by Lynn Sholes
Cotten’s eyebrows furrowed as she strained to put it all together. “What you are saying is it could go either way—the cloning might be the work of Satan, or it might be that the Second Coming is supposed to be happening right now, and it might be happening by way of cloning?”
“What if Satan’s real mission is to use you and me to interrupt God’s plan?”
Cotten sat on the bed. “I’m so confused, I can’t think straight. You just finished convincing me someone is going to create the Antichrist, and now you’re turning it completely around.”
He held her by the shoulders. “I’m relying on my gut feeling, here. I could be wrong. But I think we are on the brink of coming face to face with those who stole the Grail and are attempting to clone Jesus. We are going to find out who they are and try to stop them. But what if I’ve got it all wrong?”
Cotten took his hands from her shoulders and held them, shaking her head. “No. God wouldn’t let that happen to you. He wouldn’t. You’re too good. There isn’t the tiniest cell in your body that could be made to do anything evil.” She looked deep into John’s eyes—the intensity, the turbulence, the dark blue of the sea during a storm—and prayed she was right.
the krewe of orpheus
After a restless night and only a few hours of sleep, the next morning Cotten and John took a cab to MGM Costume Rentals. They had first tried stores that sold costumes, but found the prices too steep. Renting would be much more reasonable.
John started with a realistic Henry the Eighth, but because of his slim build the costume draped in folds where it should have billowed, hung loose where it should have clung. He didn’t look kingly, Cotten told him. When he appeared as King Tut, she bent over with laughter, sending him back to the changing room. But when she saw him reappear as Elvis singing “Blue Suede Shoes,” her laughter pealed through the store.
She tried Marie Antoinette, Peter Pan . . . and an angel. Standing in front of John as the angel, white feathered wings, silver threads woven through the gossamer white robe, she heard him suck in a breath.
Cotten raised her brows. “Thought I should a least give this one a try.”
“You look so . . . beautiful,” he said.
It sounded more as if he were thinking aloud than meaning to speak, so she didn’t respond. Looking at herself in a full-length mirror, she thought of Motnees and wondered if angels really had wings. The costume was lovely, but she needed something less cumbersome considering she might end up having to make a quick exit if she were walking into a trap.
Like a sudden slap, the reality of their predicament jerked the fun out of the moment.
John eventually chose a Phantom of the Opera black cloak with a mask made of a translucent plastic, while Cotten selected an Alice in Wonderland dress and the same kind of translucent mask devoid of color except for the dark rose lips.
“Great choices,” the clerk said. “As you can imagine, our selection has been picked over, but I think you both looked terrific.” She hand-wrote the bill. “That’ll be one hundred four dollars.”
John handed her two fifties and a five, and the clerk gave him change.
“I’ll need a credit card for the security deposit,” she said.
“But we paid cash,” Cotten said.
“I know. But sometimes our customers don’t return the costumes. Store policy. We don’t charge your card unless the costume doesn’t come back after forty-eight hours.”
John put his arm around Cotten’s waist, pulled her close to his side, and put on a wide grin. “Jan and I are making a clean start,” he said.
Jan? Cotten repeated the name in her head, holding back the urge to elbow him.
John went on. “When we were first married, we got into some financial difficulty. When we finally got out of debt, we cut up all our cards. If we can’t pay for something in cash, then we don’t buy. It’s our rule. Right, honey?” he said, smiling at Cotten.
“Right,” she said.
“How about we leave you another hundred dollars for the deposit?” He joggled Cotten’s waist, rocking her against his side, making her lean into him, then pecked her on the cheek. “We’ve made a promise,” he said. “We aren’t ever going to find ourselves in debt again.”
The clerk watched as John slid a one hundred dollar bill across the counter. “The store manager isn’t here to decide,” she said, looking around. “Oh, I don’t know if—”
“We’re honest people,” John said. “And this is our first Mardi Gras. We’ve saved all year. We’re really stretching our budget just to be here.”
“Please,” Cotten said. “Buddy and I have looked forward to this for so long.” As soon as she spoke, she couldn’t help but glance at John. Jan and Buddy.
The girl sighed. “All right, but swear you’ll bring them back tomorrow.”
“Absolutely,” John said. “Thanks.”
“Honey? Jan?” Cotten said when they were on the street. “You’re a con-artist. A silver-tongued—” She stopped herself.
“Devil?” he said.
Cotten looked down, wishing she had thought before she spoke. “I could use a little sugar on my foot to make it taste better.”
“That reminds me, I’m hungry, too,” John said. “But I think I’d prefer a beignet or some pralines.”
Carrying their costumes, they walked a few blocks, stopping at Mulates Cajun restaurant for a sandwich before hailing a taxi and heading back to the Blue Bayou.
* * *
“The Krewe of Orpheus parade starts about three o’clock,” John said as he read the Mardi Gras brochure in their room. “But you aren’t supposed to meet this guy until six thirty?”
“I guess he wants it to be dark. The parade goes on for five-and-a-half hours.”
“Cotten, I’m only going to be a few feet behind you, so—”
“You know I don’t want you to go. If anything happens to you because of me . . .”
At five o’clock they got dressed, then studied the street map.
“He’ll be wearing a pirate costume. That’s all we know,” Cotten said. “There will probably be a dozen pirates on the corner of St. Charles and Jackson at six thirty.”
“Go first,” John said. “I’ll give you enough time to get to the end of the first block before I come out. This guy already might know where we are and follow from the start. At the third intersection, wait on the corner long enough for me to catch up. Fiddle with your costume or something to buy me a few minutes. Don’t look back or you’ll give me away. Are you ready?”
“No,” she said. “But I’m going anyway.”
John stood behind the door, and Cotten walked out. A few moments later he followed.
Throngs of people jammed the streets as they got closer to the parade route.
At the third corner, Cotten stopped, adjusting the lay of the flimsy white organdy pinafore over the blue Alice dress. She retied the sash, using the opportunity to sneak a glance behind. The crowd was too thick for her to see how close John trailed.
Suddenly, she was swept up by the current of people, whisked along like a leaf on a river. The closeness, the constant jostling and bumping, had her heartbeat pulsing even in her fingertips. She thought of the street festival in Miami, and her stomach tightened. The man on her answering machine who told her to come to New Orleans, the one who disguised his voice, the one who might be hell bent on killing her, could be standing next to her, even brushing against her.
A burst of fireworks popped nearby. Cotten jumped, and her mouth dried as if someone had sprinkled alum inside. Beneath the mask her skin turned damp, and a bead of sweat rolled down her spine.
She continued on, weaving through the multitude. A giant float decorated with gargoyles crawled by—glittering strands of braided beads, fake gold doubloons, and garland necklaces rained down. Hundreds of parade-goers’ hands scrapped and c
lutched at the souvenirs. A spatter of cold liquid splashed her back. Cotten spun around.
“Sorry,” the grinning man behind her slurred, lifting his plastic cup of beer above the crowd.
Cotten sidestepped and crabbed another several yards, slowly fighting her way to the rendezvous point. She wanted to look back for John, but she resisted. Cotten prayed that he’d been able to keep her in sight. Funny, she thought, she’d prayed in one fashion or another more times in the last few days than she had in the last ten years.
Finally she stood at the corner of St. Charles and Jackson. The crowd became oppressive—smothering. Not everyone wore a costume—some only masks, others just in street clothes with gobs of Mardi Gras beads dangling around their necks. And there were the quirky—like the man who stumbled past her with the seat of his jeans cut out to flaunt his naked rear end, or the girls who were topless—except for their beads. Everyone wore beads.
Cotten removed her mask and slowly turned in a circle, searching the faces around her, letting her face be seen.
She first noticed the eye patch, then purple pants, white shirt, beard, mustache, buccaneer hat—and somewhat out of place, a pair of thick work gloves. Her heart broke its rhythm as the pirate pushed his way to her and grabbed her arm.
She resisted, wrenching away.
“Walk with me,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”
Cotten followed, risking the chance to look behind for John. If he was there, the swarm of people kept him hidden. But someone else did get her attention, a large man in a monk’s costume and mask, lumbering and shoving through the crowd, heaving people out of the way.
The pirate yanked her forward. “Come on,” he shouted, apparently noticing her hesitation.
Cotten’s eyes locked on the monk whose bulk prohibited any agility as he forced his way toward them.
The pirate glanced over his shoulder at her and tracked her line of vision. He froze.
Another sudden burst of fireworks startled Cotten, and she shrank, drawing her shoulders together, shielding her face with her arm. In the same instant, the monk pulled a gun from a slit in the brown robe just below the rope belt. She heard the rapid popping—louder and closer than the fireworks. She saw the spark of flame at the end of the pistol and felt the grip on her arm loosen. The pirate slumped to the ground.
Cotten screamed as fear ricocheted through the crowd. Who had been the target, her or the pirate?
Bodies dropped, knocked down by others trying to get away from the gunfire.
One of the bystanders jumped at the armed man, attempting to wrestle the pistol away. The monk jabbed his elbow into the man’s face, then waving the gun, clambered over those who had fallen in the melee.
From out of the dense mass, Cotten caught a glimpse of John battling his way toward the shooter. With a long leap, he dove onto the monk’s back, driving him to the pavement. Others caught in the crush of the crowd faltered and went down. People screamed as they scrambled in every direction.
She lost sight of both John and the monk as they were swallowed in the confusion. Cotten dropped beside the pirate. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and onto the fibers of the artificial beard. His white shirt had turned crimson.
Finally, the terrified crowd thinned, fleeing the corner of St. Charles and Jackson.
“Help will be coming,” Cotten told the pirate. “You’re going to be all right.” She strained to look for John. “Oh, God, please don’t let him be hurt.” She found herself rocking. “Please. Please.”
The pirate coughed, but the sound was more like the gurgle of air blown through a straw into a glass of water.
“St. Clair,” he mumbled. “Stop Sinclair.”
Cotten slipped the beard and mustache off his face and removed the buccaneer hat.
“Oh, my God,” she said, recognizing him.
“Cotten! Are you hit?” John called as he came behind her, a bloodied lip and out of breath.
Cotten shot to her feet and flung her arms around him. “Thank God, thank God,” she said. “No, I’m fine. You’re all right. What happened to the monk?”
“He broke away and disappeared in the crowd. I tried to follow, but there were just too many people.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, putting her palm to his cheek. Cotten looked down at the wounded man at her feet. “John, it’s . . .” she said in almost a whisper.
John bent over and looked at the pirate. “Holy Mother of God.”
In 1442, in Scotland, Sir William St. Clair, a member of the St. Clair/Sinclair family who were a part of the Templars since 1118, began building a collegiate church dedicated to St. Matthew. The church was laid out in the shape of a cross, but only the chapel was ever completed. The chapel, an enigma to even modern scholars, was based on the floor plan of Solomon’s Temple. Engraved in the masonry are maize and aloe, which are New World plants—but the chapel was built before Columbus’s voyage. Everywhere inside the chapel are Christian, Islamic, Celtic, pagan, and Masonic pictures, hieroglyphs, and symbols. It has been conjectured that the Knights Templar hid treasure and other sacred relics there. The name of this Gothic structure is Rosslyn Chapel.
invitation to the ball
“You are the one who called me? Told me to come to New Orleans?” Cotten used the underside of the hem of her dress to dab blood from the face of the man who had disguised himself as a pirate. “Why? What is it that you know?”
“I have sinned against my God. A grievous sin. I’m ready to accept my fate.” Lying on the sidewalk, Cardinal Antonio Ianucci stared at the night sky. “Oh, God, forgive me.” His words sputtered. “You . . . you must stop Sinclair. What he does is an abomination.” He clutched Cotten’s arm, struggling to raise his head.
“Cotten! Thornton’s list,” John said. “Saint. Sin. St. Clair. St. Clair was the French name. They became the Sinclairs. Famous early Templar family. That’s it. Sinclair is the name of the Grand Master,” John said. “Where is he? How do we stop him?”
From the inside of his shirt, Ianucci struggled to pull a bloodstained envelope. “Take it and—” A wet, bubbly cough erupted. He gasped for air, and it rattled into his lungs.
Kneeling beside the cardinal, John read the contents of the envelope before looking at Cotten. “It’s an invitation to a masquerade ball tonight at the estate of Dr. Charles Sinclair.”
“Oh, shit,” Cotten said. “Charles Sinclair.”
John leaned in close to Ianucci. “You want us to go? We should use this to get in?”
The cardinal nodded and tapped his pants pocket.
John reached in the pocket and withdrew a small plastic box. He cracked open the lid, then snapped it closed and stared at the cardinal. “Sweet Jesus, what have you done?”
The wail of sirens blared, growing closer.
The cardinal opened his mouth as if to speak, but then grimaced.
“We’ll stay with you,” Cotten said.
Ianucci’s eyelids fluttered, and the grasp on Cotten’s sleeve relaxed. His hand fell to the ground; his labored breaths grew quiet, then still.
Cotten dragged her hand over her face. “He’s dead.”
John blessed the cardinal, then looked up at Cotten. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Shouldn’t you give him the Last Rites or something?”
“Cotten, that guy might have been shooting at you, not Ianucci. We’ve got to go, now.”
John gathered Cotten to her feet, pulling her along even as she kept looking over her shoulder at the dead cardinal who lay in a sprawl of blood.
Quickly, they took to the side streets and narrow dark alleys until the sound of the sirens faded into echoes of Dixieland Jazz and the call of street vendors and barkers.
Winded, and the pain in her side growing intense, she had to stop. She darted into a recess that formed the entrance to a small anti
que shop closed for the night. Towing John in with her, she leaned back against the door, panting. “I can’t go any farther.”
He pulled off the Phantom mask, breathing hard.
“Should we go back to the motel and ditch these costumes?” Cotten asked.
He shook his head as he bent over in the small alcove with his hands on his knees. “We need them to get into the masquerade ball.”
“But what about this?” she said, pointing to the blood splotch on the hem of her dress.
“We’ll find a bathroom and wash it out as best we can.” Still catching his breath, he looked at Cotten. “Sounded like you’ve heard of Sinclair.”
“Yes,” she answered, closing her eyes. “What you said about the cloning—it must be really happening. Charles Sinclair is a geneticist, a Nobel Prize winner. His research is on human cloning. SNN has covered his accomplishments many times.”
John straightened and paced, still breathing hard. He slapped his palm to his forehead. “Why didn’t I see it before with the Saint and Sin on Thornton’s list? It should have rung a bell.”
“But you didn’t know about Charles Sinclair, that he was a geneticist.”
“No, but I know about the St. Clairs, Sinclairs. That’s what I should have picked up on. Back in the fourteen hundreds William St. Clair built Rosslyn Chapel near Edinburgh, Scotland. It has strong connections to the Templars and today’s Freemasons. The chapel is thought to have been built to hide a sacred treasure. Rumors said it held the Ark of the Covenant—even the mummified head of Christ Himself, if you can believe that. The St. Clair family has a long, distinctive line of succession. I’ll bet you anything, it ends with Charles Sinclair as a direct descendant of William St. Clair. The Grand Master.”
“What are we supposed to do at this ball?” Cotten asked.
