Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  The wrinkled warrior grasped the insect slayer in a firm grip, raised it high over her head. Adrenaline pumped out of her adrenofelinethumper gland, got the tired old pump to beating a war drum in her chest. He’ll never know what hit him. She took careful aim, was about to give the cat such a thump—But what if he lets out a big screech and Sarah comes running and says what’s happened to my poor kitty cat? The schemer was of the opinion that every problem has a solution. If she does, I’ll say why Mr. Rag-Bag must’ve had one of them cat nightmares you hear so much about on Oprah and them other educational TV shows. Yes, that would cover her posterior. But there is always the worst-case scenario. What if she sees me do it? Hmmm. I’ll say there was this big ugly horsefly on Mr. Rag-Bag’s hind leg and I thought I oughta swat it a good one before it sucked a pint of blood out of her precious pet. Though these contingency plans fell somewhat short of perfection, they would have to do. General Perika took aim again, was about to lower the boom—when she was startled to hear the telephone ring. War is heck. The base station was mounted on the wall, but a cordless unit was on a small table, practically at her elbow. She peered at the caller ID, which informed her:

  Caller Unknown

  Number Unknown

  I’ll just let the thing keep right on jingling till the [expletives deleted] get tired and call somebody else.

  The infernal invention went right on a-jingling.

  Faced with this accumulating evidence that the (additional expletives deleted) evidently do not tire all that easily, she ground her stumpy teeth.

  The nerve-jangling summons did not cease.

  Nor did it awaken the cat, who continued to dream in that heavenly peace made perfect by innocence.

  The realization that Mr. Zig-Zag was entirely comfortable did not escape Daisy’s attention. She fumed all the more. I won’t pick it up! One might speculate that if she had not answered the telephone, her life might have turned out very much different. But one would be mistaken. It did not matter. Why?

  Because Sarah Frank, who had just returned from the kitchen, answered the telephone. “Hello, this is the Columbine Ranch.” She listened. “Yes, she’s here.” The orphan turned to address her adopted aunt. “Aunt Daisy, it’s for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  Sarah cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “I don’t know, but her voice sounds familiar.”

  Her? Maybe it was Louise-Marie. But she always calls me at night, right before I go to bed. Daisy Perika snatched the telephone from the girl. “Who’s this?”

  The caller provided the information requested.

  “Oh.” Daisy’s voice softened. “It’s nice to hear from you.” And so soon. “What can I do for you?”

  The caller told her what she could do. Where she could do it, and when. And for how much.

  The instrument almost slipped from Daisy’s fingers, but she managed to sound almost nonchalant: “Yes, I guess I could find some time to do that.” After a few essential details were discussed, the professional consultant said goodbye and hung up.

  Sarah had been hanging on every single one of Daisy’s single-syllable words. “Who was it?”

  The elderly woman gave a careless shrug. “That woman who has the spooky TV program.”

  “Cassandra?” Sarah’s eyes resembled poached eggs. Smallish, girl-sized poached eggs. “What did she want?”

  Daisy took a moment to smooth a wrinkle from her skirt. “She asked me if I’d like to be a guest on her TV show.” Another wrinkle needed smoothing. “A special guest.”

  The girl’s delighted screech awakened her spotted cat from a deep sleep.

  That evening, after hearing Daisy’s big news and Sarah Frank’s excited commentary, Charlie Moon went into his upstairs office, closed the door, and thought about it. Thinking didn’t help. Just served to make him edgy. There were times when a man needed someone to talk to. Someone sensible, who was capable of offering sound advice. Knowing no such person, he placed a call to Scott Parris, told him all about it.

  Sensing that his friend was worried, the chief of police attempted to console him: “That’s great. Daisy’ll liven up the show.”

  Moon frowned at his unseen comrade. “So would a shoebox full of tarantulas.”

  Parris chuckled. “Ah, you worry too much, Charlie. Daisy’ll have a barrel of fun.”

  The Ute’s response was terse: “I expect you’re right about that.” She’d have fun starting World War Three.

  Twenty-One

  The Big Event

  Beatrice Spencer was a highly organized soul. Every day began with a list of things to be done, with a priority assigned to each one. Now, with the mountain’s evening shadow about to enshroud the family estate, she headed home from a brisk walk, gratified to mentally mark another task “completed.” She shrugged off an Irish tweed coat, pulled off a pair sheepskin-lined boots, undressed down to the skin, and treated herself to a cleansing shower that was followed by a long, hot soak in the tub. Not quite an hour later, she entered the parlor looking quite chic in an ankle-length white silk dress (slit to the knee), a pink pearl necklace and matching earrings. On her feet, white goat-leather slippers adorned with pink pearl buttons. Mighty nice-looking was what she was, and then some. And she knew it.

  Her spouse of a few weeks was suitably impressed, and yearned to say something that would convey his appreciation. But, being a run-of-the-mill husband when it came to praise, accolades, or even flattery, Andrew Turner was not up to generating a compliment that did justice to the lovely vision. And there was no shortage of eye candy. The frosting on the luscious lady-cake was a twirl of golden tresses, done up in a manner that he was at a loss to describe. But it reminded Andrew of something else he liked very much. Food. More particularly, dessert. He could practically taste it on the tip of his tongue—that sweet, fluffy stuff that floated atop Grandma Turner’s coconut crème pies, that frothy sea of delectable waves, frozen stiff, yet toasted on the tips. He had watched Granny whip up egg whites with a fork, then stir in the sugar and whatnot. But name the topping, he could not. If he had been able to call the word meringue to mind, who knows what sort of memorable tribute the tongue-tied husband might have devised. But, not one to be defeated by his shortcomings, Andrew did what he could. He whistled.

  Blushing at the compliment, Beatrice reminded him of the big event. “Now, don’t forget, Cassie will be on at nine.” She flashed the pearly whites at her mate. “And you promised to show up tonight—so please arrive on time.”

  “It’s on my schedule.” Mr. Turner glanced at his wristwatch. Seven fifty-eight.

  The wife opened a white suede purse, found a platinum compact mirror, inspected her image, found a minuscule flaw that she thought needed touching up. “I must leave early. I promised Cassie I’d help look after her mystery guest this evening.”

  Mystery guest? “Who might that be?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Sis has been rather tight-lipped of late. She applied the pointy tip of a miniature lipstick. There, that’s better.

  Turner was ogling his shapely wife. “I wish I could leave early, drive to town with you.” But tonight is the night.

  She laughed. “Sure you do.”

  He put on a hurt expression. “I have a bit of work to catch up on.” Quite true.

  “Yes, you told me at breakfast.”

  From force of habit, he appended a lie: “I expect a call from an important client.”

  She snapped the compact shut, dropped the shiny disk and lipstick into her purse. “What is it this time—someone who needs a hugely expensive new telephone system installed?”

  “Even better than that.”

  “Let me guess.” She opened a walk-in closet that was stuffed with exquisite gifts from Daddy Spencer, guessed, “A truckload of computers.”

  “Right on the button. But you forgot to mention the custom software—and that’s where the serious profit is.” He watched her select a magnificent Russian sable. That little number must’ve set her old ma
n back at least twenty grand.

  “I don’t mean to nag, Andrew—but please, please try not to be late.”

  “Don’t fret.” He helped her slip into the cozy coat. “I’ll show up before Cassie goes off the air.”

  “I shall hold you to that.”

  The antique marble mantel clock chimed. Eight times. One hour to…show time!

  As if she did not completely trust that fine example of late-nineteenth-century French engineering, Beatrice checked her wristwatch. “I really must be going.”

  “Then say ‘Goodbye, dear.’”

  “As you wish.” She exhaled a wisp of a sigh. “Goodbye, dear.” Beatrice kissed her husband lightly on the cheek. “I hope you have an enjoyable evening chatting with your well-heeled client, and unload several dozen computers and tons of software on the unwary fellow.”

  “That is my intention. Have a good time.”

  Beatrice watched the garage door rise, eased her Mercedes off the concrete and onto the gravel driveway. By long habit, the mountain dweller lowered the front windows an inch to inhale a whiff of pine and cedar. The pungent aromas blended well with the scent of fine leather upholstery. The late afternoon had been pleasantly mild, but the night breeze carried a sage-scented promise of approaching dampness. A ominous crowd of billowing, roiling clouds was rising over the crest of Spencer Mountain. The artist perceived a ghostly company of Nez Percé cavalry, mounted on red-eyed, smoke-snorting ponies—hooves kicking fire off heaven’s flint. What a delight it would be to paint that savage panorama! Even as she watched, the scene was transformed. An updraft of eagle plumes coalesced into a towering war bonnet, flashing with inner lights. Under the feathered helmet, a sober old face she recognized from a high school history book. Hin-mah-too-yah-lat-kekt—Thunder Rolling Down the Mountain. Oh, and did that thunder roll—a hundred huge drums adrumming like boulders come arumbling to obliterate whole forests of pine and spruce—along with the sleek Mercedes and its white-as-a-sheet driver!

  Shaken by these loud, rowdy threats, Beatrice consulted that portion of the mind that deals with such issues as how to extract a cube root or an infected wisdom tooth, and the interpretation of meteorological data, and came to this conclusion: Looks like we’ll be getting some snow. She closed the windows and proceeded down the long, twisting driveway, passing aspen saplings that were beginning to tremble in a suddenly chill wind. Rising above the passenger side of the motorcar, the shadowy mass of the mountain continued to grumble. Off to her left, unseen beyond a few yards of rocky ground, was that deep crack in the earth—the Devil’s Mouth. The cruel grin split the mountain from the rugged, windswept domain of Broken-Tooth Mesa, where a scattering of basalt boulders did their level best to resemble cracked, black molars.

  The barren mesa seemed benign enough, but even as a child Beatrice always trembled at the sight of the deep crevice. It was probably due to some peculiar congruence of prevailing winds and topography, but whatever the reason, nine-tenths of the snow that blew off the mesa or down the mountainside ended up in the fissure’s dark recesses. On the bottom, unseen for millennia, was a pale blue bed of glaciated ice, where the well-preserved remains of giant ground sloths and single-hump camels were entombed with other Ice Age mammals—including a fine specimen of a shaggy-haired mammoth. Above this bizarre Pleistocene cemetery was a layer-cake accumulation of thousands of winters of snow, and as many strata of leaf, pollen, grit, dust, and other debris. On the top was a frothy, semiwhite frosting that would melt every few decades, but at the end of most winters it was at least thirty feet deep.

  Why all this attention to such details? Why, because the Devil’s Mouth swallows whatever falls into it. And never, ever spits anything out.

  As Beatrice made her way down the long, winding driveway, the first big, fat flakes splattered on the Mercedes windshield. Still within sight of her home, she braked to a stop, exchanged the sable for a black raincoat, pulled big rubber galoshes over her delicate pink slippers, and got out to remove a football-size boulder that had rolled (along with the thunder?) down the mountain. From there on, slow was the name of the game. Before she reached the gate at the highway, the resolute woman encountered a fallen aspen limb, an emaciated coyote loping across the lane, and another rock in the road. Plus a few other minor obstructions and small distractions. Not a problem.

  Andrew Turner posed in front of a full-length mirror, admired the splendid image that looked back with an equally approving expression. His wife’s wish that he “have an enjoyable evening” still rang in his ears. I would not be at all surprised if this turned out to be the best evening of my entire life. My finest hour. As he straightened his pale blue tie, a glint of sly amusement sparkled in Andrew’s eye. If Bea knew what I’m up to, there’s no telling what she might do. But there was no way the spouse would ever figure it out. The Plan was absolutely first rate. No—scratch that understatement. It was a masterpiece. The man in the looking-glass exchanged a foxy grin with his flesh-and-blood twin. This evening’s performance would create quite a sensation; people would be talking about it for years to come. It was, he thought, a great pity that the author of the piece must remain forever anonymous.

  At the bottom of the driveway, Beatrice fumbled in her purse, found the remote-control device to open the heavy iron gate. The snow was mixed with rain at this lower altitude. Ten seconds after electronic detectors had verified that her automobile was clear, the gate banged shut behind her. She stopped long enough to shed the bulky boots and ugly raincoat, slip back into the sable. Ah, that was much better! Off she went, to spend a pleasant evening with Sister Cassie.

  Even though he was quite alone in the house, Andrew Turner followed his habit of securing the door after entering his basement office. On this occasion, he would forgo the pleasure of the spotlight and the adoring applause from an unseen audience. As soon as he had turned away from the door, he said, “Low illumination.”

  In each corner, a daisy-shaped night-light bloomed to life.

  Barely enough to see by.

  He stepped smartly to the oak table. “Terminal Two.”

  The summoned hardware awakened, the hard disk yawned, began to hum, then to whine.

  The maestro seated himself, placed his hands on the keyboard, deftly entered a twelve-character alphanumeric password, watched his custom e-mail software logo (a huge red AT) flash on the blue-green screen. To access the crucial item A. Turner entered a second password.

  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.