Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  “I’m fine. But I need to get in touch with Nicky. I assume he’s not still with you, but do you have any idea where he might have gone after he left your office this afternoon?”

  After a momentary silence, the kindly gentleman’s voice said in her ear, “I have not seen Nicholas Moxon for almost a month.”

  Her hands turned cold and clammy. “But surely he called you yesterday or this morning, about preparing a contract.”

  “No, he did not.” A small, sad sigh. “Perhaps he has seen fit to consult with another attorney.”

  The psychic—who was having an off day—did not pick up on Mr. Boxman’s feelings, and provided a reply that was insensitive to his professional self-esteem: “Another attorney? Yes, that must be it.” After exchanging a curt goodbye, Cassandra returned the phone to her purse. What is going on? Deep, deep down, she knew.

  His gambit having paid off big-time, Parris relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. “So Moxon didn’t pay a call on his lawyer today?” He feigned a puzzled expression, shook his head. “Now why would a man lie to his client about a little thing like that?” Another brothy question was beginning to simmer in his mind: If the contract story was bogus, why did he send Cassandra to bring Daisy to Granite Creek? If Moxon merely intended to drop out of sight, why not drive into Denver, leave his car in one of those umpteen-acre mall parking lots, take a taxi to the airport, a plane to some distant destination. But Moxon had left his wheels at home. Which raised two important questions: (1) What’s he using for transportation? and (2) Where is the guy?

  Proper questions have answers. In this case: (1) humongous big pickup truck; (2) not very far north of the black 1957 Cadillac, approximately a hundred yards off the paved road.

  Nicholas Moxon was manning his post behind Hurricane Hazel’s steering wheel, the corpse of the truck’s owner curled up near his feet. He had removed a fine pair of 1940s-era German military binoculars from his knapsack, focused the precision optics on the highway that snaked along below the wooded ridge where the monster truck was concealed from passing traffic. In the slant of the late-afternoon sun, he saw a small flash of silvery chrome bumper and glistening black tail fins. His smile exposed a display of well-kept teeth, some capped with Mexican gold crowns. He whispered past his precious-metal bicuspids, “Here she comes.”

  Hanging out of sight behind the 1957 Cadillac, Officer Elmer Jackson was bone-tired, hungry enough to eat a triple burger and double-size fries, and feeling more than a little foolish. I don’t know why I thought I should ride rear guard for Scott Parris. He glanced at his wristwatch. But we’ll be in Granite Creek in a few minutes, so I might as well follow him all the way there before I turn around and head for home. Home. Such a happy word. It seemed so very far away. It was not.

  From his high perch on the east side of the highway, Nicholas Moxon could not see the occupant of the driver’s seat; only the passenger side was visible. He had expected to see Daisy Perika seated next to the driver. What he saw instead was his young, attractive client. What’s Cassie doing on the passenger side? Where’s the old Indian woman? Who’s doing the driving? Even for a man of Nicholas Moxon’s mental capacity, three questions at once were a bit too much to deal with, so he summed them up succinctly: What the hell is going on?

  As he pondered this conundrum, the venerable Cadillac passed from view.

  And then, tagging along a mile behind Cassandra’s sleek black automobile, Moxon spotted the state-police unit. Uh-oh. What was this—a tail or an escort? Which raised an earlier question: Why was Cassie calling me on my cell phone? This turn of events was perplexing. Okay, I’ll start with what I know.

  Number one: Somebody else is driving Cassie’s car. And she never, ever lets anybody drive her daddy’s ’57 Caddy. Not even me. Which means something is wrong here.

  Number two. Cassie’s got a cop on her tail.

  Adding up one and two, what he got was: Somehow or other, the cops have got something on me. Could be the fire in that south-Denver warehouse. Or that fat tourist I pushed into the river. Or the trucker I shot over on I-25. And when they couldn’t find me, the cops picked up Cassie, hoping to pump her for information. And that probably happened after I called her at the Indian woman’s house. Which brought him back to the psychic’s telephone call a few minutes ago. And now Cassie calls me from her car, which somebody is driving for her, and while she’s being escorted by a state copper. The critical question was why had she called. Most likely, she’s working with the cops. Trying to find out where I’m at.

  There was another possibility: Or, Cassie might be trying to warn me that I’m in big trouble.

  Hmmm.

  Either way, I ought to get rolling away from here while the getting’s good. But not without knowing what his client was up to. Moxon picked up his cell phone. Dialed Cassandra’s number.

  The psychic’s slim pink telephone was programmed to play a few bars of “Jingle Bells” when Moxon called. Yes, “Jingle Bells.” Go figure.

  Scott Parris asked his passenger who was calling. Santa Claus?

  Cassandra: “It’s him!”

  The cop did not need to ask who “him” was.

  Second Jingle Bell.

  Cassandra waggled the instrument at her chauffeur. “What should I do?”

  “Answer it.”

  “What should I say?”

  Third Jingle Bell.

  Charlie Moon’s best friend effected a nonchalant shrug. “Say ‘hello.’ Then let him do the talking.” After a hopeful afterthought, he added, “But if you can work it into the conversation, ask him where he is.” Fat chance he’ll tell you.

  “But if I cross Nicky, he might kill me.”

  Fourth Jingle Bell.

  She’s admitted he’s a killer. This witness was in the bag! “Don’t worry about Mr. Moxon. You’re under police protection.” Parris’s smile was all over his face. “And if you help the DA put your business partner away, you’ll be in the clear.”

  Fifth Jingle Bell.

  Nicholas Moxon heard the familiar voice in his ear.

  “Hello, Nicky.”

  “Hello yourself, babe. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, fine.”

  You don’t sound fine. “You back in town yet?”

  “Not quite. I just crossed over Little Elkhorn Pass.”

  That was perfectly accurate. “How’s the old Indian gal doing—excited about being on the show tonight?”

  “I hate to tell you this, but she’s not coming. Changed her mind at the last minute. Something about an upset stomach.”

  So far, so good. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes, it’s too bad.” Cassie gathered up all her courage. “Especially after you went to the trouble to have Mr. Boxman draw up the contract.”

  “Ah—that’s no big deal. We’ll change a couple of lines, specify a new schedule. Granny’ll probably be up to doing the show next week.” Moxon watched the state-police car disappear from sight. “I hope you’re not too lonely, driving back all by yourself.”

  The was a slight pause before the psychic responded. “Oh, no. I enjoy driving alone. It gives me some quiet time.” You no-good, lying lowlife bastard!

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” It’s a trap. You’ve sold me out.

  “Will I see you before the show?”

  “You can count on it.” Moxon’s grin split his face. “Drive carefully.”

  “I will.”

  “Goodbye, Cassie.”

  Scott Parris glanced at his passenger. “Well?”

  Cassandra’s tone, like her expression, was flat. “He said he’d see me before the show.”

  “That’s great.” I guess.

  “But it was rather strange….”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve known Nicky for years. I’m familiar with all of his little habits.” A hint of a smile played with her lips. “Like whenever we finish talking on the phone, he always says something like ‘Catch you later, kid’ or ‘See
you tomorrow.’”

  “So?”

  “This time he said ‘goodbye.’” She could not suppress a shivery shudder. Nicky knows.

  So it’s goodbye, is it? Parris cursed his bad luck. Moxon won’t keep his appointment with Cassie. The bastard’s gonna make a run for it.

  The chief of police was right, and wrong.

  Also wrong, and right.

  Nicholas Moxon cranked the V-8 engine to a throaty rumble, put the comically oversized pickup into reverse. As he backed the hijacked vehicle out of the thicket and onto the forest road, the machine flattened a clone of aspens with snow-white trunks as thick as his wrist. Oblivious to the unfortunate fate of a few innocent, teenage trees, the driver glanced down at his inert passenger, grinned. “Hang on,

  Tiger—you and me are about to go for the ride of our lives—I hope you’re game for it.”

  The mortal residue of Eddlethorp “Tiger” Pithkin voiced no objection. His lifeless face was a dusky blue, the smoky hue of an antique apothecary bottle discarded after all the snake oil was used up. The glassy eyes stared blankly at whatever it may be that dead men see.

  Forty

  A Cop’s Epiphany

  Scott Parris was pursuing a dangerous activity. Thinking. Cassie’s scared of Moxon and scared of ending up behind the walls. Now’s the time—I’ve got to strike while the iron is hot. The village blacksmith raised his five-pound hammer. Bam! “Moxon never showed up at the attorney’s office—he lied to you, Cassie.”

  “Yes,” Cassandra Spencer murmured. “He certainly did.”

  Far from being a hot iron, the potential star witness was cool. No, make that cold. Parris’s frown deepened. Cold as a well-digger’s butt. Yes, butt. With a lady present, he watched his thought-language. He was about to make the point that every minute Cassandra hesitated to help the authorities nail her business manager, the guiltier she would look. Now was the time to make the righteous choice. But just as the chief of police opened his mouth to speak, the object of his verbal assault posed a question of her own.

  “But why did Nicky lie to me about being with Mr. Boxman?”

  It occurred to Parris that she had raised an interesting point. Which suggested another one: Why had Moxon bothered to call Cassandra when she was at Daisy Perika’s home—and again a couple of minutes ago? Under ordinary circumstances, the answer would simply be that he was in the habit of checking on his client when she was on the road, by herself. And since Daisy was supposed to appear on the psychic’s TV show tonight, why hadn’t Moxon directed Boxman to prepare the contract for the Ute elder’s signature?

  The answer was suddenly, blindly obvious.

  Whatever Moxon’s plan is—it doesn’t include Daisy being on Cassie’s show. Or signing a contract. Or showing up in Granite Creek! His thoughts hurried forward. How would he prevent that from happening? Parris imagined himself in Moxon’s shoes. He’d do it on the road. At some lonely spot. Mentally, so as not to alarm his passenger, Parris dope-slapped himself on the forehead. Like right here. The skin on his neck prickled. Which settled the issue. High probability was transformed to dead certainty. His gaze darted left and right. Moxon could be somewhere up there on the mountain, with a rifle. He might have us in the crosshairs right now. The policeman knew his duty and was perfectly willing to do whatever was necessary to protect his passenger, but he felt only a slight reassurance from the cold, hard presence of the Smith & Wesson .38 Special snugged into the holster under his left arm. Unaware of the state-police unit a mile behind him, he came to a sensible decision: I’ll call for some backup. As they entered a steep-walled canyon, the chief of police removed the cell phone from his pocket. Turned it on. Watched the readout. Got the dreaded message: OUT OF RANGE.

  The Real Mccoy

  As Scott Parris fiddled with the useless cell phone, the professional psychic slipped into a genuine altered state of consciousness. These inexplicable experiences, which occurred perhaps three or four times in a year, were the basis of her chosen vocation.

  Having more than sufficient issues to keep his mind occupied, the lawman took no notice of Cassandra’s silence, her glazed, glassy stare. If he had, Parris would have not been alarmed. From his reference point, she was only “away” for a few heartbeats.

  Cassandra Spencer blinked twice; her lithe body quivered in a minor spasm. She was back from wherever. Whenever. Her face had never been so pale, her soul so filled with fear. But Miss Spencer knew what she had to do. Clenching her hands, she said his name aloud: “Scott…”

  The driver kept his gaze glued to the road. “What?”

  She drew in a deep breath. “I have seen the future.”

  A hard line to follow, this. The best he could do was: “Is that so?”

  The lady pursued her semimonolog. “I am going to die.”

  Parris set his jaw. “Sure you are. So’m I. But not tonight.”

  The psychic echoed herself: “I am going to die.” Very soon.

  “Don’t worry about Moxon.” He shot her a stern look, said with more confidence than he felt, “You’re under my protection.”

  She seemed not to hear. “I wish to make a full confession.” For the sake of my soul.

  Hardly able to believe his good fortune, the chief of police managed to keep from grinning. And understanding the fragility of the moment, said not a word.

  Cassandra did the talking. She spoke of many things. But not of cabbages and kings. The TV psychic spun a sordid tale, detailing precisely how Nicholas Moxon had communicated sensational events to the star of Cassandra Sees while she was on the air. It was, she explained, really quite straightforward. “For voice communication Nicky would call me on his BlackBerry.” Each of her earrings (for redundancy) concealed a microminiaturized receive-only cellular telephone. Twice, as the technology advanced, the resourceful man had provided his client with a new, improved set—most recently, a lovely pair of cameos. But the general operation remained the same. To alert the psychic, the ornaments on both earlobes would vibrate. One buzz indicated that Moxon was about to speak to her. Two buzzes would direct her to video data about to be transmitted. “Nicky used his BlackBerry or laptop to send pictures to my computer, which was routed to the TV monitor under my coffee table.” The scam had produced sensational program content. But the occasional report of a plane crash or an assassination that Moxon picked up off the Internet during the show was not enough to sate her audience’s increasingly voracious appetite. It became “necessary” for her business manager to generate sensational items by direct action. And once he crossed that line, there was no turning back. Convinced that she had no time to waste, Cassandra passed quickly over the arsons. The repentant TV personality went directly to the killings. The victims, she informed her audience of one, were citizens who would not be missed. Nicky had assured her of this, and subsequent media reports had verified his claims. One of the lowlifes was a car thief, another a known child molester who had moved into a nice south-Denver neighborhood—just across the street from an elementary school! And the so-called trucker Nicky shot dead was a loathsome drug pusher. Surely his removal had been a service to society. Even so, Cassandra admitted that she did feel some guilt in exploiting their deaths to advance her career. It was, she said, gratifying to get this burden off her conscience. With that, her confession ended.

  The seasoned, cynical, middle-aged policeman had thought he’d seen it all in his time, heard it all. But this confession took the cake. For a fleeting instant, Scott Parris had the oddest sense that he was caught in an eerie, surreal dream. Any moment now, the classic Cadillac would rise up from the highway…float away. The alarm clock on his bedside table would ring him back to the light of day.

  The Attack

  Nicholas Moxon was not an outright fool. Far from it. He was a man who planned. But he was also a stubborn fellow who, once he had made a bold decision, never had a second thought. Now, foot on the accelerator pedal, both hands on the steering wheel, he and the owner’s corpse and the big t
ruck were moving resolutely downhill, toward a coupled destiny. Under the hood, eight pistons pumped, thumpity-thump. Worn valves clicked, thrickety-thrick. Hurricane Hazel was picking up speed. Mass times velocity is not a product to be taken lightly.

  State police officer Elmer Jackson was not a born hero. Far from it. But he was that sort of man who sees his duty and does it, without considering what the consequences for his health and safety might be, much less his longevity. With the speed control set to match the Cadillac Eldorado Brougham sedan’s leisurely pace, two fingers resting lightly on the steering wheel, he listened to the new tires underneath his unit hum. And hummed along with them. The words of the familiar hymn sang back to him:

  What a friend we have in Jesus…

  Relaxed? Yes he was. But Officer Jackson was not asleep at the wheel.

  He was aware of the big profile behind him.

  Coming up fast.

  Dummy don’t know I’m John Law. Jackson grinned. Soon as he figures that out, just watch him step on the brake!

  Coming up faster.

  The grin turned upside down. He ought to have spotted me for a cop by now.

  Rolling along like a cannonball!

  Maybe the yahoo’s drunk. Or worse, high on something or other. Looks like the moron’s gonna pass me. When he does, I’ll switch on my emergency lights and siren, and pull him over and put such a big ticket on him that he’ll have to hock his overgrown truck just for the down payment.

  An Exhilarating New Experience

  It was Nicholas Moxon’s intention to pass the cop. But he intended more than this. When he was even with the state-police unit, just as the lights began to flash and the siren emitted its first yelp, he gave the smaller vehicle a nudge. Not too much—a gentle, experimental prod. And was surprised that was all it took.