Three Sisters Read Online Free Page B

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