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

by Lynn Sholes

  Cotten sensed the all-too-familiar chill sweep through her body. “Accident?”

  “Driving home, his car ran off the road.”

  “Is he . . . all right?”

  Billings’ long sigh sounded like air escaping from a punctured tire. “It’s pretty bad. What we know so far is that Gus suffered a severe head injury, his liver is lacerated, and there’s internal bleeding. He’s got some broken bones, but that’s the least of it. Doctors won’t speculate on his recovery, or if he recovers what kind of brain damage there might be.”

  She wanted to scream. Everything she touched . . . Yes, she had a touch all right. Not a Midas touch, but the touch of a mortician. Everyone she loved wound up dead. God, please don’t let him die, too, she thought. Raw rage built inside her. “How did it happen?”

  “The road was icy. Apparently he lost control and ran off the highway into the river. Because of the weather, there weren’t many people on the road, so the accident didn’t get reported right away. He’s lucky he’s even alive.”

  “He just ran off the road?”

  “Apparently.”

  Cotten looked around the service center. It wasn’t yet daylight, and only a handful of truckers moved about, mostly filling large Styrofoam cups from the self-serve counter or shoving an egg ‘n’ bacon sandwich into the microwave. Her thoughts came like splinters that brought needles of pain. Her life was coming unstitched, and all the things that were good were spilling out and dying. How could these people in the truck stop just go about their business slugging down black coffee and eating Krispy Kremes while she was unraveling? Their lives went on like long, flowing rivers while hers was tumbling over cliffs—out of control.

  “Ms. Stone? Are you still there? If there’s anything—”

  “No.” Cotten hung up. “Gus had no fucking accident,” she mumbled, gritting her teeth.

  She braced herself, palms flat against the wall, her forehead resting on the phone, her body shaking. Pretty soon there would be no one left. They were getting to everyone around her and eliminating them all, one by one.

  She looked back toward the cashier and caught a glimpse of John cleaning the pickup’s windshield. He was all she had left. How long before she lost him, too?

  Digging into her pocket she pulled out quarters and dimes, picked up the phone again, and dialed her apartment. In response to the automated system’s message, she successfully fed the phone a quarter, but the second coin clanked in the return slot. She punched in another quarter and hit the phone with the heel of her hand. The telephone accepted the rest of her money, and in a moment she heard her answering machine pick up.

  “Hi, this is Cotten—”

  After entering her retrieval code, she heard a synthetic voice say, “You have two messages.”

  Beep.

  “Cotten, this is Ted. It’s imperative that you call me immediately. Day or night. The authorities want to talk to you right away.”

  The synthetic voice announced the digital timestamp, “Thursday, 9:10 am.” Two days ago.

  Beep.

  “Ms. Stone?”

  The voice was odd and muffled, disguised as if spoken through an electronic distortion device. Cotten strained to hear, to understand.

  “Please listen to me. I can save your life, yours and the priest’s if you do exactly what I tell you. I’m willing to give you the whole story on the theft of the Grail and more . . . much more. This is bigger than you can possibly imagine. Follow my instructions and meet me where I say. Here’s what you must do.”

  Cotten pressed the phone harder to her ear and listened to the remainder of the message. Then she heard the timestamp, “Saturday, 2:20 am.” Today.

  Beep.

  “End of messages. Press one to save or two to erase.”

  Cotten pushed the number two button on the phone then hung up. She looked around suspiciously as she hurried to the front of the store. Was anyone watching her? She threw open the doors and sprinted across the parking lot. John had just climbed into the truck when Cotten jerked open the passenger door.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “Is everything all right?”

  “They got to Gus. Get us out of here!”

  “Where are we going?”

  “New Orleans.”

  revelation

  “That nails it,” John said, withdrawing his card from the ATM. It was midmorning as he and Cotten stood in the Greenville-Spartanburg International Airport.

  “They’ve canceled your accounts, too,” Cotten said, shaking her head. “That means you’re as much of a target as I am.” Her voice trailed off. “John, I never intended—”

  He pressed his fingertips to her lips. “I’m here because I want to be.”

  “They’re shutting us down.”

  “Not completely. I still have a trick or two.” He motioned to a bank of pay phones along a wall. “I’ve got an old friend who can help.”

  “Archbishop Montiagro?”

  “No, someone harder to connect to me. My rabbi friend I told you about—Syd Bernstein. He can purchase the tickets at his end and wire us some money. I’ve still got a little cash, but not enough to get us very far. And with no credit cards, we’ll have to pay cash. So don’t expect the Marriott when we get to New Orleans. It’ll be more like the No-Tell Motel—pay by the hour in advance.”

  This brought a smile to Cotten’s face. “And how would you know about such things?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m a priest. The confessional—remember? People tell me everything.”

  She grinned but then turned serious. “Can you trust your friend?”

  “Completely.

  “That’s how Vanessa was for me.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence as John dug for pocket change. He dropped quarters and dimes into the slot and dialed.

  How wonderful it must be to have such a fertile life, she thought. Hers seemed shallow and sterile in comparison. He was the only other person besides Vanessa who added richness to the threadbare tapestry of her life. Not even Thornton had done that.

  She remembered a close friend from high school and how they kept in touch for a couple of years after Cotten left home. But their lives took on such different dimensions—Cotten in college studying journalism, and her friend at home raising three children—that they soon found little in common. Gradually their friendship came down to a few scribbles on the inside of Christmas cards. John and his friend managed to maintain a strong bond even though they lived in different worlds. Cotten hadn’t thought about it before, but she regretted purging so much from her life. She could hardly complain about winding up being so isolated when she was the one who had let it happen. Self-inflicted wounds were the most painful.

  “Right,” John was saying into the phone. “Try the two-twenty flight on US Air. If there aren’t any tickets for us at the counter in an hour, I’ll call you back. And Syd, thanks. Shalom.”

  * * *

  US Air flight 319 touched down in New Orleans at 4:51 pm. Cotten and John caught a shuttle to the French Quarter, then a taxi to Checkmate Services on Canal Street where they picked up the money Syd had wired. An hour later they checked into the ten-room Blue Bayou Motel a few blocks from the Quarter. They paid cash in advance for two days.

  “I thought we had a choice of a smoking or non-smoking room,” Cotten said, wrinkling her nose at the heavy smell of cigarette smoke that seemed embedded in everything.

  John left the door open to the outside letting the breeze in. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Cotten looked around the drab, shabby room. There was a double bed with a faded gold spread—over the headboard a framed poster of dogs sitting around a table playing cards—beside the bed, a dark-colored wooden nightstand with a cheap gooseneck lamp. The bulb couldn’t have been more than 40 watts. A small desk and chair sat under
the blackout-drape-covered window. The closet was only an alcove with a solitary wire hanger on a rod. “About the only thing that would help this place is arson,” she said.

  “We’ve already been down that road,” John said.

  Cotten laughed. “Or down that mountain. Guess that’s what brought it to mind.” It was the same kind of humor that often came up at funerals, she thought. Even during the bleakest situations, the human spirit attempts to uplift itself.

  John switched on the TV and sat at the foot of the bed. He tried to adjust the volume with the remote but nothing happened. “No batteries,” he said, holding it up to show Cotten the battery connector dangling like an empty fishhook. He reached out and turned up the volume on the set as the weather report segment of the local news started. The young, attractive girl with a slight Cajun accent swooped her hand over the map of the country, as the screen behind her zoomed in on the Crescent City. She explained that high pressure brought fair weather just in time for Fat Tuesday, but warned that it was still winter and parade-goers should keep a sweater or jacket in tow.

  The news anchor appeared—a shot of St. Peter’s Square at the Vatican shown over his shoulder. It dissolved into a procession of red-cloaked men walking two abreast past the camera. “Coming up next, the ancient ritual known as a conclave got underway today in Rome as the College of Cardinals gathered from all over the world to elect the next pope. Stay tuned for details.”

  The station went to commercials.

  “So it begins,” John said.

  “Maybe my friend Mikey from the Rathskeller is a contender,” Cotten joked.

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the message on my answering machine. The voice. It was disguised, but there was something vaguely familiar. I just can’t place it. And why wouldn’t this guy tell me everything on the phone instead of all the stupid intrigue?” She stared at the numerous leak stains on the ceiling.

  “No idea who he was?”

  “No. He sounded nervous, though. I could tell that much. What if this is a setup?”

  “I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. But we don’t have much choice. It’s the only thing we’ve got to go on.”

  The news was back and the anchor said, “To recap our top story, front-runner independent presidential candidate, Robert Wingate, put to rest the rumor that due to his health, he would drop out of the race. His recent health scare proved to be just that, only a scare. In an impromptu news conference held during his visit to the Crescent City, Wingate announced he has gotten a clean bill of health.”

  Cotten leaned toward the TV screen, watching the clip of Wingate. He stood in front of a bank of microphones—the Tulane University Hospital in the background.

  “I have no intentions of letting down all those who have supported me, and I definitely plan to stay in the race,” Wingate said.

  The clip ended and the newscaster wrapped up the segment. “Stay tuned to News Central for complete coverage.”

  Cotten jumped to her feet. “Did you hear that? Health scare, my ass. He must have paid off the blackmailer.” She read the parade schedule that appeared on the TV screen. “What is the Krewe of Orpheus parade, anyway?” Cotten asked. “I thought everything was on Fat Tuesday, but this one is supposed to be tomorrow, Monday.”

  John flipped through a brochure he’d picked up in the airport. “Lundi Gras parade. One of three on Monday. The floats will carry over twelve hundred costumed riders. Says here they’ll pass in front of almost a million parade-goers along the route. And our mystery man thinks we can find him among a million people?”

  Cotten closed the door to their room. She would rather smell the staleness than be chilled. “He said he’d be dressed as a pirate, and he explicitly said the northeast corner of St. Charles and Jackson. That should narrow it down a bit. I don’t think we’ll have to look for him, anyway. He’ll find me.”

  John opened a city street map and held it close to his face in the dim light. “You’d think they could put a slightly larger bulb in that lamp.”

  “You don’t need a lot of light to do what most people rent this room for.” She sat beside him on the end of the bed.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. That’s probably the original bulb.” He put down the map and picked up a phone book, turning to the yellow pages. “Costume shops,” he said, leafing through. “At least your friend on the phone didn’t tell us the kind of costumes to wear. We know how he’ll be dressed, but he won’t know which ones of those million people we are.”

  “But he said when I get to the corner, I’m supposed to remove my mask,” Cotten said. “That’s how he’ll know it’s me. And, John, not us—only me. He said I had to come alone.”

  “I don’t like it. That’s not going to happen. If we’re both in costume, as far as he knows, I’m just another parade-watcher. I can’t let you go alone, Cotten. It’s way too risky.”

  “No,” she said. “If it’s a setup—”

  “There’s no argument you can give me. Nothing you can say. I’ll stay back a short distance, don’t worry.”

  She put her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. “John, I couldn’t do this without you.”

  He returned her embrace, then said, “Why don’t you try to take a nap.”

  Cotten let go and parked herself on the edge of the bed. “I am tired,” she said. As soon as her head touched the pillow, she slept.

  * * *

  When she awoke, it was dark. John sat at the desk by the window—a second dim lamp barely illuminating its surface. He studied an open book while making notes on a small pad of paper.

  Cotten lay watching him for a long time. It was hard remembering anything about her life before John. She wondered what his destiny was, and hers.

  “You hungry?” John asked, looking up from his notes.

  “Starving,” Cotten said. “I crave pizza. Sloppy with cheese and covered in pepperoni.”

  “It’s a deal.” He pointed to the nightstand. “I put the phone book back in the drawer. Should be a place around here that delivers.”

  Cotten sat on the side of the bed and pulled out the directory, thumbed through it, and found a Dominoes. After placing their order, she stood behind John and peered over his shoulder. “What are you working on?”

  “Some things about this mess we’re in that have been nagging at me.”

  Cotten saw that the book on the desk was a Gideon’s Bible. Beside it, he had filled a couple of pages in the pad with notes and diagrams. “You think the answers are in there?”

  “I think the Bible contains the answers to everyone’s problems, Cotten.”

  “You believe it’s that simple? Want to share the enlightenment with me?”

  John turned to face her. He sat quiet a moment, just looking at her. Finally he said, “Not yet. In a little bit.”

  She could tell he didn’t want to talk. At least he didn’t seem offended by her flippant remark. If reading the Bible made him feel better, she shouldn’t spoil it for him. “I think I’ll go shower before the food arrives,” she said.

  John nodded without looking up.

  Everything about the shower, the whole bathroom, she found seedy. The toilet seat slid to the side when she sat on it, the mirror needed resilvering, and the tile was held together more by mildew than grout. Even the toilet paper was slick and stiff like gift wrap tissue.

  Under the water trickling from the showerhead, Cotten finally let go and cried. It seemed unfair that she was alive while Vanessa and Thornton were gone. And Uncle Gus, fighting for his life—all because of her. John sat in the next room searching for answers in the Bible. He said it gave him understanding and strength. Would it have the answers she needed? Would it help her understand? Give her strength? Don’t hold your breath, Cotten.

  Her life had come down to this moment in a dank, seedy motel
—her only friend, a man searching for his destiny, trying to find answers in a book written thousands of years ago.

  She held her face up to the sprinkling water. “If you’re really there, God, then how could you—”

  John rapped on the door. “Pizza’s here.”

  Cotten turned off the water and climbed out of the shower. Her hair would have to drip dry. There were no amenities like a hairdryer mounted on the bathroom wall at the Blue Bayou Motel. She dried herself, then turbaned her hair in the thin white terry towel and wondered how much water it would be able to wick away.

  She threw on a pair of jeans and T-shirt they had bought on the way to the motel. “That was fast,” she said, coming out of the bathroom.

  “Apparently, they’re just around the corner,” John said. “The guy told me he walked over here.”

  “Ready to eat?”

  “You go ahead.”

  He seemed pensive, and she asked, “Is everything all right, John?”

  “I think so. I mean, I’m starting to put things together. And it’s caused me to lose my appetite.”

  “Like what?”

  He hesitated, obviously gathering his thoughts. “Let me preface by saying I believe that God speaks to us through the scriptures. Whenever I need answers, I turn to this book. One way or another, it always gives me what I’m looking for.” He paused and glanced at her. “After you fell asleep, I decided to pull it out of the bedside drawer and read. As I opened the book, this was the first thing I came across.” He lifted the Bible. “It’s from the book of Revelation. I saw a woman sitting upon a scarlet beast that was full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. The woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet, and adorned with gold and precious stones having in her hand a golden cup full of abominations.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I didn’t at first, either. But then I started thinking about the list that Cheryl read to you. Thornton put that list together because he believed those people are connected to the Grail theft. Thornton ends up dead. Then you give the list to your uncle; he somehow makes a connection and winds up almost killed in a car crash. And then there’s Archer’s death at the start.