Three Sisters Read Online Free

run-of-the-mill stalker-pervert. And we may safely rule out DEA agent; while initiative and spontaneity are valued in that U.S. government service—summary executions are not condoned. Not officially. Which narrows it down some.

    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. ”

Three
Granite Creek, Colorado
    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