by Lynn Sholes
She rubbed her arms for warmth while thinking about Tyler. She’d become more and more unnerved in his office, realizing as he described Archer’s theory that she’d been in the crypt, seen the Crusader’s bones . . . held the box. Tyler must believe her to be completely crazy—and ungrateful. She practically ran out of his office after saying she had all the information she needed. How embarrassing. And John was so polite, even offering to answer more questions.
Thornton crept into her thoughts.
Thornton.
Just letting herself get so deeply involved with him was another in a long line of stupid mistakes. Not only was he married, his face was a household fixture in millions of homes around the country. It would have been hard to pick someone with a higher profile to jump into bed with.
And of course there was the box. Another mistake. She should have left it in the crypt. But wasn’t that what she’d done most of her life—run away from problems, decisions, relationships—hoping they would disappear?
They never did.
Before putting the cold cuts in the refrigerator, she made a sandwich, then wandered back into the living room to watch the news. That’s when she spotted the blinking light on her answering machine. There were three messages. She sat on the sofa, pressed play, and bit down on the ham sandwich.
Beep.
“Cotten? It’s Ted. I got your message that you weren’t coming back in today. Are you all right? Why did you leave the edit? What’s going on? Call me.”
Beep.
“Cotten, it’s Ted again. They’ve just about finished your piece, but there’s a tape missing. What should they do? We’re running it tomorrow night. If I don’t hear from you I’ll tell the editor to use some stock cover shots. Call me as soon as you can.”
Beep.
“Hi.”
Thornton’s voice.
Pause.
“I really need to talk to you. I know you think it’s over, but it’s not. We weren’t just having an affair. I love you. And I know you love me. Please, Cotten, we’ve got to talk.”
Pause.
“Can’t we just meet for dinner? That’s all I want. Just to talk. Call me back. I love you.”
The sound of his voice had made her stomach tighten—the same feeling she got so many times when the phone rang and she knew it was Thornton . . . prayed it was Thornton.
The first time they made love it had been raw lust. They’d had lunch on occasion, flirted in the hallways, elevators, and stairwells at work. Then he’d asked her to meet him for a drink one evening. They met in a hotel bar near SNN and within twenty minutes they were tearing each other’s clothes off in a hotel room eighteen stories above Broadway. After three clandestine meetings, the first hint of affection finally entered into their lovemaking. But that vanished quickly on Thornton’s part, while she still yearned for the gentleness, the sweetness, the love in lovemaking. It became evident he only wanted sex. Nothing more. He denied her accusation, saying it was because they only had those few stolen moments, and she aroused him so much . . . Cotten wanted to believe him, but almost every time, as soon as they finished—he finished—he’d leave, take his limo home to his wife Cheryl while Cotten lay in the rumpled sheets, in the dark, and cried. She’d been a fool to think anything would ever change. A stint in Iraq was supposed to make her forget.
Now it started all over again—his voice brooding and full of sincerity. His words full of promises. How could she detest what she craved? It made no sense. She drank the poison because she loved the taste.
Cotten glanced toward the kitchen. She could see the stove. The box was just one more pebble in her shoe.
Picking up the phone, she dialed Thornton’s cell. She almost hoped that maybe he’d be home with his wife and wouldn’t pick up.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Hi,” she said, almost in a whisper.
“Oh, thank God.” His voice was urgent. “I’ve been going out of my mind. I have to see you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please, Cotten. We need to talk. I’ve made a decision.”
There was a long pause.
“Let me guess. You’re going to leave her.”
“Yes.”
Cotten didn’t respond. This wasn’t a new tune.
“I know I’ve said it before. This time I mean it.”
“Thornton, don’t. I’m emotionally exhausted.”
“I know I haven’t been fair. Just let me see you. Please. You won’t regret it.”
I already do, she thought.
Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she said, “All right,” flinching even as the words came out. It was going to be the same old pattern. They’d meet. They’d talk. They’d have sex. It didn’t matter what he promised.
“Can you meet me?”
Cotten slumped into the couch cushions. “When?”
“I’m working late, but I’ll finish up and get out of here in an hour.”
She hung up without answering.
* * *
They had often met at Giovanni’s in the past—a small out-of-the-way restaurant about ten blocks from her apartment. It reminded her of the one in The Godfather where Michael Corleone committed murder for the first time. Cotten didn’t know which of her sins was worse, adultery or stupidity.
When she entered Giovanni’s, the head waiter greeted her. “Good evening, Ms. Stone. Mr. Graham is waiting.” He led her to a table in the back.
Prints of the old country covered the walls, along with empty Chianti bottles and plastic flowers.
“Cotten,” Thornton said, standing and taking her in his arms. “God, I’m glad you came.” He tried to kiss her, but she turned away.
“Hello, Thornton.” She slipped into the chair across from him.
He took her hands in his and rested them on top of the table. “I was crazy with worry. Ted told me all about your escape from Iraq. You’re a lucky lady.”
“In some respects.”
“So how was it?” Thornton asked. “Did you get the story you wanted?”
“Most of it. It’s running tomorrow night.”
“I know,” Thornton said, squeezing her hands. “I previewed it before leaving work. You did an outstanding job.” He paused. “Ted told me you got upset and rushed out of your edit yesterday. He said he tried to call you all day today, but you weren’t home. They had to do the edit without you. What happened, sweetheart?”
“Nothing really,” she said. “I misplaced a tape and haven’t been able to find it yet.”
“Important stuff?”
“It was all important,” she said, pulling her hands away as the waiter approached.
“Something to drink?” the waiter asked.
“Bring me a big fat Tanqueray and tonic,” Thornton said. “Cotten?”
“Absolut on the rocks with a twist, please.”
The waiter left, and Thornton leaned back. “I’ve got to go to the doctor and have my clot time checked tomorrow. Pain in the ass. They can’t keep the damn Coumadin levels stable.”
She knew he was stalling. “Yes, you’ve told me that before.” Cotten unwrapped her silverware and put the napkin in her lap, fidgeting with it.
“Well, who’d have thought you could get blood clots in your legs just from sitting on a goddamn airplane? Now, with the blood thinner, God forbid, I cut myself shaving—I’ll bleed to death.”
“Get to the point, Thornton. You’re waltzing all around it. Trying to work up a little sympathy first?”
He reached for her hands again, but she kept them just out of range.
“I know what you’re going to say, that we’ve been through this ad infinitum,” he said. “But this time it’s different. I swear.”
“Just tell me what you decided.”
“I’m
going to ask Cheryl for a divorce.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? Because I love you. I want to be with you.”
“When are you going to tell her?” Cotten prepared for the catch.
“Right away.”
She glared at him.
“Very soon. Just as soon as she gets her decorating business on its feet. That way she’ll have something to preoccupy her while getting through—”
“Thornton, she’s been trying to get that business going for two fucking years.” By the end of the sentence, Cotten had raised her voice enough that some heads turned in their direction.
He held his hands up, as if to surrender. “Cotten, please.”
“This is the same bullshit you’ve told me over and over. Nothing’s changed, has it? You know as well as I do you can’t leave her.” Cotten looked up at the cheap, fake flowers. How appropriate, she thought. “I’m so goddamn stupid. I knew what you were doing, and I still came here. I was going to let you sweet-talk me into bed. And while you fucked me and whispered how you couldn’t live without me, you’d be checking your watch so you wouldn’t get home too late and have to make up some excuse.” Cotten rubbed her temples. Her voice dropped. “I can’t take this anymore. I never should have come. Go home to Cheryl and leave me alone.”
She grabbed her purse, stormed out, and cried her way down the Manhattan sidewalk.
Cotten walked for nearly an hour in the freezing drizzle before flagging a cab. She’d cried until she couldn’t anymore. Maybe she’d overreacted and been too harsh. What if he really was trying to leave Cheryl? She was so confused. Maybe she should move out of New York, even go home to Kentucky. That notion quickly dissolved. She had to break this off completely and get over it.
She could live without him, she kept telling herself. There was life after Thornton Graham.
* * *
Cotten sat in her living room and stared at the phone on the table beside her. She knew she would see Thornton at work—there was no way to avoid it. Setting rules up front would be the best thing. She wouldn’t talk to him unless it was a matter dealing with her job. She wouldn’t answer his calls. And she wouldn’t see him alone under any circumstances. Those were the rules—and that’s what she would tell him. It was over. The end.
The phone rang, and Cotten answered, but not without first looking at the Caller ID.
“Uncle Gus,” she said when she picked up. “How are you?”
“Doing great, little girl. Just checking up on my favorite niece.”
That was a joke between them. She was his only niece. She heard him laugh and pictured her uncle’s Santa-like frame. Even his hair was snow white like Mr. Kringle’s. She loved Gus and wished he would lose weight and stop chain-smoking. She heard the click of his cigarette lighter.
“I haven’t talked to you in a while,” he said.
“I haven’t talked with anyone in the family much since Mama passed away,” she said. “But this is a very pleasant surprise.”
“It’s a shame how younger family members drift apart as the older generations pass on. Not just our family.”
“I know. We really should keep in touch.”
“And we will. Anything exciting in your life?”
Cotten thought of telling him about the box and Thornton, but she was just too mentally exhausted to do it tonight. “Not really,” she said. “And you?”
“Business is booming. I think New Yorkers are becoming more and more paranoid. Makes for the private eye business to go through the ceiling. I’ve got more cases than I can handle.”
“I’m so happy for you,” she said. As Cotten talked, her eyes started to wander from table to chair, TV to bookshelves and china cabinet, realizing things were slightly out of place. Suddenly, fear, icier than the Hudson River, coursed through her.
“Uncle Gus, I’ve got another call,” she lied. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
She didn’t wait to hear his goodbye as she gently placed the receiver in its cradle. Taking a much slower, closer inspection of the room, she saw that a small golden horse her mother had given her faced the wrong way on the TV cabinet; the drawer of the end table was not pushed in all the way; the lid to the cedar chest wasn’t closed snugly; the books on the shelves rested at odd angles.
Quickly, she checked the other rooms. She didn’t have much of value—a few pieces of jewelry, a laptop, a cheap stereo. Nothing was missing.
“Jesus,” she said, running back to the kitchen. The box.
The frying pan and teapot sat just as she’d left them. She moved them off the Hotpoint and gripped the stove lid. Pulling up, she heard the clamps give way.
It was still there—the plain, black, featureless box. She eased the stove lid back into place with a click.
Someone had been here, searched her apartment. If they were looking for the box, they hadn’t found it, which meant they would be back.
Heart racing, Cotten hurried to her front door, checked the lock, and put the guard chain in place. She leaned against the door and looked around the living room.
In just a few short days they had found her.
Picking up the phone again, Cotten started to call the police. But she hesitated, changing her mind. Let’s consider this for a moment, she thought. What exactly would she tell the cops? They’d ask questions, and she’d answer.
There was a break-in?
Yes.
Was the burglar still in the apartment when you arrived?
No.
Was anything stolen—missing?
No.
How do you know someone broke in?
Well, some of my things were messed up—out of place.
That’s it?
Yes.
Are there signs of forced entry? Was the door jimmied, window broken?
No.
So, if they didn’t force their way in, they must have used a key. Who else has a key?
My landlord.
Does he have permission to enter your apartment when you’re not at home?
Yes, he collects my mail while I’m away.
Do you trust him?
Yes.
Have you received any crank calls? Any threats?
No.
Can you think of anything in your possession that someone would want to go to this much trouble to steal?
Well, there is the box.
What box?
The box I smuggled into the country illegally from Iraq. You know, one of the Axis of Evil nations we’re getting ready to bomb.
What’s in the box?
I don’t know; I can’t open it.
Why?
It doesn’t have a lid, hinges, or locks. It’s sort of like a solid block of wood.
But you think there’s something of value in this featureless box even though you can’t open it?
Yes, I think it contains the most treasured relic in the entire Christian world—the single most sought-after item in the past two thousand years—nothing less than the famous, Holy fucking Grail.
Wow, that’s impressive. Ms. Stone, are you under a doctor’s care or taking any kind of medication? Perhaps you’re depressed? Lonely? Having boyfriend problems?
Actually, I had a boyfriend problem just this very evening—
“Shit! Fuck!” Cotten slammed down the receiver. How utterly ridiculous! The police wouldn’t stop laughing for a week. She felt the tears forming as she put her face in her hands. The frustration turned to fear. She had to find out what the hell was going on. She had to do something.
Leaning over, she slid her purse out from underneath her coat and pulled the business card from her wallet. Cotten picked up the phone and dialed.
puzzle cube
At 1:00 a.m. John Tyler stood gazing out his kitchen window while he waited f
or Cotten Stone. A full moon turned the frozen lake beyond the apartment complex into a dull gray slab dotted with small pearly patches of snow. The bare maple trees cast bony shadows across the hard ground. It was a Currier and Ives picture. The view made him reflect on how often he thought of himself as a blank canvas. The yet-to-be-created painting was a metaphor for his life. There had to be more, something that would fill this chasm inside. He’d already tried his hand at so many ways to serve God, but none had brought him peace with himself. What was it that God had planned for him? Years of introspection and searching had not answered that question. If God intended for him to live his life as it was now, he would feel satisfied, content, fulfilled.
But he didn’t.
John watched the road for headlights. Cotten Stone should arrive any minute if she left right after they had spoken on the phone. And what a strange conversation that had been—her voice urgent as she asked to see him right away, saying that it couldn’t wait until morning. Her apartment had been broken into, but she didn’t call the police. She’d explain when she got there.
He stared at the brittle landscape, curious as to what could be so important that she had to see him at this time of night. Something about her behavior kept her on his mind after she’d left his office. She’d seemed afraid—as if she hid something. Cotten had fidgeted, crossed and uncrossed her legs as she spoke, and tripped over her words. Odd behavior for a professional reporter.
A knock made him look away from the window.
* * *
For the hundredth time since she boarded the train, Cotten asked herself if she should have waited until the morning. She could have just left her apartment, gone to a hotel, and then called him in the morning. But it was too late for that now. She stood on his doorstep hugging a large leather bag.
“Come in,” John said, answering the door.
She stepped past him into his living room.
“Let me take your coat.”
She unwound the scarf from her neck. “I know you probably think I’m crazy coming here in the middle of the night like this,” she said as John helped her slip out of the coat. She hung on to the bag protectively as she moved about the room, slowly warming up.
