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

by Lynn Sholes

  “Or standing next to a Michelangelo while interviewing that cardinal you mentioned would look good on my demo reel.” She shook her head. “You must think I’m shameless.”

  “No, I think you take your job seriously, and you work hard at it to be the best. There’s nothing wrong with that. I envy you.”

  Cotten found his remark curious. “Really?”

  “I don’t think it’s common for most people to live their passions. Some are lucky, like you. I can see the fire in your eyes. You can’t wait to jump on this story. That’s what fills you up. My grandfather was fortunate that way. He was an archaeologist, too, and when I was a kid he filled my head with tales of ancient civilizations. Talk about fire in somebody’s eyes. You couldn’t help but listen to him and become excited. Those wondrous stories stayed with me. It’s what made me go on after my ordination for a degree in Medieval and Byzantine Studies and later in Early Christian Studies.”

  “I hate to admit it, but I didn’t know priests did other stuff. You know, other than priestly things.”

  John laughed. “I’ve done that, too. I was an assistant pastor in a small parish for a short while.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “Barbara Walters has nothing on you,” he said. “You’re going to get the whole story.”

  “Hope so. I find it interesting. So did you like being shepherd of your small flock?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “But?”

  “But, Ms. Walters, it didn’t fill me up is the best way I can put it. I’ve always wanted to serve God. That’s never been a question. What’s the best way is another story. Maybe it was all my grandfather’s stories of the windswept plains of Africa or the ancient tombs below the streets of Middle Eastern cities. Who knows? I took a leave of absence from the priesthood to live some of those tales, see if it put fire in my eyes.” John folded is arms. “Now you know my life story.”

  She looked into his navy blue eyes. They were gorgeous with or without fire. But Cotten felt as if she had intruded, been too much the reporter, especially since it was she who had come to him for help in the middle of the night. “I feel like I should apologize, first for keeping you up and secondly for prying. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I know you didn’t. If I’d been offended, I wouldn’t have spoken so freely. It was my choice.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, then John said, “How about a snack? I’ve got some rhubarb pie.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll help.” She followed him into the kitchen.

  “How soon can we leave?” she asked.

  “What?” He opened a cabinet. “Plates are in there.”

  “For Rome. How soon can we leave?”

  “Well, I suppose today if I can make the arrangements.”

  Cotten found two small plates and set them on the counter. “Yes, today. Can you set it up?”

  John pulled the pie from the refrigerator and looked at his watch. “It’s still early. I have a friend with some clout. Felipe Montiagro, he’s the Vatican Apostolic Nuncio.”

  “I’m not familiar . . .”

  “Apostolic Nuncio. Vatican City State is a sovereign country. The nuncio is the equivalent of an ambassador. Archbishop Montiagro is the Vatican ambassador to the U.S. and works out of the Vatican embassy in Washington. We go way back. Let me give him time to get into his office; then I’ll start with a call to him.”

  He cut two pieces of the pie, slid each onto the plates, and put them on the kitchen table. Grabbing two forks from the drawer, he said, “Soup’s on.”

  They sat across from each other—Cotten watching him put a bite of pie in his mouth and chew. When his eyes met hers, she looked down at her pie and cut a piece with her fork.

  “And I need to call a cab,” she said after tasting. “I’ve got to go home and pack.”

  “It’s two in the morning. You’re more than welcome to stay in the guestroom. Besides, if there is a connection between the box and the break-in, your apartment may not be the best place to go.”

  John was right. Maybe she shouldn’t return to her apartment at all. She could buy a nylon duffle bag and essentials at the airport—she still had her passport in her purse. And she would treat herself to a shopping spree in Rome once the relic was safely in the hands of the Vatican. “If I spend the night, won’t your neighbors gossip?”

  “Most of them are students, and they haven’t even come in for the night.” With a lighthearted smile, John added, “Besides, a lot of them are in my classes, and they want a passing grade.”

  They both laughed and finished up their pie slices. John stacked the dishes in the dishwasher and they returned to the living room.

  “Did you bake the pie?” she asked.

  “No, it was a gift.”

  “A lady friend?” Cotten asked, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

  John grinned. “Kind of.”

  “Really? I mean, can you—I didn’t know a priest—even on leave—”

  John laughed aloud. “My lady friend is seventy-eight years old, has acute arthritis, suffers from cataracts, and still finds time to bake me a pie every Thursday. This week was rhubarb.”

  Damn, she thought. Why had she asked that? P-r-i-e-s-t, Cotten. Don’t you get it?

  “Let’s put this away for the night,” John said as he wrapped the relic in the Templar cloth and placed it back in the box. He put it inside Cotten’s bag. “Come on, I’ll get you settled in.”

  He led her down the hall to the guestroom. It was plain and sparsely furnished—a single bed topped with a thick comforter, and a nightstand with a tiffany-style lamp, along with a small dresser and mirror. A simple crucifix hung on the wall at the head of the bed. It looked like he had made no investment in this place for it to become his home, she thought. He must not have decided that this is where he wanted to stay or what he wanted to do. He still hadn’t found his passion.

  “Nothing fancy, I’m afraid,” John said.

  “It’ll do just fine.”

  “Bathroom is next door on the right. Anything else you need?”

  She shook her head. “Can’t think of anything.”

  He set the bag on the bed before saying goodnight.

  John closed the door, and she heard the wood floor creak as he walked away.

  Cotten gazed in the mirror. Her hair was all about, makeup long faded, eyes dull with exhaustion. “What must he think of me?”

  She undressed, peeling away all the layers, then retrieved the blouse, but thought better of it. It would be too rumpled to wear in the morning if she slept in it. So, panties only it was. The room was warm enough, and the comforter looked cozy.

  As she pulled back the covers, a tap on the bedroom door startled her. “Just a minute.” Quickly, she slipped on her blouse and held it closed. Cracking open the door with her free hand, she peered around it through the small gap.

  “I have some pajamas for you,” he said. “They might be too big, but you can roll up the sleeves.”

  She reached through the door. “Oh, thanks,” she said. As she pulled them through the narrow opening, they caught on the door handle, snapped from her hand, and fell to the floor. Cotten quickly bent over to gather them up.

  John had squatted to help her. When he looked up, she heard him suck in his breath. She realized her blouse had fallen open. Frantically she fumbled to close it while he handed her the pajamas.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Cotten edged behind the door again, clutching the nightclothes to her chest, only her face peering around. God, she had just flashed him . . . flashed a priest for God’s sake.

  “See you in the morning,” he said, stepping away.

  * * *

  “You’ve got to trust me on this, Ted.” Cotten spoke into the in-flight telephone. “I’m sitting next to Dr. J
ohn Tyler. He’s an expert, and he’s examined the relic. He’s ninety-nine percent certain it’s authentic.”

  She turned to John who gave a hesitant shrug.

  They were over the Atlantic on a direct Delta Airlines flight to Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci International Airport.

  “Get the marketing department ready to promote the biggest religious story since the Shroud of Turin,” she said. “But don’t leak what it’s actually about. Not yet. Not until we’ve turned it over to the Vatican.”

  “I’ll call our Rome bureau chief,” Ted Casselman said. “I want you to keep in constant contact with him—update him on everything. He’ll arrange for a production crew, editing, and anything else you need. Once you’ve got your piece, uplink immediately.”

  “I’m the principal, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Rome bureau is there to support me, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Cotten slammed back in the seat. “I love you, Ted.”

  “Yeah, I know. But just once, I’d like to think I’m in charge of assigning stories.”

  “You won’t regret this.”

  “Right.” There was a pause. “Isn’t that what you told me from Baghdad?”

  “This is the break I’m looking for and the story you need to boost those sagging ratings.”

  “Be careful, Cotten.” Ted Casselman hung up.

  She pushed the telephone into its holder on the back of the seat in front of her and turned to John. “What?”

  “Ninety-nine percent certain?”

  “Where’s your faith?”

  “I’ve got plenty of faith. Scientific proof is something else.”

  She reached over and patted his hand. “You worry too much.”

  There are several royal and noble European families that are believed to be of the Merovingian bloodline, the divine lineage. They are: Hapsburg-Lorraine, Plantard, Montpezat, Luxembourg, Montesauiou, some branches of the Stuarts, and the Sinclairs.

  breeding

  “And who is that?” the Time science correspondent asked, pointing to a framed photograph on the desk.

  “My new granddaughter,” Charles Sinclair said. “She was christened only last week in St. Louis Cathedral.”

  “She’s beautiful. You must be very proud, Dr. Sinclair.”

  “I am.”

  “And I see you like ocean racers.” The correspondent motioned to a collection of photos along a side wall. “Those are impressive boats. Do you drive them?”

  “No, no. BioGentec sponsors a number of high-speed racers. Smaller versions are a hobby of mine, though. I have a few go-fast boats. I take then out sometimes on poker runs.”

  “How does that work?”

  “We usually start at Friends Restaurant in Madisonville, then onto The Dock in Slidell, then we race the twenty miles across Lake Pontchartrain. We hit a few spots there, then back across the lake to Friends. At every stop we have a drink and draw a card from the deck. At the end of the day, the best five-card poker hand wins the pot.”

  “Do you always win, Dr. Sinclair?” the correspondent said, smiling.

  “Always.”

  Both men laughed.

  “And other hobbies?” asked the correspondent.

  “I own a few thoroughbreds.”

  “And are they winners, too?”

  “But of course. No triple crown yet, but we’ve fared well at Evangeline, Saratoga, Aqueduct, Bel—”

  “You have a fancy for racing and competition.”

  “I suppose I have a penchant for speed, not necessarily the competition. But there’s more to it than that. I admire and appreciate the craftsmanship, the perfection in the construction of a racing vessel. The performance reflects the attention to minute detail.”

  “And the horses?”

  Sinclair leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. The faintest beginnings of an arrogant smile etched his face. “The breeding.”

  “Apropos,” the correspondent said as he scribbled a note. He looked up at Sinclair. “Getting back to your comment that cloning is nothing new?”

  “Human clones walk among us everyday. You’ve probably met quite a few. They’re called identical twins—babies born from a single egg in their mother’s womb that splits into two.”

  “How do you answer your critics who say that you’re trying to play God by attempting to clone a human?” The correspondent made another note on his pad. “Even a Nobel laureate like you must think about the ethics issues.”

  “I’m just a scientist trying to save lives. I discover by research, by carrying out experiments. Nothing more should be read into it.” Sinclair glanced at the antique mantel clock over his library fireplace. He didn’t want to get any deeper into the ethical minefield. Through the French doors leading to the brick patio of his plantation estate, he saw the Mississippi beyond the ancient magnolias. Dark clouds gathered across the river.

  “Some social justice advocates oppose cloning,” the correspondent said. “They fear a widening gap between the haves and have-nots if affluent parents decide to genetically enhance their children.”

  “That might be a by-product of our research one day. Just like anything else, you have to weigh the benefits. We’re pioneers venturing into new frontiers,” Sinclair said. “Therapeutic cloning gives us the ability to get perfectly matched tissue for the patient, whether they have Parkinson’s disease, diabetes, spinal cord injury—so the patient will not reject those cells. That’s what we do at BioGentec. We don’t debate ethics, we don’t play God—we simply work to save lives.”

  “But you must realize—”

  The phone rang on Sinclair’s desk. He held his hand up. “Excuse me a moment.” Picking up the receiver, he said, “Yes?”

  “They’re on a plane to Rome,” Ben Gearhart said on the other end. “The priest is helping her take it to the Vatican.”

  Sinclair smiled. “That’s very good news.” He replaced the receiver and looked back at the correspondent. “You were saying?”

  the cardinal

  “Your Eminence, Father Tyler and the SNN reporter are on their way up,” Cardinal Antonio Ianucci’s aide announced. “They’ve just passed through security.”

  “Thank you.” The cardinal gazed out his second story office window. Adjacent to the Vatican Museums, his office overlooked the inner courtyard of the Belvedere Palace. He remembered a diplomat once telling him that in America an office this big would be called a formal ballroom. A frescoed ceiling met walls covered with medieval tapestries—a Persian rug the size of a swimming pool accented a portion of the fifteenth century wooden floor. Two-hundred-year-old brocade and damask couches and chairs were placed strategically around the room, their hand-carved legs rich in gold leaf.

  The cardinal returned to his desk to study the flat screen monitor. At 68, he moved with ease, dedicating over an hour each morning to a strict regimen of exercise. Born in Italy to a British mother and Italian father, he grew up fluent in both languages. Even as a youngster he was fascinated with the trappings and traditions of the Catholic Church and the priesthood. Early in life he set his goal, heading toward it as if traveling through a tunnel—no sidetracks, no distractions, no deviations. He knew he had been called, and he wanted to serve God in the most powerful way he could.

  With degrees in theology and cannon law, Ianucci had taught at the Urbanian University in Rome prior to attending the Vatican’s diplomatic college. He spent over a decade serving with the Secretariat of State after being made a bishop in 1980. In 1997, he was elevated to cardinal, and in 2000 the pope appointed him Vatican Curator. Among the elite inner core of the Vatican, he was considered a leading candidate for successor to the papacy—the goal at the end of the tunnel—God’s supreme servant.

  Ianucci was familiar with John Tyler, having met him on a number of occasio
ns, but he read the priest’s bio to refresh his memory. It stated that Tyler was currently on a leave-of-absence. The cardinal wondered why he had requested the leave, something so rarely sought or granted.

  When Archbishop Montiagro had called him about Tyler and the discovery of a relic that might possibly be of unprecedented importance, Ianucci rearranged his schedule to accommodate a meeting. As with any new discovery, he was excited. “Unprecedented importance,” he whispered. “I could use some of that.”

  Montiagro had made it clear that Tyler insisted on bringing along a member of the press. That puzzled the cardinal. Ianucci hadn’t gotten the impression that the priest was glory hungry. He might have to remind Tyler of the Vatican protocol when it came to the press—a protocol that did not put American reporters at the top of the list. Besides, Ianucci had his own list—select members of the world press—ones he knew and trusted to quote him verbatim. The Vatican was a sovereign nation in which serving God was the focal point of every movement, every thought, and every deed. Not the place for American reporters whose objectives were usually either sensationalism or exploitation.

  The cardinal closed the file and put the computer into sleep mode.

  “Eminence, your guests are here,” the aide announced after knocking and opening the massive door.

  “Show them in.” He stood and came around his desk. “Ah, John,” he said as the two visitors approached. Extending his right hand palm down, he said, “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Your Eminence.” John accepted the cardinal’s hand, genuflected, and lightly kissed the sapphire-stoned ring of his office. “Thank you for taking the time to see us. I’d like to present Cotten Stone, a correspondent for the Satellite News Network. Ms. Stone came into possession of the artifact while on assignment in the Middle East. She’ll be covering the news of its authentication for her network.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Stone. I hope you will take pity on an old man and speak of me only in glowing terms when you file your report.”