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

by Lynn Sholes

  John shook his head. “Hopefully, it’ll become clear once we get there. Believe me, Ianucci had something specific in mind.” He took the small plastic box from his pocket and opened it.

  As soon as Cotten saw the contents, she gasped.

  * * *

  “Step out of the car, please,” the private security guard said as he opened the taxi door.

  John got out, followed by Cotten, both still in costume.

  “Invitation, please,” a second guard said, extending his hand. John gave the man the white embossed card, and the guard shined his flashlight on it.

  “Extend your arms out to the sides, sir,” the first guard said.

  John complied, and the man scanned him with a handheld metal detector wand. He then moved to Cotten and performed the same routine.

  The guard returned the invitation. “Enjoy your evening,” he said, stepping aside.

  John paid the taxi driver. Then he and Cotten walked through the security checkpoint at the iron-gated entrance to the Sinclair plantation. They moved down the driveway onto a great expanse of manicured lawn that gently sloped to the river. Costumed guests sipped champagne from crystal flutes and walked among torch-lit paths, fountains, and gardens. A string quartet played Mozart, and the sweet sound drifted on the Mississippi River breeze.

  Judging by the rows of limousines and exotic cars they passed coming in, Cotten guessed that the elite of New Orleans society were in attendance.

  John squeezed her hand, nodding at the ornate carving stretching across the entrance to the house—the Cross Pateé with twining roses in recessed gold leaf below the name of the estate.

  “Rosslyn Manor,” John read. “Sinclair named this place after the chapel.”

  Despite the tight security at the gate, Cotten noticed little in the way of guards or security uniforms as she and John wandered toward the gardens. “I’m surprised they didn’t check our IDs,” she said.

  “Picture IDs would be useless at a masquerade ball,” John said, motioning to a woman walking past them whose face was painted like a rainbow.

  “Keep your eyes open to anything odd,” John said. “Out of the ordinary.”

  “Are you kidding? This whole shebang is nuts,” Cotten said. “For starters, you can’t tell who’s who.” They passed a boy-on-a-dolphin fountain. “This reminds me a little of the place I told you about in Miami,” she said.

  “Vizcaya, where you first met Wingate?” John asked.

  Cotten nodded and looped her arm through his.

  Soon, they stood on a wooden dock on the bank of the Mississippi. A beam from a tugboat’s searchlight swept across them like a blind man’s cane as the vessel pushed a long line of barges through the darkness. The string quartet stopped playing, and a voice came over the PA. “I’d like to welcome everyone to my annual Mardi Gras celebration.”

  “That must be Sinclair,” Cotten said.

  “Please gather beneath the veranda so I can see all of the spectacular costumes,” the voice said.

  Cotten and John walked up a stone path, joining those gathering beneath the balcony.

  A man stood on the balcony dressed as a crusader with sword at his side. On his chest was the red Cross Pateé. “Welcome to Rosslyn Manor.”

  Enthusiastic applause broke out.

  “That’s him, I’m sure,” Cotten said. “I’ve seen his face on our science segments.”

  Their host continued. “We’ve planned a wonderful evening of food and entertainment. Until dinner is served, feel free to wander the grounds and enjoy the beautiful starlit sky. I think you will all agree Louisiana is God’s country.”

  Another roar of applause washed across the lawn as Sinclair waved, then disappeared inside.

  “He doesn’t look all that menacing,” Cotten said.

  “Remember the story of the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  The two watched until the knot of people dispersed.

  “Now what?” Cotten asked.

  “Time to scope out the mansion.”

  “Are you crazy? How?”

  “By doing exactly what they won’t expect. We’ll walk right in the front door.”

  “And I will give power to my two witnesses.” (Revelation 11:3)

  in plain sight

  John rapped the brass doorknocker, and Cotten pushed the doorbell.

  “Ready?” John asked.

  She nodded.

  As the door opened, Cotten started. “I told you we need a cell phone now that we have the baby. A beeper isn’t—”

  Cotten turned and faced the man standing in the doorway. He was tall, balding and formal, dressed in a white tie and tails.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  The butler, she assumed, and mentally named him Jeeves since he could have posed for the cartoon character on the popular Internet search website.

  “Dinner will be served at nine,” Jeeves said. “Doctor Sinclair will not be receiving guests until then.”

  “No, no,” Cotten said. “We need to use the phone. The sitter just beeped us.”

  “The baby’s been sick,” John said. “My wife’s a little nervous. First child and our first time away from him.”

  Cotten flipped her hair back and said to John, “I told you we shouldn’t have come.” She turned to the butler. “Could we use the phone? Please?”

  Jeeves hesitated, then stepped back, clearing the doorway. He gave a slight motion of his arm allowing them entrance.

  “Thank you,” Cotten said.

  They followed the butler through the marble-tiled foyer and past the double spiral staircase.

  “This way,” Jeeves said. He showed them into a study—dark wood paneling, a large desk with hand-carved legs, a high-back leather chair, several occasional chairs and tables, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases swelling with hundreds of volumes. Thick draperies shadowed the windows that stretched the height of the room.

  Cotten watched the butler turn on the banker’s light beside the telephone on the desk.

  “We appreciate it,” John said.

  Jeeves strode back across the room but parked himself in the doorway.

  Cotten picked up the cordless phone and dialed, never pressing the talk button. She held the receiver to her ear and waited, then rolled her eyes and put it down. “Busy.”

  “The sitter must be on the Internet,” John said, looking at the butler. “We’re the last of the dial-up diehards.”

  She glared at John. “You’d have us living without electricity . . .” Her voice was cold. Cotten leaned against the desk. “Do you mind if we wait a few minutes and try again?”

  John sat in a leather wingback. “Don’t let us keep you,” he said to the butler. “As soon as we get in touch with the sitter, we’ll show ourselves out.”

  Jeeves cocked his head as if calculating his responsibility. “Very well,” he said with a bit of hesitation. “You can find your way out?”

  “No problem. And thanks so much.” Cotten gave her most grateful smile. As the door closed, she said, “Damn. I didn’t think he’d ever leave us alone.”

  John cracked the door. “Let’s start on the second floor. There’s going to be too much activity down here.”

  They slipped out of the study and crept up the staircase—Cotten cringing at every sound.

  The first three doors they tried led to bedrooms, and the fourth to an office suite equipped with an entertainment center—plasma TV, DVD player, the works—covering one entire wall. “Impressive,” Cotten said. There was also a desk with a computer which she assumed was for the convenience of any visitors staying at the plantation. Guests could get on the Net and surf or check their email.

  Cotten went to a window, pulled back the sheer curtain and peered out. “So these are the riches you get when you sell your soul.” She turned to John. “Any id
ea what we’re looking for?”

  John shook his head. “Hopefully we’ll know when we see it.”

  They explored several other rooms that turned out to be additional bedrooms—all extravagant, but of no help. Cotten wondered if the cardinal had sat on the edge of one of those beds in the middle of the night contemplating his deed.

  At the end of the hall was a door smaller than the others.

  “Storage closet?” Cotten said.

  “Probably.”

  The door opened to a cramped media room outfitted with a video projector sitting on a tall stand. Its lens was aimed through a glassed rectangular window looking out onto an expansive, high-ceiling conference room below. Tall racks of audio gear and other electronic equipment stood beside the projector. Muffled voices came from beyond the window.

  John and Cotten squeezed between the projector and equipment rack, and peered through the window. Cotten saw that the room below had a richly polished ebony conference table in the center and ten high-backed chairs ringing it. Only two men were seated. One was Sinclair; the other she didn’t recognize. On a far wall, seven video monitors glowed—each filled with a different face.

  “My God,” Cotten said quietly. “I recognize those men. They’re the ones from Thornton’s list!”

  “The Guardians—the seven heads,” John whispered. He motioned at Sinclair and the other man seated at the table. “And two more of the ten horns. The gang’s almost all here.”

  “Who’s missing?” Cotten asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  Sinclair spoke to Gearheart, but the soundproofing of the media room reduced the transmission of the conversation between the two rooms.

  “Here,” John said, rotating a wall-mounted knob labeled monitor speaker. As he slowly turned it, the voices from below could be heard.

  Sinclair said, “Gentlemen, welcome. All of you know my associate, Ben Gearhart.”

  Cotten recoiled. Gearhart . . . Gearhart. She nudged John. “Ben Gearhart, that’s the name on the card—the business card given to Robert Wingate that night at Vizcaya. Shit, he’s Sinclair’s right-hand man.” The words spooled from her lips, but not as fast as her thoughts came together. “Wingate’s tied into this, too.” She closed her eyes. John’s theories about God and the devil were scary enough, but in a removed surreal way. She couldn’t comprehend Lucifer and God engaged in battle other than in some distant ethereal place or on the movie screen with Linda Blair’s heading spinning. But this . . . The presidential candidate’s involvement brought what had floated in the foggy realm of fantasy smack into the bright light of reality. All of this was becoming too real.

  “You okay?” John whispered.

  Before she could answer, she heard Sinclair’s voice and turned back to the window.

  “I wish to take a moment to celebrate all of our hard work. We are on the crest of the wave that will surge over mankind. We will finally achieve the rewards that our bloodline deserves. Our plan has been effective and efficient down to the smallest detail. Even the good cardinal played his part and behaved as predicted. He has served his purpose and is now stricken from the flock.”

  A low mumble circulated through the men on the screens.

  Sinclair said, “Only the purest of us gather tonight as we start the most important journey in history—the journey toward bringing about the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God. Just a few steps from this room the miracle is taking place right now.”

  “Miracle?” Cotten whispered. “Do you think he’s creating the clone here at Rosslyn Manor?”

  John turned the speaker volume knob down. “What would be more appropriate? It has to be,” John said. “He must have a lab somewhere in the house—that’s why Ianucci wanted us to come here—to stop the cloning, to destroy it.”

  “But why would Sinclair have all these guests here, if that were the case?”

  “Maybe he’s arrogant and doesn’t think he can be stopped. And if you think about it, there was elaborate security before we could even get on the grounds. He could use the events of nine-eleven to justify it. Sinclair is probably a major player in this community, and if he has this party every year he wouldn’t want to cancel and arouse any kind of curiosity as to why. Finding the lab might be easier than we thought. You know, sometimes the best place to hide something is to put it in plain sight.”

  Cotten’s mind raced, weaving everything together. “There’s something wrong.”

  “What do you mean?” John asked.

  “You said finding it will be easy. Getting in here was easy—too easy.” She put her fingers to her temples. “We weren’t so clever getting into Sinclair’s party. We were lured here. We did exactly what they wanted. We’re the moths, and this place is the flame.”

  John’s expression darkened.

  “Did you hear Sinclair?” Cotten said. “Ianucci served his purpose. It wasn’t only to switch the real relic with a fake. They knew he would lead us to them. He was the bait. He gave us the invitation.”

  John slipped his hand into his pocket and removed the box given to them by the cardinal. “Do you think they know about this.”

  A soft click caused John to drop it back into his pocket. The door to the media room opened—a large man was silhouetted in the light from the hall.

  “Solpeth, Cotten.”

  For an instant, just a flash that passed through her, she wanted to jump up and run to him, throw her arms around his neck, and give him a big hug. But then Cotten Stone’s heart tumbled, and her mind made its best effort to comprehend. He had said hello . . . like Motness, in Enochian. “Uncle Gus?”

  What was he doing here . . . in a monk’s robe with a gun pointed at her? Cotten shook her head in disbelief. She looked hard at him. “I thought you were—”

  “In intensive care from a terrible car accident? No, I’m fine. We had to tell you something to keep you frightened and on the run—keep you distracted until we could get things underway here.”

  Cotten could see his familiar smile—his words sounded soft and gentle.

  “We tried to hold you in New York. That would have been simpler. But Father Tyler screwed that up, coming to your rescue.” He looked at John. “You weren’t in the original plan. So we had to slow you down a little, like we did Cotten. Cut off the money. But at the same time, keep you running. When one is desperate he lacks clarity.”

  “Thornton . . . Vanessa?” Cotten said, awash in betrayal.

  “Your boyfriend was a hell of a reporter. He got way too close. We were sure he had told you everything. But the fashion model . . . that was unfortunate. Wingate panicked. He was way out of line. He could have injured you.”

  Cotten swallowed—her throat was so dry it pained her. “And the cabin fire? You did that?”

  Gus said, “We kept our fingers crossed on that one. For a time there, we were afraid you wouldn’t get out. I almost came and banged on the door to wake you.”

  “Why? What’s going on, Uncle Gus?” Her voice broke.

  “Sorry, sweetheart, but I need to make sure you and the priest go no further. It stops here.”

  Cotten glared. “I trusted you. Always have, since I was a little girl.” She paused before speaking again. “Did you kill the cardinal?”

  Gus sighed. “He served his purpose.”

  “I can’t believe Cardinal Ianucci was willingly involved,” John said. “He couldn’t have known what was going on here—the cloning.”

  “Oh, on the contrary, Father Tyler. He knew. Though he was duped just a bit, thinking he was helping bring about the Second Coming. Ironically, he was half right. It really will be the Second Coming—after all, Christ is about to be born again . . . with a twist.”

  “But Ianucci repented,” John said. “He realized what he had done and asked God to forgive him.”

  Gus rolled his eyes. “Perhaps. Who
knows what’s really in a man’s heart. But the cardinal was predictable. We knew that from the start. That’s why he was chosen. Sinclair let Ianucci discover our true plan, then allowed him to escape and contact you—invite you to the ball. He was just a pawn.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me when you murdered him?” Cotten asked.

  “Much cleaner this way. We knew you would be coming here—you and Tyler. A twofer, so to speak.” Gus Ruby paused as if reluctant to go on. “Your priest friend has to be taken care of, but the fact of the matter is, I can’t kill you.”

  “Because you’re my uncle?” She struggled to accept his explanation.

  “Well,” Gus said, drawing out the word to an exaggerated length. “How should I explain? I’m your father’s brother, just not quite in the same sense as you might normally think. But part of a family, just as well.”

  Cotten’s eyes blinked rapidly as she shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. It’s just like you didn’t understand when Archer said you were the only one. Now, there’s an understatement. I suppose this is as good a time as any,” Gus said.

  Cotten reached to clutch John’s hand.

  Gus nodded to John. “Perhaps introductions are in order.”

  “Father Tyler, do you realize whose company you keep? Meet Cotten Stone, daughter of Furmiel Stone. I’m sure you’ve heard of Furmiel—the Angel of the eleventh hour? Furmiel . . . one of what you call the Fallen, the Watchers, my brother.”

  Cotten felt as if she were hallucinating. “Stop, stop,” she whispered. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your father was with us from the beginning. He fought in the Great Battle. When we were defeated, we were cast out and have been condemned to wander this place forever. Eventually, your father weakened and begged God’s forgiveness. He deserted our ranks . . . a traitor. He groveled, shaming us. God took pity on him and granted him a life as a mortal man. He was permitted to marry and procreate. You and your twin sister are his offspring—half breeds, Nephilim. But your father had to pay for God’s mercy. Selfishly, God took your sister and left you on earth to fight His battles. Of course, your father splintered under the pressure of mortality, and always feeling guilty at the burden placed on you. And for what? A life of misery. He chose to end his life, disappointing God once again. As I said, he was weak.”