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

by Lynn Sholes

  “Just for a minute.” She took a long drink of wine, then grinned and nodded toward his cup. “It’ll warm you up.”

  “That’s why drunks freeze to death. They think they’re warm.”

  “Be right back,” Cotten said, heading for the hallway. A moment later she returned with a heavy woolen blanket. “Come on.” As she opened the back door, a rush of frigid air struck her face.

  John followed onto the deck and closed the door behind them.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, looking out over the mountains. “Twilight is magical, don’t you think?”

  He agreed, briskly rubbing his upper arms.

  “Come here,” she said, wrapping the blanket around herself and holding one side open in invitation.

  He stood close beside her and pulled the blanket around his shoulders.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “Much.”

  Taking another mouthful of wine, she hooked her arm in his. The land behind the cabin dropped off sharply—rocks jutting out in ledges and ridges, the winter-barren terrain exposing the raw earth.

  “There’s a creek at the bottom,” John said. “Not very big, but when you’re a young boy, it’s an incredible playground every day during the summer. I used to spend sunup to sundown roaming these mountains. I knew every rock, cave, and hollow tree for miles around. I’d make my father let me out of the car way below. By the time he and mom would drive up to the cabin, I’d be standing on the porch with my arms crossed and a victory smile on my face. There was no better place for a kid—a million adventures.”

  Cotten looked at him, seeing the innocence of a boy and the wisdom of a man. She found that disparity charming.

  “Where did you live your adventures as a young girl?” he asked.

  Cotten laughed. “Feeding the chickens.”

  “Come on. Every kid makes up adventures. Didn’t you have a fort or a secret hiding place?”

  Cotten wondered for a moment. “A tree. A huge oak in the middle of the back pasture. I nailed foot-long two-by-fours on it to make a ladder and wedged a few boards between the limbs for a platform. I was always running away to my tree house. Got my first kiss in that tree. I must have been about twelve. Robbie White. We were sitting up there hiding from Tommy Hipperling when all of a sudden Robbie just leaned over and gave me the biggest smooch, right here.” She tapped her lips. “When it was done, neither one of us said anything for a long time. I think it might have been his first kiss, too. We never discussed what happened, but we found ourselves up in that tree quite a few times that spring—practicing. Then he moved away, and I never saw him again. I don’t think I got another kiss until I was sixteen, and that one couldn’t compare to the memory of Robbie White’s.”

  “So while I was scaling these mountains and chasing pollywogs in the creek, you were getting kissed by Robbie White.”

  “I was a tomboy, except for when it came to kissing. Then I felt real girlie. I loved to kiss as much as I loved climbing trees with the boys.”

  John drew in a breath and opened his mouth as if to speak, but apparently decided against it.

  Suddenly, they were hurrying for the door as the wind drove them inside.

  * * *

  “This is delicious,” John said, after his first mouthful of spaghetti.

  “Thanks.” Cotten’s mind wasn’t on dinner, it was back on the Cup. “If the Templars consider themselves the Guardians of the Grail, then maybe they would steal it to protect it, not to sell it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “The Cup could already be stowed away in some bank vault or part of a private collection by now, and we may never see it again.”

  John pointed his fork toward her. “That doesn’t explain killing Thornton and trying to murder you. Someone is very scared of you—scared you know their secret.”

  With a tentative smile, she said, “More wine?”

  “Sure.” He held out his mug, and she poured the last of the Chianti.

  “Know what I read one time?” Cotten said. “It was in a book about keeping a writer’s notebook. The author, Fletcher was his name, said he had overheard a waitress tell a story about how much wine was left in an empty bottle. The waitress said there were always thirteen drops left. Fletcher jotted that down in his notebook because he thought it was a wonderful metaphor for when a person feels like there’s nothing left—like they’re totally empty and drained, but still they always have thirteen drops in reserve.” She sat the bottle down and looked at John. “I hope if I ever need it, I have my thirteen drops left.”

  Both glanced at the dark window as a gust of wind made the cabin shudder.

  “I can’t believe how fast night falls up here,” Cotten said.

  “Just the opposite from the summer. On a cool summer night, the twilight seems to go on forever. My grandfather and I would sit on the front porch for hours counting fireflies until they faded into the stars.”

  “When you were growing up, did you ever fall in love?”

  “Actually, I did. Jones has a granddaughter that used to come up here and visit us. I was madly in love with her for the whole month of July.”

  “What happened?”

  “Not much. We were only kids.”

  Cotten lifted both eyebrows in a playful expression. “Did you kiss her?”

  “Did Robbie White like sittin’ in trees?”

  They laughed, then Cotten said, “Ever hear from her?”

  “No. She became a firefly and faded away.”

  “What about since you grew up—falling in love, I mean?”

  John leaned back in his chair, sipped the wine, and stared across the table at her.

  “What?” she said.

  He shook his head, then after a moment, stood. “I say we crack open another bottle and clean up.”

  * * *

  The wind roared up the mountain and pushed against the cabin. It groaned under the attack, but held firm.

  Once the dishes were done, Cotten and John refilled their cups and moved to the couch in front of the fireplace. For a long time they sat in silence watching the flames biting at the air, sending small sparks shooting up the chimney.

  “I wish we could shut out the world, right now, and stay just like this.” She sat with one leg tucked under her, half turned to face him.

  “You know we can’t.”

  “Well, why not?” she said. “I hate this always being afraid—thinking about Vanessa’s death, Thornton’s death—this emotional turmoil.”

  “Don’t let it swallow you. You aren’t in this alone. I’m here with you.”

  Cotten put her mug on the floor. How could she explain how this was eating her up inside? “Look at me, John. Look hard. Somebody killed my best friend and wants to kill me. They murdered Thornton. I don’t even know why. And everybody keeps telling me I’m the only one. The only one to do what? I don’t have a clue what that means. I’m supposed to stop the sun from rising?” She glanced at the fire, then back. “What kind of insane life have I made for myself? Look at the pattern. I only want what I can’t have, and whatever I touch turns to shit . . . or dies.”

  “Their deaths weren’t your fault. I know this is a tough time,” he said. “Ease up on yourself.”

  She stared into his dark sapphire eyes. “I’ve dragged you into this nightmare, and I’m afraid you’re going to wind up dead, too.”

  John held both her hands.

  Cotten laughed through her tears. “On top of everything else, I’m trying not to fall in love with you.” She immediately regretted her words. “Shit, I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  She felt his warm hands squeeze hers.

  “Cotten . . . You’re getting your feelings all mixed up. You’re in danger, you’re scared, all that makes you very vulnerable. We’ve been through some unusual times to
gether—we’ve formed a bond, a kind of love, but not the kind you think.”

  She hung her head. “I’m sorry. I put you in an awkward position.” She was silent a moment. “I feel like an idiot. Too much wine. It was wrong for me to say that. I’m so screwed up. God, I’m sorry, John.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for, and you’re not screwed up, just confusing your feelings. You’re an amazing person who is decent and honest. Have you ever thought that when you believe you’ve fallen in love with a man you think you can’t have, that protects you from having to choose between marriage and your career?”

  Cotten sighed. Images of her mother flooded her. She could still picture her standing at the kitchen sink, expressionless, passionless, staring out the window for long periods. Deep lines carved her mother’s face, the skin abused, not by the sun, but by the absence of purpose and joy. And the eyes—no sparkle, the sense of wonder sapped from them. Sometimes that same vision came in dreams, and like watercolors exposed to rain, the image ran and changed, and she would see herself aged in the same way. That’s when Cotten would wake with a start and promise to push herself even harder at work so she wouldn’t one day find herself used up like her mother.

  No thirteen drops left.

  John lifted her chin with the crook of his finger. “If I weren’t a priest . . . you are the woman I would fall in love with. You’re the one I would spend my life with.”

  Cotten couldn’t take her eyes from his. “You don’t have to say that to make me feel better. I know I was tangled up in a fantasy.”

  “I said it because I mean it. I’m speaking the truth, telling you what’s inside.”

  “You are always so . . . stable, so grounded. You see things as they really are. I wish I was like that.”

  “Remember I told you that I’m on a leave of absence because I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to do? My life is unclear. You know what you want, Cotten. Do you know how blessed you are?”

  He was right in one respect—she desperately wanted a successful career, a life different from her mother’s. But she always managed to want what she couldn’t have—at least when it came to men.

  “When the right guy comes along, you won’t need to make choices or sacrifice one thing for another. You’ll find a balance.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “And he’ll be the luckiest man in the world.”

  Cotten wrapped her arms around John’s neck. “I still wish you weren’t a priest,” she whispered.

  the cellar

  The darkness cloaked the mountains in a tight embrace as a dusting of snow drifted down.

  Cotten came out of the bathroom wrapped in the long white terry cloth robe they had bought in town. Her hair spilled down her back, dripping wet. “Hi,” she said, seeing John lighting a candle on the dresser. She noticed the aroma of mulberries filled the bedroom and realized there was an array of burning candles scattered around the room. “Where did you . . . ?”

  “We use them when we first open up the cabin each summer,” John said. “It can get pretty musty after being closed all winter.”

  “They’re delicious, like you could eat the very air.”

  “I thought the scent might help you relax. My attempt at new age aromatherapy.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “Thank you, for everything.”

  “I’ll be in the room next door. If you need anything . . .”

  Cotten lifted the gold crucifix on the chain around his neck. Taking his hand, she pressed the cross inside his palm. “You’ll find a balance, too. We both will.”

  When the lights were out and all she could hear was the sigh of the wind, she lay awake thinking. John was probably right about having her feelings confused, but still there was a pang, a small ache inside her. With John, there were no pretenses, no masquerades. With him she was completely herself, a freedom she hadn’t enjoyed in a long, long time. He had opened a door in her heart that had been sealed shut when her father died.

  * * *

  The dream was disturbing. She saw Vanessa, then Thornton, then Gabriel Archer—all through a haze, thicker than fog, like frosted glass. Then she saw her father kneeling on one knee, his hand outstretched, beckoning her to come to him. He spoke, but his words sounded like the rumble of distant thunder. She moved toward him, gliding rather than walking. The closer she got, the more he sank into the fog.

  Suddenly, a voice broke through the mist. Her eyes flashed open, but the cloud of the dream still clung.

  “Cotten!” John called. “Get up, quick.” He shook her and pulled her arm.

  “What?” she said, blinking awake. The room was dark except for a single candle that still burned. John had one arm through his flannel shirt and was madly shoving his other arm through the opposite sleeve.

  “Hurry,” he said, yanking her up and off the bed. “The cabin is on fire!”

  Cotten bounded to her feet. She could smell it now, the acrid stench of smoke from burning wood, fabric, plastic.

  John grasped her wrist. “Come on,” he said, pulling her behind him into the hallway.

  The remaining grogginess vanished as she followed, clutching the robe together at her chest. The thickness of the smoke increased, and she felt the heat radiating down the hall. An eerie, flickering orange light came from the living room—the direction they were headed. Cotten balked. “No, you’re leading us straight into the fire.” She pulled back, resisting.

  He tugged on her arm. “Stay with me.” His voice was hoarse.

  The smoke would suffocate them even before the flames had a chance to burn them, she thought. Cotten nearly lost sight of John in the darkness as she coughed, the smoke stinging her mouth and nose.

  Near the end of the hall he stopped and opened the door to the storage closet. He cleared the way, then led her down the narrow stairs to the cellar.

  Cotten hugged the wall, wishing for a railing she could hold. The cold sliced into her, but she was thankful there was less smoke in the darkness of the cellar.

  They dodged old furniture—stumbling over chests, bumping into large rubber trashcans, and plastic bags stuffed with what she guessed were clothes or linens.

  Cotten tripped on a stack of heavy steel pipes, sending them rolling and clanking across the bare concrete floor. She fell to her hands and knees. “Shit.” Pain exploded from the top of her foot where she had smashed it into the pipes.

  John clasped her forearm and helped her up. “There’s a window,” he said. “Over here.”

  She couldn’t see it, couldn’t see anything as she hobbled behind him.

  “Here,” he said, climbing up on an old workbench beside the wall. He unlatched the window and tried to shove it open, but it didn’t give.

  The basement brightened slightly, and Cotten glanced over her shoulder toward the source. The opening at the top of the stairs glowed with the light from the fire, and a river of heat channeled down the steps. She heard the crackling and popping followed by the thud of falling timbers. The fire raged and would soon eat its way down the wooden stairs, blast into the basement, and feast on the contents.

  “We’re going to die,” she cried.

  John shoved again.

  Cotten felt around on the workbench, finally coming up with a crescent wrench. “Use this,” she said, handing it up to him.

  John took the tool and punched the glass. After the first shatter and tinkle, he ran the wrench around the perimeter of the window clearing out the remaining shards.

  “Give me your hand,” he said.

  Cotten reached up, and he helped her climb beside him. The bench wobbled, and she heard the wood crack. It wasn’t going to hold them much longer.

  “I’ll boost you up,” he said. He laced his fingers. “Put your foot in my hands.”

  Cotten planted her right foot in the center of his hands, and he lifted her up to the wind
ow. She wedged her torso through, then grabbed at the earth with her hands and forearms, pulling forward, her robe snagging on the window frame. She worked herself onto a small rocky ledge just below the back deck of the cabin.

  The rush of icy air instantly dried out her eyes and pricked her skin like needles.

  In a moment she saw John’s hands on the outer frame. She latched on to one of his wrists, tugging, helping him rise high enough to finally get his shoulders through.

  Quickly, he heaved himself onto the stone ledge. “You all right?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We’re going to have to climb up. Think you can do it?”

  She glanced at the jagged mountain that seemed to rise almost straight up. “I have to,” she said.

  Cotten followed him up the steep incline that would lead them to the level ground around the side of the cabin. She seized fistfuls of dry brush, some ripping out of the ground. Losing her footing, she slid backward, the hard ground scouring her skin. Again she attempted to follow the slippery ledge, digging her feet in the frozen ground, clawing at the earth, fighting to keep the robe from entangling her. With each yard of progress she seemed to lose two. “I can’t,” she said. “It’s too steep.”

  “Get up,” John said. “You can make it. It’s just a few more feet.” He slid down toward Cotten, then moved behind her and heaved her upward. “Keep going.”

  Cotten stared up. The fire lit the sky to her right. Her hand found an outcrop of rock, and she got a foothold on a trunk of a mountain laurel.

  When they reached the level ground, she looked at the cabin. The snowdrifts glistened with the reflection of the fire. Flames erupted from the roof and roared out the windows; the porch caved and collapsed. The cabin burned as if made of kindling—nothing more than tiny splinters of light wood. Sparks from the roof jumped to the branches of a barren hickory that grew close to the house.

  John shoved her low to the ground and clapped his hand over her mouth. “Shh,” he whispered, pointing. “Look.”

  Reflections from the fire revealed shadows of two men, hazy silhouettes, standing in the distance along the tree line watching the cabin burn. About thirty yards away sat John and Cotten’s rental cars. To reach them they would have to cross in front of the men.