by Lynn Sholes
“John!” She flung open the door and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank God you’re here.”
“You weren’t going to shoot me, were you?”
“That’s a scary thought.”
“Inside, before you freeze,” he said, turning her by the shoulders and nudging her forward. “Cotten, I’m so sorry about your friend, Vanessa.” John closed the door and removed his parka.
Cotten felt a lump in her throat. “Nessi wasn’t perfect, but she was kind, gentle, a good friend. She didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“No one does.” He hung the parka up and rubbed his hands briskly. “Is there anyone you can think of who would want to hurt you?”
Cotten shook her head. “No. I mean, I’ve pissed off my share of people, but not to the extent that they’d want to blow me up.” First Thornton, then Vanessa. They’re going to kill me next. “John, if someone wanted to kill Thornton and make it look like an accident, how hard would that be? Especially with his medical history. I mean, if they’re powerful enough to shut me down like they have, then they’re more than capable of finding out whatever they wanted to know about Thornton. They made it look like natural causes.”
“Well, the car bomb wasn’t meant to look like natural causes. Not even like an accident.”
Cotten plunked down on the couch and curled her legs up. “That’s what has me confused. To be so meticulous arranging Thornton’s death, and yet be so crude trying to kill me. I don’t get it. One was very clever, and the other a blatant murder. And there’s no pattern. Nothing other than the Grail. That’s the only common thread that weaves Archer, Thornton, and me together. Vanessa was in the wrong place, wrong time.”
“Does anyone know you’re here? Have you talked to anyone?”
“No, just you and Jones.” Cotten pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, thinking it might ease the mild headache. “I take that back. I called Ted Casselman from the plane but didn’t tell him where I was going.”
“Have you had any sleep?”
“Not much. I think I had a midnight visitor, but it could have been my imagination. I can’t tell anymore. I’m so wired I jump at everything. I’m glad you’re here. Maybe I can let my guard down a little.”
“Let’s get something to warm up, then you tell me about it.”
She followed him into the hall. “I couldn’t find any coffee or tea last night.”
“Secret stash,” John said.
She watched him open the door to a storage closet. He pulled out a vacuum cleaner and a dust mop, revealing narrow stairs in the back.
“The cellar stays cool year ’round, and I don’t have to worry about somebody cleaning out the fridge or the cabinets and throwing away my hoard. That way, I know I’ll always be able to make a cup of java.”
Even though the passage was narrow and the opening small, she could see that there was a lot of clutter at the bottom.
“Be right back,” John said before squeezing through the closet and disappearing down the steps. A few moments later, he returned with an old tin can in hand. “Voila.”
Back in the kitchen he pulled a percolator from the pantry and lit the flame on the stove burner. “You think it could have been Jones who was here last night?” he asked as he fixed the coffee.
“I don’t know. I fell asleep on the couch and woke up to what sounded like someone walking on the front porch. But no one knocked or tried to get in. If it was Jones, he would’ve let me know he was here, I think.” Cotten sat on the bench and placed the pistol on the trestle table. “There were footprints in the snow, but I can’t say for sure if they were mine or not.”
“But you didn’t actually see anyone?”
She shook her head. “No, and that was the end of it. I didn’t hear anything else the rest of the night. But I really believe there was somebody out there.”
“I saw a few animal tracks around the porch as I walked up,” John said. “A fox, maybe. Might have come looking for food. You’re not used to the sounds of the mountains, and it could have just been an animal that spooked you.”
Steam rose from the percolator’s spout as the darkening water boiled and squirted into the small glass tip of the lid.
“Yeah, I guess it could have been. I sat on the couch with that damn gun next to me all night. Every little creak and moan—”
“I hope you were warm enough.” John retrieved two mugs. “This place is old—the wind comes right through the walls and floor. There’s no insulation between the cellar and us. It’s comfortable in the summer, but not this time of year.” He rummaged through the cabinet. “I may have some sugar here somewhere.”
“You know how I like my sugar,” she said.
He set a Ziploc bag of sugar on the table.
“Actually, the fire kept me warm.” Cotten watched him fill the two cups, thinking she’d love to snuggle up with him in front of that fire. She missed being held by a man. The thought reminded her of Thornton. He was dead. Vanessa was dead. The moment passed.
John placed a cup on the table and sat opposite her.
Cotten wrapped her hands around the mug.
“We’re going to figure this thing out,” he said. “I promise. First, we need to find out who they are.”
Her headache pounded. No sleep, nothing to eat, and her nerves were taking a toll.
John glanced around the kitchen. “I should have stopped and bought some groceries on my way up, but I was anxious to see that you were safe.”
“Jones said there’s a store in town.”
“We’re better off going in to Asheville. We can get you some warmer clothes and anything else you want.”
“I guess I should call Ted and tell him I’m okay.”
“My cell doesn’t get service here. If you need to make a call, we’ll do it when we get into town.”
“I’m ready.” Cotten stood and reached for the pistol.
“Plan on shooting your way out of the Piggly-Wiggly?”
* * *
“Hello?”
“Cheryl, it’s Cotten Stone.” She stood near the Wal-Mart entrance. The suburban shopping center was a few miles outside of Asheville. John leaned against the wall watching the customers come and go.
“With SNN,” Cotten said, after a few seconds of silence.
“I know who you are,” Thornton’s wife answered.
Even with the noisy parking lot and people walking by, Cotten heard the coldness in Cheryl’s voice. “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time,” Cotten said.
“I knew about you and Thornton—knew all along.”
“Cheryl, I’m . . . sorry. I realize there’s nothing I can say to make up for the pain . . .” Cotten squeezed her eyes closed. She really meant that. Never had she wanted to cause anyone any pain. She’d just fallen for Thornton so fast. She hadn’t had time to think.
“You’re right, there’s nothing you can say,” Cheryl said.
Cotten knew this was hard for Cheryl. It was hard for her, too. “If this weren’t so important, I promise, I wouldn’t be calling.”
“What do you want?”
“Cheryl, it’s vital that I know if any of Thornton’s notes came back with his personal belongings.”
“Why?”
“I . . . I believe they might contain clues to who killed him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Cheryl, I can’t go into detail now, but I have my reasons—”
“Reasons? I’m sure you do. Like demanding that he divorce me? Like wanting to get your hands on his wallet? Do you know how much Thornton is worth? I can just imagine your reasons.”
There was a pause and Cotten heard muffled sobs.
“Thornton died of a brain hemorrhage, Ms. Stone.” Cheryl punctuated the Ms. with disdain in her voice. “So let’s just leave it at t
hat.” Her voice broke. “At least I didn’t have to face the embarrassment of him dropping dead while he was fucking you.”
Cotten held her hand over the receiver to hide her sigh. The woman had every right to attack her. Cheryl’s crude remarks were aimed to hurt, to make Cotten feel cheap and guilty. It worked, and she knew she deserved it. But Cotten wasn’t demanding anything of Thornton when he died. She had broken it off. She swallowed back the bitter taste in her mouth and took a deep breath.
“Cheryl, please. Thornton called me from Rome and told me he was on to something big and he was afraid for his life. It’s just too much of a coincidence that he wound up dead. You know as well as I do that for Thornton to be afraid . . .” Cotten didn’t know what else to say. She had no proof of anything.
Another awkward pause. “I talked to my husband, too, the day before he . . .” Her voice cracked. “He apologized for all the times he’d hurt me, for the times he’d made me cry. He told me I was a good wife and didn’t deserve him. That wasn’t like Thornton. I didn’t understand why he was telling me all that.” She cleared her throat as if regaining her composure. “He was like a drug to women. I know you weren’t the first to become addicted. But you were the first one I think he really cared about.”
Cotten heard Cheryl blow her nose. She waited.
“So, what do you want?” The widow’s voice had become matter-of-fact.
“His comp book. I need to know what was in his last series of notes.” She heard a clunk and assumed Cheryl laid the phone down. A moment later there was the sound of footsteps and the rustling of paper.
“They didn’t send it,” Cheryl said.
“But he always had notes.”
“The only thing I have is two sheets of paper that look like they might have been torn out of his comp book. They arrived the other day—Thornton mailed them to himself from Rome.”
“Is there any reference to the Grail story?”
“No, just a list.”
“Like a to-do list?” Cotten asked.
“Names.”
“Can you read them to me?”
Cotten listened for a full thirty seconds before she said, “Wait. Stop. Let me get a pen and paper.”
She motioned to John who dug into his coat and pulled out a ballpoint. He grabbed a garage sale notice from a public bulletin board nearby and handed it to Cotten. She turned it over and frantically wrote on the back. “One more time, Cheryl. Just slowly read the names one more time.” A moment later, she stopped scribbling and said, “Thank you. Thank you so very much.”
Hanging up, she turned to John and whispered, “Holy shit!”
saint supermarket
The red Jeep Cherokee pulled into the parking lot of the South Asheville Oakley Library on Fairview Road, a half mile west of Interstate 240. Patches of snow partially covered the winter rye grass lawn, and the rusty iron-rich soil sprawled beneath.
“If you log into the SNN site and use their database, can’t they track you and know where you are?” asked John as he and Cotten got out and climbed the library steps. “Can’t we get background information on Thornton’s list just by searching the Internet?”
“Yes, but the SNN archives are much more geared to research,” Cotten said. “I’ll log into SNN using my Anonimizer-dot-com account. It’s a third-party browsing service that totally hides my identity and the IP address of the computer I’m using.” Cotten waited as John held the door open. “I use it all the time so nobody can track me. If I’m doing some research, sometimes I don’t want anyone to know that a reporter is snooping. People would be shocked to know how much of a trail they leave behind on the Internet.”
They checked with the clerk at the circulation desk, and she pointed them to the computers.
There were five PCs lined up along the back wall—one being used by a young couple—the others empty. Cotten chose the one farthest from where the couple sat. Launching Netscape, she logged onto Anonimizer.com, entered her account info, then typed in the URL for the SNN research portal. When it asked, she entered her user name, newsbabe, and password, kentuckywoman. Navigating to the SNN biographies section, she typed in Hans Fritche, the first name scrawled on the back of the garage sale flier. Almost instantly, a list of links came up. She scrolled through them, then chose one and clicked. A picture of the Chancellor of Liechtenstein appeared with a short background summary. Cotten clicked on the print icon.
Ruedi Baumann was her next choice. The first link identified him as the International Bank of Zurich’s CEO. She continued until she had printed the biographies for each name—all high-profile world leaders who wielded enormous political, military, and economic power.
“Any idea what those names have in common?” John asked.
“A very big iceberg,” Cotten said as they walked toward the Jeep.
* * *
“Maybe whoever stole the Cup is holding it for ransom,” John said as he and Cotten sat in the parking lot of a Food Lion supermarket a few miles from the library.
“Or they’re trying to sell it on the antiquities black market.” Cotten leafed through the printouts, stopping on the French Supreme Court justice. “He could be a potential buyer. Any one of them could.” She stared at the bio of the Russian general. “Blackmail? Ransom? Black market art collectors? Was knowing their names so threatening to these men that Thornton had to die?”
John stared at the papers and shrugged. “It’s an impressive list, but it could also be just a to-do list of future news contacts.”
“You’re right. We could be getting all excited about nothing. But Thornton did feel he needed to mail it to himself. Why? He wouldn’t have gone to that kind of trouble for a simple list of future news interviews. Did he want to make sure someone would see the list if something happened to him?”
She watched a mother pushing a stroller through the parking lot. “And where are his notes? He was obsessive about keeping detailed records. He used to scold me, complain that I wasn’t thorough enough. He made a point many times that reviewing his notes, seeing it on paper, brought clarity.”
John leaned back. “Well, think of it this way—the missing notes could be confirmation that he was murdered because of the story—-because of the Grail theft. The killer must have taken Thornton’s notebook.”
“So we’re back to the list.”
“What do you want to do now?”
“I’m going to call my Uncle Gus. Let him take a shot at tying these names together. If anyone can do it, he can. I need to check in with him anyway on the Wingate thing.”
“While you do that, I’ll go into the market and get some supplies.” John looked at the scribbled list in Cotten’s hand. “There’s one more thing you wrote here that you haven’t mentioned.” He pointed to her notes. “S-T, S-I-N.”
“Yeah, I have no idea about that one. Cheryl said Thornton had circled something at the bottom of the page. She said he’d circled it so many times that the pen lines ran over it and made it impossible to read the whole thing. All she could make out was the beginning. S-T period. Like in the abbreviation for Saint. Saint Christopher. Saint Louis. Might as well be Saint Supermarket.” She motioned to the Food Lion and shrugged. “Then beneath it again he wrote S-T but followed it with a slash and the word SIN and something else. Cheryl tried to describe what it looked like and said she couldn’t really make sense of it.
John stared at the notation. “I have no idea.” He shook his head and looked at her. “Go make your call and meet me back here in twenty minutes.”
“Deal.” He started to get out, but she touched his sleeve. “There was one other thing Cheryl said, but I didn’t write it down.”
“What?”
“I thought she said grandmother at first, but I had her repeat it. She said Thornton had written Grand Master.”
John’s mouth dropped open. “Cotten, the Knights Templar
referred to themselves as the Guardians of the Grail. Their leader was always called the Grand Master.”
13 drops
“Do you think the Knights Templar are still around today?” Cotten asked from the kitchen as she stirred the pot of spaghetti sauce on the old gas stove.
“There are a number of organizations that have their roots in the Templars. The Freemasons are a good example.”
“Oh, yeah, like the DeMolay boys’ club. I just heard about that one the other day.”
John stoked the fire. Heavy snow clouds had returned in the afternoon and the temperature took a dive. “Many historians trace the Mason’s beginnings to the Templars. Now that I think of it, the head of each Masonic Lodge is called a Grand Master.” He stood as the fire roared to life, and the heat poured into the room. “By the way, that sure smells good.”
“Thanks. This was one of my father’s favorites.”
“I can understand why if it tastes as great as it smells.” John came into the kitchen and looked over her shoulder at the thick red sauce.
Cotten scooped a small amount onto the tip of her wooden spoon and offered it to him.
“Excellent,” he said, sampling.
“How about fixing us a glass of Chianti while we let this simmer.”
John found the corkscrew and opened the bottle of Italian red wine. He pulled two mugs from the shelf. “Sorry about no wine glasses. We rough it up here.”
“It won’t be the first time I drank wine from a coffee cup.” She placed the lid on the pot of sauce. “What would the Masons want with the Grail?”
“I don’t think they would. Even though they’re somewhat of a secret organization, they’re into supporting charities, not murdering news reporters. Tons of notable people have been Masons—George Washington and Winston Churchill for example, and famous celebrities like Clark Gable and Red Skelton. The list is a mile long.” John handed Cotten a mug of wine. “Cheers,” he said, raising his.
Their cups clinked. Cotten took a sip. “Let’s go out on the deck.”
“And freeze to death?”
