

Charlie Moon had stationed himself on the brick walk that led to the porch. The recently conscripted deputy raised both hands, boomed, “Stop!”

They stopped.

Though Cassandra had a mouthful of questions, it was Beatrice who addressed this exceptionally tall, lean man they had occasionally seen on the streets of Granite Creek. “We’re Astrid’s sisters—what has happened?”

Moon’s voice was deep, somber. “I’m sorry.” And he meant it.

Beatrice heard herself say, “Get out of our way—we’re going inside.” And she meant it.

The Ute shook his head. “Nobody’s going in.”

“We most certainly are.” Beatrice took her older sister firmly by the hand. “And you are
not
going to prevent us.”

“Yes I am.” His words were like thunder on the mountain.

The presumably unstoppable sisters took a tentative, testing step toward the certainly immovable Ute.

He spoke oh-so-softly: “Don’t make me do it.”