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

by Lynn Sholes

  “Hey, that’s what friends are for.” Vanessa half sang the Burt Bacharach lyric. It was their personal mantra.

  “It’s a good thing you’re beautiful, ’cause you sure can’t sing,” Cotten said with a chuckle.

  “I love you, too,” Vanessa said, and hung up.

  Cotten slipped the cell back in her overcoat pocket and stopped to watch the on-air monitor over the lobby security desk—sound bites from the President’s State of the Union address.

  She signed in at the security desk and clipped on her identification badge.

  The network’s studios, production, audio, duplication, satellite linking and transmission, and engineering took up the first seven floors. Cotten got off on the eighth where SNN had its video edit suites and archives.

  “Cotten.”

  It was Thornton Graham.

  She forced a smile and a nod. Shit, why did she have to run into him first thing?

  “It’s so good to . . . you feeling okay?” he asked. “You don’t look—”

  “I’m fine. I didn’t have any mascara, that’s all.”

  He kissed her cheek, and she smelled his cologne, flooding her head with vivid memories.

  “Got a minute?” He motioned toward his office.

  “I’m really in a rush.”

  “Your edit isn’t for an hour—I checked.”

  “I’ve got to do some research first.”

  “I’ve missed you,” he said in almost a whisper, touching her arm, moving closer.

  There was a heavy silence.

  “Thornton . . .” She shook her head, not wanting to look him in the eyes. “Please, it’s over.”

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “I love you.”

  “It wasn’t love,” she whispered. “You know that.”

  “Cotten, I do love you.”

  “I’ve got to go.” She headed down the corridor.

  “Cotten,” he called after her, but she didn’t turn around.

  She hadn’t cried this time—that was a good sign. She’d made the right decision, she thought, and she was going to get through this. If she just didn’t have to see him—touch him.

  Inside the video archives department, Cotten sat at a computer terminal, entered her security password, and initiated the search function. Then she typed Archer, Gabriel. Within seconds, the screen displayed two references. She selected both, chose the retrieve command, and turned to watch through the glass wall. One of the huge carousels filled with videocassettes revolved. A robotic arm zoomed around it, scanning bar codes, then grabbed a cassette, moved laterally to one of the players, and inserted the tape. A video window appeared on Cotten’s terminal, and sound came from a small set of speakers mounted on each side of the screen. The images blurred past in high speed as the machine used the timecode on the tape to locate the correct segment. There was a short pause, and then the picture and sound came up.

  The first image was an electronic slate: Ark Search, Archer interview. A short piece followed from a TV magazine program mentioning Gabriel Archer, whom Cotten learned was a biblical archaeologist and part of the team searching for the remains of Noah’s Ark. Nothing else of apparent significance. And nothing to give her a clue how he knew to speak to her in that language. After all, wasn’t it just a made-up language—what her mother likened to twin talk?

  She stopped the tape and requested the second. This one was longer and featured Archer. The focus was an interview with him at his home in Oxford, England. Although the tape was only a few years old, Archer looked much younger, she thought . . . heavier, healthier, and jubilant. He held a small, round golden plate he had recently discovered on a dig in Jerusalem. Symbols covered the plate, and he claimed it dated to the Crusades. “The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field,” Archer said. He quoted scripture many times during the interview. Caressing the plate like it was an infant, he said, “This will lead me to heaven’s greatest treasure.”

  Next came an interview with a staff archaeologist at the Museum of Natural History in New York. The man smiled patronizingly, calling Archer a devotee to his own theories. “Sometimes,” he said, “enthusiasm gets the best of the doctor. He’s had many extravagant notions.” The archaeologist did go on to credit Archer with several noteworthy discoveries, including his work on the search for Noah’s Ark, but said his eccentricities diminished his credibility.

  There were a few other interviews discussing Archer. One in particular caught Cotten’s attention: Dr. John Tyler, a Catholic priest, biblical historian, and archaeologist, spoke kindly of Archer. Tyler had studied under Gabriel Archer and said the elderly archaeologist was dedicated to his work, mentioning that many of his discoveries had shed much needed light on biblical history.

  Tyler appeared to be in his mid-thirties, tall with dark hair, and had the rugged face of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. And he had great eyes, Cotten thought.

  She rewound the tape and played Tyler’s portion again. He was soft-spoken, but his words were confident, authoritative.

  “He has many aspirations,” Tyler said of Archer. “I wish him well.”

  Cotten scribbled down the name of the college where Tyler taught. He was right in New York and could be a good source of information. She thought about what Archer had whispered to her in the crypt and his notability to quote the Bible. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, Matthew. He had to be referring to a passage in the Bible. She glanced at her watch—about fifteen more minutes before her meeting with Ted Casselman.

  Ending the archives search, Cotten headed back down the hall, sticking her head in one of the edit rooms. “Anybody got a Bible?”

  “You get religion in the Middle East, Cotten?” the video editor said, looking at her over his shoulder.

  “Try the nightstand in a hotel room,” an assistant added.

  She grinned. “Very funny. Come on, guys. Really, any idea where I can locate a Bible?”

  “The religion correspondent,” the editor said, and returned to his monitors.

  “Right,” she said, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it. But then, religion was not something she spent a great deal of time thinking about. She checked her watch again as she headed to his office.

  “Which version?” the correspondent’s secretary asked.

  “I don’t know; isn’t there a standard one?”

  The secretary pointed to the door behind her and got up. Cotten followed.

  Against one wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The secretary pulled a King James Version off the shelf. “Just put it back when you’re done,” she said before leaving.

  “Thanks,” Cotten said, not looking up. What had Archer said? Matthew? Matthew was in the New Testament, she knew that much. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. That was as far as she’d gotten in Sunday school.

  “Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty eight,” she said, flipping through the pages. Running her finger down each page, she stopped at the Gospel of St. Matthew, chapter 26, and read verses 27 and 28 aloud, “And He took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, Drink ye all of it. For this is my blood of the New Testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.”

  “Jesus,” she whispered, then realized the pun. Could all this have something to do with the cup from the Last Supper? Could that be what was in the box sitting under the hood of her Hotpoint stove? Archer said he was looking for heaven’s greatest treasure. She blew out a breath at the thought that she could be on top of a huge story.

  Pulling the slip of paper from her pocket, she picked up the phone on the desk and called information. After getting the number for the college where Dr. Tyler taught, she dialed it.

  “Yes, I’m trying to locate a Reverend Dr. John Tyler. I understand he teaches there.” She listened for a moment, and her face dropped. “Well, do you know where he’s assigned now
?” Another pause and she said, “Let me give you my number.”

  Cotten hung up, grabbed her things, and rushed to the office of Ted Casselman, SNN’s news director. She knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Casselman sat at the head of the conference table, a handful of folders spread before him. Two chairs away from the news director sat Thornton Graham. Thornton smiled warmly as Cotten moved across the room.

  Ted Casselman looked up. He was a forty-two-year-old black man, medium build, manicured nails, with some early gray hair that flattered his deep skin tone.

  “Well, you’re one lucky lady,” Casselman said, standing to kiss her on the cheek. “Try pulling a stunt like that again and I’ll see to it that the only job you can get is reporting the weather on the local cable channel in Beaver Falls.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “And you’re late.”

  “Forgive me, Ted,” she said, putting on her best little-girl smile. “I had to make a quick trip to the archives.”

  “Oh? I thought you had all your research.”

  “Just a few loose ends.”

  “Sit and relax. We’re almost done here.” Casselman returned to his chair and opened one of the folders. He scanned the top sheet and said to Thornton, “What do you know about Robert Wingate?”

  “Basic stuff,” Thornton said. “Mostly from his press kit.” He let his pencil bounce on its eraser. “He’s a wealthy industrialist, new to the political scene, and gaining a sizable following. He’s based his platform on family values and high moral character. So far, he seems to have no blemishes—the perfect candidate.” Thornton flipped to another page of his ever-present comp book. “Devoted family man and generous with his wealth. One of his pet projects is a national organization that sponsors youth ranches for urban delinquent kids. And it’s not only troubled kids he works with. Wingate’s been instrumental in getting quite a few chapters of DeMolay going in different areas of the country, especially in Florida, his home state. He’s outspoken against child abuse and—”

  “Hold on,” Casselman interrupted. “What’s DeMolay?”

  Thornton looked up. “Kids’ version of the Freemasons. It’s an organization for boys between twelve and twenty-one.”

  “Anything else?” Casselman asked.

  “Can’t find a whole lot about him. Wingate popped up on the political scene from out of nowhere. Apparently, he has a substantial money machine behind him.”

  Ted Casselman scratched his chin. “Let’s find out what makes Wingate so perfect. Put together a segment on him for Sunday night.”

  “I’ll get my staff on it right away,” Thornton said. He gathered his notes, stood, and came around the conference table to Cotten. “Stop by after your edit if you have a chance.”

  “I’ll see,” Cotten said, looking up at him.

  “How’s the footage look?” Casselman asked her as Thornton left the room.

  “It’s better than I ever expected. Believe me, Ted, international sanctions and embargos have taken a heavy toll on the Iraqi kids and elderly. It’s going to be a gut-wrenching story. But it won’t score too many points with the State Department now that they’re about to start another war.”

  “Good, that almost guarantees higher ratings.” He stood. “Come on, I’ll walk with you to your edit.” He put his arm around her shoulders, leading her to the door. “You gave me many a sleepless night, young lady. But you also showed spunk. A scrapper. I like that. Now, I want to see what I got for my extra gray hairs.”

  “You won’t be disappointed, Ted.” Cotten liked Casselman and respected him. She regretted making him worry so much about her. And he was the one who could boost her up two rungs at a time on the career ladder.

  They entered Edit B. The room was dark except for the soft glow from the wall of monitors and banks of electronic controls.

  “I made copies of the script and my notes,” she said, handing Casselman and the editor a file folder each. “We can record a scratch track to edit to for now, and get a staff announcer in later.” She smiled at the assistant editor. “We’re going to need some cuts from the stock music library—lots of drama, dark, powerful stuff. Oh, and some ethnic cuts. Middle Eastern.” Then Cotten unloaded the carryall bag. All the videocassettes were numbered, and she stacked them in order.

  “Oh, shit,” she said. She unstacked the tapes, reading every label again.

  “What’s wrong?” Casselman looked up from the script.

  “I’ve . . .”

  He laid the papers down. “Cotten?”

  “You’re going to have to start without me,” she said.

  tyler

  Cotten threw open the door to her apartment and ran to the bedroom. She remembered sitting on her bed last night, unpacking the carryall and taking out the box. That was the only time the missing videocassette could have fallen out. On her hands and knees she lifted the dust ruffle and looked under the bed.

  Not there.

  She sat up and combed her fingers through her hair, scanning the rest of the worn rug that covered most of her bedroom floor. She hadn’t opened the carryall during the bus ride across Turkey, and it was checked from Ankara to London. And on the flight home she’d have seen the tape if it had fallen to the floor of the jet’s cramped lavatory. That only left . . .

  The crypt.

  But she had been certain she’d gathered all her things, all the tapes, yet she had rushed to catch the truck . . . and it was pitch black.

  “Just great,” Cotten said. Not only were the tapes labeled, she was the principal reporter on every one. And how many times had she said her name and mentioned SNN? It wouldn’t take a genius to connect the tape to her, and her to the box.

  Maybe the Arab worked alone, just an antiquities thief. Maybe with the chaos of the military activity in the region, no one went looking for him or Archer. Maybe no one had found the tape because the dig site was abandoned.

  Maybe.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands. If someone else wanted that box, they’d go looking for Archer’s excavation, realize the artifact wasn’t there—and know someone had taken it. Guess who? The girl on the videotape. She might as well have spray painted her name and address in big fat letters on the wall of the chamber.

  The phone rang, and Cotten jumped. “Hello,” she said. “Yes, that’s right. I was trying to get in touch with Dr. John Tyler.”

  She listened for a moment, then reached in the nightstand and took out a pencil and pad. “I really appreciate you getting back to me.” She wrote St. Thomas College. White Plains, NY. “Thanks,” she said, and hung up.

  White Plains was only about an hour north of the city. She’d find Tyler and see what he knew about Archer and his latest excavation.

  Cotten went to the kitchen and moved the kettle and frying pan off the stove, lifted the range top, and stared at the box. Did it hold the Cup from the Last Supper—the Holy Grail? And why had Archer told her she was the only one who could stop the sun, the dawn?

  Geh el crip. Geh el crip. You are the only one.

  The words tolled inside her head as loud as any steeple bells. She had to find out everything about this Gabriel Archer.

  * * *

  The classic Greek architecture of St. Thomas College nestled snugly among oaks and sycamores. The day was cold and crisp, sunlight glaring off swatches of snow on the brown ground. A handful of students moved across the bare winter campus.

  Cotten climbed the worn marble steps to the large wooden double doors. A bronze plaque read Established, January 1922. Inside, the room had narrow, paned windows that rose from six inches above the floor to the high ceiling. The dark oak planks creaked as she approached the receptionist.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked.

  “I’m looking for Dr. John Tyler.”

  “I don’t know if he’s here today. It’s
Founders’ Day, and there aren’t any classes.”

  “Would you mind checking?”

  “Sure.” The woman ran her finger down a laminated list before picking up the phone. “I’ll ring his office.”

  Cotten looked around. Shadows huddled in the corners of the room. The place smelled old and musty. She rubbed her nose thinking she might sneeze. The cushions of the Queen Anne chairs sagged from generations of student bodies. A picture of the pope hung over a faded fabric couch. In the center of the room, behind the receptionist’s desk, stood a statue of the Virgin Mary, the winter sun streaming in from the eastern window highlighting her head. Dust motes swirled in the beam as if they had life. Cotten wondered if the statue had been placed there because of the light or if it was a coincidence. Whether by accident or not, the pale glow made the sculpture ethereal.

  “There’s no answer,” the woman said. “I’m sorry.”

  Cotten took a business card from her purse. “Could you—”

  “Oh,” the receptionist said, standing. “I completely forgot about the student-faculty football game.” She checked the time on her watch. “I believe Dr. Tyler is playing. If you hurry, you might catch him.”

  She led Cotten outside and pointed in the direction of the athletic field.

  Cotten followed the receptionist’s directions, crossing the Commons, passing the chapel, and finally winding down a path between the dorms and the gym. She heard the shouts of a small crowd as she approached the football field.

  A bleacher, peppered with fifty or so people, bordered a section on the south side of the field. The wooden uprights were old, in the shape of an H instead of the squared-off Y.

  Cotten climbed into the stands and sat next to a man with a neatly cropped goatee and mustache. She hugged herself for warmth and asked him, “Do you know which one is Dr. Tyler?”

  Wrapped in a blanket, the man lifted his arm from underneath, nodding toward the field. “That’s John throwing the pass. You’re just in time for the last play.” He rose to his feet and yelled, “Go! Go!”

  The receiver caught the ball, but was quickly overrun, disappearing under a mound of players. The student team and their fans whooped and hollered in celebration.