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

by Lynn Sholes

  “We can’t get to the cars,” she whispered.

  “We don’t need to,” John said.

  lilly’s clothes

  “Jones!” John pounded on the farmhouse door while he supported Cotten with his other arm. “Open up, Jones!”

  Cotten’s teeth chattered as she desperately hugged the torn robe to her. The ends of her fingers had at first tingled, but now were numb. And she hadn’t felt her toes in the last five minutes.

  John rapped on the door again just as the front porch light flashed on.

  “Who is it? What’s going on out there?” The voice was aged and shaky.

  “Jones, it’s John Tyler. We need help.”

  “John?” The door cracked open and Clarence Jones peered through. “What the—” The old man’s mouth gaped as he looked at them. “Blankets. I’ll get some blankets.”

  John carried Cotten to the couch and began vigorously rubbing her hands and feet.

  “Here,” Jones said, dumping the blankets beside them. “Let me get you some hot chocolate.” He headed for the kitchen.

  “I’ll never be warm again,” she said, her voice rattling, her body shivering.

  John threw both blankets on Cotten, then sat next to her. He lifted her feet onto his lap, blew his breath in his hands, and put them around her right foot. “Any life coming back to these toes?”

  “Slowly,” she said, curling her body and leaning her head on the arm of the couch.

  All she could think of was the horrific flight from the cellar, then down the side of the mountain. Because she had no shoes, John carried her when possible—running, stopping to rest, lifting her, trekking over the rocky ledges that dropped in back of the cabin toward the creek far below, through the darkness, dodging boulders and jagged outcrops of stone, sliding over iced rocks and into fallen trees. Every time they stopped and she tried to stand on the frozen earth, her feet burned as if ablaze.

  Fleeing down the mountain, John had retraced a route memorized from hundreds of childhood journeys. He told her not to worry, that he knew the side of the mountain well enough to maneuver down blindfolded.

  As she tried to gather her thoughts, Cotten strained a weak smile, watching John wrap her like a mummy in the thick blankets, tucking the cover especially snug around her feet.

  After giving his visitors steaming mugs of Swiss Miss, Jones got a cup for himself and sat in his rocker near the fire. “Now that you folks are warmin’ up, you gonna tell me what the hell happened?”

  Cotten glanced at John.

  “The cabin caught fire,” John said. “We barely made it out. Electrical problem, I think.”

  Jones rocked, sipping his hot chocolate. “My God.” He stroked a weathered hand across a stubbled face. “And you and the lady here ran down the mountain to my place?” He sipped again, staring at the fire, then turned to them. “Hmm. Seems it would’ve been easier to drive.” He covered his mouth and coughed. “Don’t mean to be prying. See, not much excitement happens ’round here, so . . .”

  John let out a long breath and moved Cotten’s feet from his lap. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I can’t explain it all to you, Clarence. I would if I could. Let me just say that Cotten is in real danger. I thought she’d be safe at the cabin, but I was wrong. The fire was a deliberate attempt on her life.”

  “What?” Jones’s eyes grew large.

  “Arson,” Cotten said. “Two men set the fire. Then they stood by and watched the cabin burn. We couldn’t get to the cars without them seeing us. Hopefully, they think we’re dead.”

  Jones scrunched up his face, obviously shocked. “Let’s get the chief on the horn.” The old man pushed down on the rocker’s arms to get out of the chair. “Police ought to get up there right away if they’re gonna nab—”

  “No,” Cotten blurted. “Nobody can know where we are. We’ve got to get out of here, first.” She explained how her credit cards were canceled, and how John arranged for her to fly to Asheville. “We thought it would be safe. But they still tracked me down. We can’t trust anyone. Not even the police. Not yet. Once the authorities trace our cars, they’ll know soon enough that we were there.”

  Jones dropped back into the chair. “What are you gonna do? How can I help?”

  “We need to borrow your truck, if we can,” John said. “And we’re going to need some clothes for Cotten. Then we’ll drive down to Greenville. So you can find it easy enough, I’ll leave the truck at Bob Jones University, in the parking lot of the university’s museum. I hate to do this to you, Clarence, but you’ll have to find a way to get it back on your own.”

  “I can do that.” He laughed. “But I could drive you m’self.”

  “We don’t want you to risk your life,” John said. “If they catch up with us, we don’t want you in the middle. Will borrowing your truck be too much trouble?”

  “No, sir, no trouble. Got the old Buick out back anyway, case of emergencies. Bob Jones, huh? Isn’t that a coincidence . . . or coinkeedink as my Lilly used to say?” He blew across the surface of the hot chocolate before taking another sip.

  “What made you think of the university museum?” Cotten asked.

  “I know the museum. I’ve been there. It’s got one of the most highly recognized religious art collections in America. Dolci, Rubens, Rembrandt, Titian, VanDyck. And it seems like an easy place for Clarence.”

  “Who’d have thought—Rembrandt in Greenville, South Carolina?” Cotten said.

  John smiled. “We can catch a flight from there.”

  “How? My cards are no good. Yours probably aren’t either.”

  “I’ll try to make a withdrawal from an ATM. If there’s a problem with my card, we’ll know they’re tracking me, too. And if that’s the case, I’ll get in touch with a friend back in White Plains. He’ll wire enough cash for us to fly out of the country, maybe Mexico or South America.”

  Jones rocked back. “Gotta call the fire department. There’s nobody up by your place to report it. Even if there was, they’d be sleeping. The whole mountain might catch if the fire’s as bad as you say. Save for the recent snow, it’s been mighty dry.”

  “But you’ve got to wait until we’re gone,” John said.

  “They’ll ask you how you knew about the fire, Mr. Jones,” Cotten said. “It’s three-thirty in the morning—not like you were out taking a stroll.”

  Jones thought a minute. “How ’bout I tell ’em I got an anonymous call. They’ll ask me why this anonymous fella didn’t call them direct, and I’ll say I was wondering the same thing. Thought it kinda funny myself, is what I’ll say. That’ll get ’em thinking something’s fishy, too. They’ll start looking for who did it, and maybe get them bad folks off your tail.”

  “But they could think you started the fire,” Cotten said. “We don’t want to cause any problems for you. Heaven knows I’ve already—”

  “Shoot, we all know each other up here. This isn’t the big city. Most of us grew up together. Everybody knows everybody and everybody’s business. Sometimes that’s bad. Most of the time that’s good.” Jones used a forward rock of the chair to boost himself to his feet. “Give me a minute and I’ll get some clothes for you, little lady.” He studied Cotten for a second. “You’re on the skinny side. Lilly was a tad heftier. She didn’t like that word. Nope, she preferred fluffy.” He took two steps then stopped. “Isn’t that a silly expression? But she liked it.” He nodded. “I’ll give you one of her belts to cinch up the waist. Height’s ’bout right, though. But I don’t know how the shoes will do.” He continued the conversation more to himself than John and Cotten as he left the room.

  “They’re going to find us, you know,” Cotten said. “We’ll have to use our real names and ID to buy airline tickets. It doesn’t matter where we go. They’ll trace us. And then they’ll kill us, John. Both of us.”

  come nove
mber

  Charles Sinclair was patient, letting Robert Wingate fume. He watched Wingate, knowing the man was about to come undone. As Grand Master, Sinclair’s decisions were final. It didn’t matter what Wingate said now.

  The camera tracked Wingate as he paced the floor of the videoconference room in Sinclair’s plantation estate, shaking his head, wringing his hands—moving in panicked animation. From the wall of monitors, every Guardian’s face glared at their presidential candidate.

  “But I’ve explained to you,” Wingate said, “there is nothing to the accusation. Yes, the kid went to one of my youth camps, but I never touched him, or any other child for that matter. Never even met him. The father is a scam artist and sees a fast way to make a buck. Anybody in the public eye is subject to this kind of thing by the low-life out there. The world is filled with their type—vultures. It happens all the time.” He panned the room, looking first at Sinclair and then the monitors. “Come on. This is nothing new to men of your stature. Just pick up any supermarket tabloid and look at the cover.” Except for the tapping of the soles of his shoes on the marble floor as he paced and his heavy breathing, the only response was silence. Obviously frustrated, Wingate thrust up his arms. “What else do you want from me?”

  Sinclair spoke in a calm, quiet tone. “Your statement will be that you’ve decided to drop out of the race for health reasons. You’ve recently learned that you have a serious kidney condition with resulting debilitating anemia, compounded by high blood pressure. We’ll arrange for medical confirmation. You and your family made the decision together that you would not continue to pursue the presidency. You love your wife and family and want to spend more time with them. You appreciate all the support you’ve received. Public sympathy will pour in. The people will embrace you and then tearfully send you off to live a stress-free life somewhere out of the limelight. No questions. The press will also handle you compassionately. After all, you’re such a young man to be so ill. And in the fickle American way, they’ll forget about you in a couple of months and move on to our next choice.”

  Wingate stood with a stunned expression. “Charles, you can’t ask me to drop out. I’ve made a good run so far. Everything is working and—”

  “No, that’s the thing, Robert—it isn’t working. The blackmail issue will always be an albatross, a millstone that gets heavier and heavier.”

  “But I didn’t do—”

  “I told you, when dealing with an allegation of child molestation, it doesn’t matter whether the accusation is factual or not—once it’s made public, it becomes embedded in the subconscious—a blemish that can’t be removed.”

  “Nobody knows about the blackmail except that Stone woman. You said you know where she’s hiding and you’re going to take care of her. That means there’s not going to be any—”

  “She’s no longer your concern. You were told not to take any action—not to do something rash. But you did. And it’s created a mess we have to clean up. We can’t risk the bomb being linked to you.”

  “But I made sure it couldn’t be connected to—”

  “You’re an amateur, Robert. You should have left these matters to us. It’s taken valuable resources to cover your sloppy trail. Besides, there are things about the Stone woman you don’t know.” Sinclair started to explain further but realized it would make no difference. “I want you out of the public eye where there’s less of a chance anyone will dig deep enough to unearth your ties to that . . . fiasco. As of now, your political career is officially over. You’ve become a liability.”

  “But you need me,” Wingate said. “Have you seen the latest polls? I’m way out in front. And it’s not just your political machinations that have done that. I’ve fucking charmed and captivated the American public. Even the press.”

  Sinclair’s eyes performed a long, exaggerated blink. “Charisma, like talk, is cheap. Do you know how many charismatic men are out there who would jump at the chance to run for the presidency of the United States with the unlimited backing we could give them? And of course from your own personal experience, you do know how easy it is to launch a political career from out of nowhere—with the proper support.”

  “Please, Charles. I’m one of you. My family has a long history.”

  “Then you know we sacrifice for the Order.”

  “But there is no need for sacrifice. Please, Charles.”

  The man was begging now, and it made Sinclair’s stomach roil. “Most unbecoming, Robert. Sit down and collect yourself.”

  Wingate stood behind a high back chair, his hands squeezing the stainless steel frame at the top.

  “Relax, Robert. Your future won’t be so awful.”

  Wingate remained behind the chair.

  “You’ve been loyal, and we do value that quality. Tell me where you want to go. Belize? Barbados? Fiji? We’ll see to it you’re taken care of.”

  Wingate tugged at his collar and straightened, like the last rally of a terminally ill man. “I can pull this off . . . even without you.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “I don’t need any more campaign money. The press loves me, so I’ll get all the coverage I want. Americans believe in me, they trust me, and they’ll take that straight into the voting booths next year in November.”

  Sinclair forced a smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit?” His jaw muscles tightened, and his teeth clenched.

  “What the fuck is with you, Charles? You know I can finish the race and win. Come November, you’ll see. I’ll be President Elect Robert Wingate. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  Sinclair folded his hands, his patience exhausted. “What about the spray of roses?”

  Wingate stared at Sinclair. “What roses?”

  “The ones wilted on your grave, come November.”

  timestamp

  The sun had not yet stolen above the horizon as the ’66 Chevy pickup sped along U.S. 25 out of the mountains toward Greenville, South Carolina. Cotten watched the bleak landscape rolling by. In the headlights, the glare of snow patches shone like white islands in the fallow brown fields and skeleton forests. Bare, bony tree branches reached up and picked at the thick sky.

  She felt a trickle of warm air on her legs, but not warm enough to remove her coat. She wore one of Lilly Jones’s long work dresses and her herringbone wool jacket. The shoes fit better than the clothes, she thought, as she glanced down at the simple brown lace-ups. Even the dim light of the dash couldn’t hide that they were sturdy work shoes, but certainly more comfortable and practical than the heels she wore everyday at SNN.

  A semi-tractor trailer rig moved past, throwing up a shower of grime. The pickup’s worn-out wipers only smeared it across the windshield.

  “I know,” John said, glancing quickly in Cotten’s direction. “Needs a new set of blades.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking.”

  “Then what?”

  “I was thinking how lucky I am.”

  “To be sporting around in this fancy retro truck or donning that Blue Ridge designer outfit?”

  “Lucky I have you. Despite everything that’s happened, you’re still here.”

  Another huge truck swept by, spraying more slush. John leaned forward as if a few inches would improve visibility. “Nobody can say you don’t look on the bright side. Have I told you I’m a sucker for adventure?”

  “You’d have to be.” He was trying to lighten up the situation, and she appreciated his effort. “How we doing on gas?”

  He checked the gauge. “We’ll fill up in Hendersonville. There’s a Skyway Truck Stop there.”

  “Good. Then I can check my answering machine and call Uncle Gus.”

  “It’s Saturday.” John looked at his watch in the headlights of a passing truck. “And five thirty in the morning.”

  “Gus is a workaholic. He’s up and at it bef
ore the dawn—Saturdays included. If he’s not in the office, my call will be routed to his house. We need to know if he’s put together some connection with those names on Thornton’s list.”

  “Cotten, what if I get you out of the country? Maybe fly to someplace like Costa Rica.”

  “It’s not just me anymore. They want you, too,” Cotten said. “Whatever they think I know, they must believe I have told you. We’ll never be safe, never have any peace until we unravel this whole mess.”

  They rode in silence for a while before John said, “There’s the Skyway.”

  As the endless parade of 18-wheelers swept by, John steered the pickup into the truck stop’s parking lot and pulled beside the first available gas pump. “I’ll fill up while you make your calls.” He took his wallet out and gave her a ten dollar bill.

  Cotten slipped out of the truck and after getting change made her way past shelves of junk food and soda cases to a line of public phones. She called Gus.

  Waiting for him to answer, Cotten dumped the rest of the money in her pocket and looked back in the direction of the cashier. She could see John beyond the front window in the glare of the service center lights pumping gas.

  A sleepy voice came on the line—a man, but not her uncle. “Hello.”

  “Hi, this is Cotten Stone. Can I speak to Gus, please?”

  The line was quiet for a moment. She already knew something was wrong.

  “Ms. Stone, my name is Michael Billings. I’m the operations manager for Ruby Investigations. I’ve had the calls forwarded to my home.”

  “I’ve never heard my uncle mention your name.”

  “I just recently joined the agency.”

  “I need to speak to Gus right away.” She hoped Gus was out of town on business or taking a few days vacation.

  Billings sniffed, obviously still trying to wake up. “Ms. Stone, I hate to be the one to give you bad news, but I’m afraid your uncle was in an accident last night.”