The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

  “I’m an American,” Cotten said, staring up into his cold eyes and his hard expression. “I just showed my papers to the soldier at the checkpoint.”

  “And now you will show them to me.”

  Cotten handed him her passport and press ID. “I work for the American news network SNN.”

  He opened her passport and compared the photo to the one on her press ID. “This way,” he said, guiding her toward a truck a few yards away.

  “Is there some kind of problem? I just finished an assignment in Baghdad, and I’m on my way back to New York. You have no—”

  The tailgate of the large transport was down, and the officer pointed to it. “Place your bag there.”

  She had to remain calm. This was just a routine inspection. They had no reason to suspect she was bringing anything illegal into the country.

  “Open it,” the officer said, motioning to her carryall.

  Cotten unzipped the top and spread the nylon open. Even through the pile of videos on top she could see a corner of Archer’s box.

  “What’s on these tapes?”

  “My assignment. It’s footage of children and the elderly.”

  “Children,” he said, inspecting a tape and its label. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  Cotten wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  He moved the tapes aside. “Where’s your video camera?”

  “I’m the reporter,” she said. “My cameraman is still in Iraq.”

  He continued to rummage through the bag. “And this?” he said, lifting Archer’s box out of the bag.

  “A weight.”

  “For what?”

  “To help hold down and balance my tripod—for my still camera.”

  “And where is your tripod?”

  “I had to leave it behind.”

  “But you brought this block of wood?”

  “It was already in the bag when I grabbed it to leave. I was in a hurry.”

  He turned the box over, shook it, then placed it back in the bag, and took out her SLR camera.

  A rush of relief flooded her.

  “Nikon,” he said, examining it. “Very nice.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said, growing impatient. “Can I go now?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what happens to this camera.”

  “That’s a seven hundred—”

  “Very, very nice,” he said, caressing it.

  Cotten reached for the camera, but he jerked it away.

  “You are anxious to return to America, yes?” he said, removing the lens cap. He looked through the viewfinder. “We have already detained several Americans for questioning. That is our policy.” He panned to his left and then stopped. “Do I need to detain you?”

  Cotten reluctantly exhaled. “No.”

  He rotated the Nikon in his hands admiring it, then strung the strap over his head.

  Cotten eyed her camera, wanting to rip it off his neck, but decided that under the circumstances she had no choice but to sacrifice it.

  Shouts erupted from the direction of the checkpoint. “Fucking fools,” he said. He shoved her passport and ID back at her. “Go home, American.” He turned and headed toward the disturbance—the Nikon swinging from his neck.

  Cotten zipped her bag closed, shoved her identification back in her coat, and walked on.

  Beyond the military vehicles was a sea of cars, trucks, vans, and buses lining the shoulders of the highway. People stood on the roofs and hoods, desperately searching for their relatives among the immigrants pouring past. Cotten continued along the highway looking for a taxi or commercial bus.

  Suddenly, she heard a loud, shrieking whistle. To her right, a man waved wildly at her from a bus window. It was the Turk from the dig team.

  “We go to Ankara, lady,” he yelled. “Hurry.”

  I think I love this man, Cotten thought, sprinting to the bus. Digging into her bag, she retrieved her reserve cash and bought a ticket from the driver. Once aboard, she maneuvered down the crowded aisle and placed her hand on her new friend’s shoulder, thanking him as she passed his seat. She squeezed into a narrow spot in the last row of seats. Cotten held her bag close, wondering what it was she had just smuggled out of Iraq. She was anxious to be alone with Archer’s box so she could examine it.

  In a moment the old bus vibrated and shook, then pulled onto the highway. She took a quick glance out the back window. The tide of refugees had swelled to a flood.

  * * *

  The long journey across Turkey was uncomfortable. With so many people crammed into the bus, Cotten got a good dose of all the odors the human body could produce. She’d heard once that of all the animals, humans smelled the worst. That was supposed to be an advantage, repelling predators. Now she was sure the story was true. Not only were there the oppressive odors, but the constant joggling of the ride kept her from sleep. When they finally arrived in Ankara, she was starving and felt grimier than she ever had in her life.

  After using her credit card to buy the Turk and his friends a meal at a small café near the bus terminal, she gave him a firm handshake before taking a taxi to the Esenboga Airport. There, she booked a flight to Heathrow with a connection to JFK.

  As much as she preferred keeping the carryall with her, she decided on checking it so she wouldn’t have to explain the wooden box at the Turkish airport security checkpoint. The bag had a better chance of making it through security without incident if she didn’t carry it on. All she could do was pray that Archer’s box didn’t contain explosives or other materials that would set off any alarms.

  Cotten sponged off in the airport ladies room but still felt self-conscious when she boarded and sat next to a young woman in a crisp blue oxford cloth shirt and creased pants. The woman made a point of leaning away from Cotten.

  Gold and purple twilight stretched across the horizon as she wrapped herself in the airline blanket. Wondering what secret lay within her carryall deep in the plane’s cargo hold, she slid the window shade down, closed her eyes, and drifted into a troubled sleep.

  * * *

  Landing in the U.K., Cotten retrieved her bag from the carousel, quickly checking to make sure the box was still safely inside. A ribbon of arriving passengers made their way into British Immigration. Cotten dug her nails into the palm of her hand as she gripped her bag. Thankfully, the attendant didn’t seem to note her nervousness when he stamped her passport. She moved on to Customs.

  “Do you have anything to declare?” the agent asked as she placed the bag on the table.

  “No.” Her stomach drew into a knot while the man studied her face.

  After a pause, he said, “Welcome to the United Kingdom, Ms. Stone,” and motioned her on.

  Cotten tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. She smiled at him, gathered the carryall, and moved on. Maybe she could get away with taking the bag onto the New York flight with her rather than checking it. She didn’t like it being out of her sight. And it had made it through the first leg home without arousing any safety concerns.

  Home. God, it would be good to be home again, she thought, filing through the gate and onto the 747.

  It was cloudy, and rain misted on the window as the airplane rose into the sky. She heard the thump of the wheels retracting into their wells. Seven more hours.

  As soon as the fasten-seat-belt light went off, Cotten retrieved her carryall from the overhead compartment, took it into one of the restrooms in the back of the 747, and locked the door. She sat on the closed toilet lid and opened the bag. Moving the videotapes aside, she took out the box.

  From what she could tell it was made of wood; its color was a dull black—worn and old—a few fresh scratches. She tried to open it but found no lid. Strange, she thought, there d
idn’t appear to be a top or a bottom, no hinges or seams. But Archer had opened it and looked inside. She remembered the intensity of his gaze. She shook the box, but it made no sound. How had he opened something that was as featureless as a solid block of wood? What was so important about this box that he would demand she take it? Why did the Arab try to kill for it? But the thing that haunted her the most were Archer’s words. Geh el crip.

  She finally packed the box back in the bag, returned to her seat, and stowed it in the overhead.

  * * *

  Arriving at JFK, Cotten quickly passed through Customs and Immigration. As she made her way into the crowded terminal, she stopped at an ATM for cash and then walked through the automatic doors onto the sidewalk. The bitter New York winter slapped her face. This time of year the northeast had no redeeming qualities, she thought. She was glad she had been away for the holidays, away from the snow and the painful end of her relationship with Thornton Graham. Cotten hailed a taxi and climbed into the rear of the cab, the carryall snug in her lap. She gave her midtown apartment building address to the driver before laying her head on the back of the seat.

  She kept recalling the disturbing dreams she’d had on the flight. She didn’t seem to be able to shake them—dreams filled with the smell of the dank ancient chamber, the deafening blast of the gunshot, the still-warm Arab’s blood, Archer’s pallid skin and bluing lips, his last effort to raise his head, his breath on her ear as he whispered Geh el crip—you are the only one. It was impossible for him to have spoken to her using those words. Impossible. And yet he did.

  Through the car’s dirty windows she watched the distorted skyline drift into view.

  * * *

  As soon as she was in her apartment, she left a message on Ted Casselman’s answering machine letting him know she had made it back safely. She had called him from Ankara and again from the U.K. But he still insisted on hearing from her the moment she arrived home. Father figure, mentor, friend—he was mad at her for taking such risk and would worry about her until she set foot on U.S. soil.

  Fresh from a steaming, thirty-minute shower, Cotten pushed down on the handles of the corkscrew, and the cork popped out of the bottle of chardonnay. She filled her glass. No Absolut tonight. Wine always made her sleepy, and sleep was what she needed most.

  Archer’s box rested in the center of her kitchen table. She studied it while she sat in the dinette chair cradling the glass of wine between her palms. There were no marks, no joints, and no hinges. If there were seams, they were somehow concealed in the wood grain.

  She rubbed her neck. The muscles ached, but the shower had helped ease the tension. The hot water had been delicious, pulsing on her neck and back. Blessedly, the coconut scent of the shampoo helped wash away the odors that seemed to have collected and hung on somewhere in her nose and sinuses. Cotten sipped the chardonnay, then unclipped the barrette and let her damp hair tumble down the back of the chenille bathrobe.

  After a few minutes, she got up and wandered into the living room. The pile of accumulated mail lay on the desk where her landlord had left it. “Bills and junk mail,” she mumbled, about to rake it all in the desk drawer. There, partially hidden under some even older mail was a silver-framed picture of Thornton Graham. She had shoved it in the drawer the day before she left for Iraq. Becoming involved with him was a mistake. She brushed the envelopes aside and uncovered his face.

  Thornton Graham was the SNN news anchor seen across the country during the dinner hour. Handsome, confident, experienced —and married. When she got her first assignment with the network, he had been the one who took special notice of her. Between his charisma, handsome looks, and her admiration for him, she was completely overwhelmed.

  Cotten remembered the first time she met Thornton—it was during the Christmas holidays last year. She usually walked to work, but that day she’d taken a cab because she was bringing in office decorations. In order to avoid more than one trip to the taxi, she carried two boxes, slung her satchel over her arm, and gripped a Ziploc bag of Dutch chocolate that she wanted to put in a bowl on her desk. She made it through the front doors with the help of the office-building doorman, and all the way to the elevators. But stepping into the elevator, she bumped the door just enough to make her satchel strap slide down her arm. Someone behind her lifted the strap and put it back on her shoulder. She turned to say thanks, noticing that the hand lingered, and stared into the face of SNN’s senior correspondent, Thornton Graham. She managed the thank you, but her voice caught on the word, you, coming out garbled. Thornton seemed flattered with her enchantment and flashed his famous smile. She turned, trying to appear nonchalant and not so obviously spellbound—she couldn’t help but look at his reflection in the brass elevator doors. But when she did, she was embarrassed to find him watching her. The ride up seemed to take forever. When she got off the elevator, he did, too. Thornton took the boxes and walked her to her office. Before leaving he asked her to join him for lunch later. That was the beginning of what became an almost year-long fiery, physical relationship. Now it was over—over and done.

  The wine warmed Cotten as she drained the glass. Her neck muscles relaxed, and she felt the faint buzz of the alcohol. She pushed the stack of letters into the drawer, covering Thornton’s face, and strolled back into the kitchen. Glancing at Archer’s box she decided that, as a precaution, she needed to put it in a safe place until she figured out what to do with it.

  Cotten rinsed her glass. As she dried it, she tilted her head and looked at the teapot sitting on the stove. She had an idea and moved the pot onto the counter, then lifted the range lid.

  She took a quick look at the box, then at the space under the lid. Carefully, she placed the box between the heating elements then closed the range lid and heard it click into position. Good a place as any, she thought. She returned the teapot, turned out the lights, and went to bed.

  For the first time in years, she dreamed of being a child again, playing on her family’s farm. But mostly, she dreamed of her twin sister.

  the tape

  In the morning, Cotten rummaged through her cosmetics drawer. No mascara. There were several bottles of foundation and an unused blush. Eye shadows, eyeliners, and lipsticks, but no mascara. She’d taken her only tube with her to Iraq and left it in the desert. She examined her face in the mirror. Her wheat-brown eyes appeared neglected. She swept back that maverick wisp of hair that always seemed to stray and gave a last look at her reflection. For an instant, she glimpsed her mother’s face in her own. Her fingertips touched the skin beneath her eyes and around her mouth. Memories of the life she’d left behind in Kentucky unsettled her. She’d seen deep lines and dark circles in the faces of the women—women not much older than she was now. Twenty-seven was close to thirty, and thirty was not far from . . .

  Her mother had called her fanciful, said she was a dreamer. It was true. And on the wings of those dreams she’d fled a life where women grew old too soon, gave up hope too soon . . . and died too soon.

  “I’m sorry, Mamma,” she whispered.

  Cotten dabbed perfume behind each ear and closed the cosmetics drawer. In the kitchen, she munched on a granola bar and downed a cup of instant coffee. While she ate, she gazed at the stove. It looked normal enough. Just for good measure she pulled a frying pan from the cabinet and placed it on the unit next to the teapot.

  Perfect.

  She headed along the ten blocks from her apartment to SNN headquarters. It was cold, but Cotten paid little attention. She was anxious to get the answer to some nagging questions. Suddenly, her cell phone vibrated.

  “Hello,” she said, trying to dodge others on the crowded sidewalk.

  “Hey, baby. You’re back!”

  “Nessi!” Cotten smiled, glad to hear her friend’s voice.

  “How was it? Looks like things are really heating up over there.”

  “You won’t believe the shit
I’ve been through the last couple of days.” She began filling in her friend but deliberately left out the part where Archer had begged her to take the box, had gazed eerily at her as if he knew her, spoke to her in a language that didn’t exist for anyone else on the planet but her. Nobody would understand. “Then I had to bribe my way across the Turkish border. I was jammed on a bus for a day with people who smelled like goats. And I think I illegally smuggled some kind of ancient artifact out of the Middle East into the U.S.” She caught a glimpse of the New York Times headline as she passed a newsstand: MILITARY BUILDUP ACCELERATES. “Other than that, it was uneventful. You miss me?”

  “Always.” Vanessa Perez said. “I was worried about you. Is your boss pissed?”

  “I think he had to double up on his blood pressure medication. I’m heading in to work now. Got a meeting with him at nine thirty, and my edit is at ten.”

  “What about the Thorn in your side?”

  “Nessi, lighten up.”

  “Is he going to be there?”

  “I guess. Maybe I’ll luck out, and he’ll be off on assignment somewhere.”

  “You better start thinking about what you’re going to say when you see him.”

  “I’m over it.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

  Cotten’s stomach sank. Nessi had heard that before—more than once. She’d always meant it, wanted to believe she was finished with him. But this time had to be different. He was a bad road to travel, painful, and a dead end. She had to convince herself that she had put Thornton behind her—packed that bag and shipped it off to her past.

  “You have a shoot today?” Cotten asked.

  “South Beach—it’s for Hawaiian Tropic—you’ll soon see me on billboards flashing a little T ‘n’A in a skimpy bikini.”

  Cotten laughed. “Knock ’em dead.”

  “I always do.” There was an uneasy pause. Then Vanessa said, “Don’t give in to him.”

  “Give me a little credit.” Cotten felt the blast of warm air as she passed through the revolving doors into SNN’s headquarters.