Three Sisters Read Online Free PDF Page B

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