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

by Lynn Sholes

  Suddenly, their voices grew silent.

  Shit, Cotten thought. They knew what she had done. She lay perfectly still, afraid to breathe.

  Footsteps. Someone approached.

  One of the men called out, and the footsteps stopped. Then another spoke. There was a moment of silence, followed by shouting. The footsteps reversed. More yelling. Why had the one been coming in her direction? Obviously, he hadn’t noticed her wrists or he would have done something about it. Was he planning to rape her, and the others objected—or maybe they wanted their turn with her first?

  She had to get away. Cotten slid one hand free from the rope and slowly brought it under her cheek, edging the blindfold down.

  Three men stood about fifteen feet from her and to her right at one end of a rock overhang. If she could get to her feet fast enough, she could bolt in the opposite direction and get a quick enough start to lose them in the jungle. She had to believe that they needed her . . . needed her alive to collect the reward, so they wouldn’t shoot. At least they wouldn’t shoot to kill. She couldn’t allow herself to think of the alternative, that all they needed was a corpse.

  She lay frozen, working up the courage to make the sudden move. Just do it, she thought. Just get up and run.

  The men’s voices sounded more civil, and the pitch had fallen. She should have made her move while they were so engrossed in their argument. The rain seemed to be letting up. Everything was working against her, minute by minute. If she was going to make a break, she had to do it now. As soon as the rain stopped, they would come for her and notice her wrists immediately.

  Now.

  Cotten sprang up and bolted. She heard shouts as she ran from the shelter of the overhang and fled into the trees.

  Instantly, the voices were drowned by the blast of gunfire.

  The Lair

  The cold wet leaves stung Cotten’s face and hands, slapping against her skin as she ran. Bullets zinged past, ripping plants and spraying her with tiny fragments of vegetation. Once she cleared the overhang and left the path, running became impossible. Thick vines and undergrowth covered the forest floor, and she had to fight her way through the wall of brush and trees. She wasn’t getting far enough fast enough, but she didn’t dare take a chance on moving back onto the trail, where she would be an easy target.

  Cotten made so much noise that she knew tracking her would take little effort. Every step was a grueling effort, and with no machete to chop her way through, she was exhausting herself. She had to keep ahead of the bandits and stay out of sight.

  Glancing back, she saw that the forest was so thick it filled in behind her, barely leaving any signs that she had trampled through. Cotten plowed forward, feeling briars and dead twigs in the undergrowth pierce her poncho and long Indian dress and prick her skin. The rebels knew the jungle, and in her brief glimpse before being blindfolded, she remembered sheaths dangling from their belts that must have held machetes. They could easily slash their way through this, coming right behind her. She couldn’t control her sobs and grunts as the jungle and fear tore at her.

  Keep going. Keep going. The words in her head formed a mantra, forcing one foot ahead of the other.

  She found it hard to breathe—the exertion and stress at this altitude were suffocating. She was going to die at the hands of some two-bit rebel outfit in the jungles of Peru. And no one would know. She had been missing for almost two weeks already.

  If they caught her, would they rape her first before hacking her to pieces—the brutal trademark the Shining Path used against their enemies? If she was lucky, they would just shoot her and get it over quickly.

  Reeling from fatigue, Cotten knew she had little chance of going on much farther. She didn’t have the physical stamina—the altitude alone was killing her. To the rebels, these mountains, this jungle, was home. She couldn’t outrun them, but she was not ready to give up yet.

  “Gotta have a plan,” she spoke aloud on a winded breath. “Think, Cotten, think!”

  Suddenly, she had an idea and stopped briefly to look about. Then she forged on, purposely stomping the foliage, grabbing the vines and peeling them down, crushing the brush under her feet. Methodically, she left behind a less and less obvious trail, attempting to gradually deaden her track until it seemed to just disappear into the forest. But she had to hurry.

  Finally, she backtracked to where she had seen a particularly dense clump of underbrush. As delicately as she could, taking her time not to crush sheaves of grass or snap twigs, she made her way to the place she had spotted moments earlier and dropped to her knees. She crawled beneath the lush leaves and the fallen deadwood. Terrified of finding a snake or spider in her lair, she cringed.

  But she had to do this. Hiding was her only chance. The rebels would expect her to keep moving, however slowly, away from them. They would think she would stay on the run, keep trying to distance herself.

  Cotten drew up into a ball and adjusted the wild brush surrounding her so that she was completely covered. If she remained silent and still, they might not detect her unless they stepped directly on her. What were the chances of their feet landing on just this spot? If they tracked her, they would notice her trail grow smaller and smaller and finally disappear. They might give up.

  She prayed they would give up.

  The moist soil and composting foliage were dank and cloying. It made her need to cough, but she fought the sensation, clamping her hand over her mouth. After several more minutes, the urge to simply clear her throat became nearly intolerable. She wanted to cry but knew that would exacerbate the problem.

  When darkness finally poured over the Andes like molasses with its thick, impenetrable blackness, Cotten felt completely powerless. And with the darkness came the mist. Just like the terrible night of death, it crept through the jungle, cloaking every leaf, twig, and branch in its heavy grip.

  Cotten’s clothes were as soaked as the earth she lay upon. Every fiber and bone in her body steeped in the chill that came with the night. She felt safer from the men but more defenseless against nature—the cold air and the nocturnal creatures that inhabited the jungle.

  Cotten wondered at what point she would decide that she’d rather be dead.

  If she could just see the stars, she might feel less anxious. She huddled, shivering through each hour, physically and emotionally weary. She wanted to sleep but was too afraid, needed to empty her bladder but didn’t.

  Where were the rebels? How close or far were they? Not knowing was worse than if she knew they stood beside her. She thought about the liquid-light experience. Maybe she could replicate it even though she was not in a sacred place, nor in a state of peace or calm. But if she could, perhaps her senses would be elevated to where she could hear her pursuers, know where they were and what they were saying.

  Cotten concentrated on moving all her thoughts aside, driving away anything that could interfere with her internal vision. She mentally moved her concentration to each portion of her body, starting at her feet and working upward—relaxing, calming, comforting. The chill and dampness of the mountain air diminished—slowly at first, like portions of a sandcastle being eaten away by each lapping wave.

  She tried to visualize herself in a pool of light, floating on its surface. But the light came only in splinters moving in and out of her thoughts.

  Without warning, she lost her concentration. It felt like she had been drifting under water and then suddenly burst to the surface. The light and its warmth vanished. She wasn’t going to be able to do this. The idea was foolish anyway. Incan magic.

  As the hours passed and the cold deepened, she gave in to trying it again. There was nothing to be lost.

  Cotten followed the sequence of finding serenity and harmony. She pictured the brilliance and purity of the light, inviting it inside her. This time the light flowed into her as if her body was a perfect conduit. Its oneness with her fi
lled Cotten with tranquility and warmth. She imagined it beginning to spin, willed it to spin by imagining it spinning, small circles at first and then growing in wider and wider bands of purity, from the crown of her head to the pit of her belly. With it came increasing calmness, less fear, more warmth.

  She listened intently to her surroundings just as Yachaq had taught her.

  Sounds previously lost in the noise of the forest became sharp. The breathing of an animal—deep and haunting. The delicate crunch of insects feeding. A slithering. Even the sound of decay.

  Then something else.

  A heartbeat. A yawn. The sourness of human sweat.

  Someone was near.

  Fear blazed through her, evaporating the liquid light. Cotten’s ears filled with the drumming of her blood.

  The bandits were near. Awake, like her. Waiting for daylight.

  * * *

  It seemed forever before she caught a glint of gray light in the sky above the blanket of green. The dawn came slowly and overcast.

  Cotten looked around her with only the movement of her eyes. She dared not move her body, even though her muscles begged to be stretched. Her neck was stiff, and the shoulder that she rested on ached for relief from the constant weight. Her bladder was so full now that it was acutely painful. But she dared not get up. Grimacing at what she had to do, Cotten felt the heat of her urine drain down the inside of her thigh and seep into the earth below.

  Suddenly, she heard a sound—something, someone slipping slowly and carefully through the forest nearby. Ever so faintly, the leaves and soggy earth squished, and the foliage swished and crackled.

  And just as suddenly, the rain came, falling in torrents as it had the previous day. She strained to hear over it, but the sound of the downpour pounding the leaves and earth was too strong.

  A surprising nudge of something cold and hard probed the brush and poked into her side. She knew without even looking—it was the barrel of a gun.

  The Exchange

  “Está aquí,” the rebel shouted. “La encontre! ”

  Cotten didn’t need a translation—he was shouting that he had found her. She tried scrambling to her feet, but a kick to her side with a pointed boot laid her out flat in pain. Then the rebel fired a shot into the air.

  “Puta,” he said, yanking Cotten up. He fired a second shot, and within moments the other two men who had kidnapped her materialized out of the jungle.

  They blindfolded her and secured her wrists once more before guiding her out of the thick underbrush back onto the trail. Soon they were continuing on their delayed march through the mountains.

  By midday, the trail became less uneven, eventually leveling off. Occasionally she heard the squawk and hiss of the walkie-talkie and the spurts of conversation as her captors communicated with someone.

  In late afternoon, the walking became easy. Cotten’s feet splashed through puddles along what she guessed was a muddy mountain road. She tilted her head at the sound of an approaching vehicle. The rebel who had kept a tight grip on Cotten’s arm jerked her to a halt. She could tell the vehicle stopped, but the engine kept running. There were brief words exchanged between her captors and the newcomers. Then one of the rebels pulled the bandana from her eyes.

  Cotten focused on a Jeep-like truck in the road ahead. Two men in army-green uniforms jumped from the vehicle and then pulled a bony man with several weeks’ growth of beard from the back seat. His wrists were bound like hers, and he flinched at the gun barrel jabbed in his back.

  One of the men approached with a paper in his hand. Standing in front of Cotten, he glanced at it before scrutinizing her. The brim of his hat was trimmed with gold braid, and a bright metal badge glistened on his chest. Policía Nacional.

  “Cotten Stone?” he said with a heavy accent.

  “Yes,” she answered, trying to sound unintimidated.

  The uniformed man hiked a dark brow and nodded to the rebels.

  There was a quick burst of conversation, and then one of the officers put an envelope in his prisoner’s fist and shoved him toward the rebels and Cotten.

  At the same moment, she felt a hand nudge her from the back.

  “Vaya,” the rebel said, heaving her forward and pitching his head in the direction of the vehicle.

  This wasn’t just the claiming of a reward, she realized, but it looked like it also involved some type of swap—the bony, bearded prisoner for her.

  She kept walking toward the truck, aware that just as the uniformed men kept their gun sights trained on her counterpart, the rebels must be aiming at her.

  Cotten passed the prisoner, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. The authorities had not only paid for her, but the rebels had also negotiated an exchange.

  A few feet from the vehicle, Cotten looked back. With a round of handshakes, backslapping, and laughs, the rebels departed.

  One of the officers helped her into the back of the truck before crawling in to sit beside her. The other, the one who had compared her to what she assumed was the equivalent of a wanted poster, took the driver’s position. He checked the paper once more before he turned and smugly gazed at her.

  Maneuvering in her seat, Cotten managed to turn around for one last look at the men who had captured her, but they had already disappeared into the jungle. Along with them vanished any thoughts she had of remaining forever lost in the Incan mountain mist.

  * * *

  “I am Chief Inspector Merida.” The man spoke in stiff but clear English. He sat across the table from Cotten in a concrete-block-walled interrogation room somewhere within the Policía Nacional del Peru headquarters in downtown Cusco. He was slender, had black hair gelled and combed straight back and a partial beard, and also wore the green uniform, but with epaulets and yellow bars over the shirt pockets. His hat reminded her of those worn by Nazi officers.

  He tapped the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray. “So, you are Cotten Stone?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I hope you’re going to explain to me why I have been put through so much over the last few days.”

  Cotten was irritable and uncomfortable and realized she would have to watch her temper. She had been given the opportunity to wash her face and hands before being brought into the small room for questioning, but she still felt filthy and knew she reeked of stale urine.

  “Why are you in Peru?” Merida asked.

  “I’m a freelance reporter hired by TNP in Lima. I’m here to shoot footage for a documentary on the discovery of a new archaeological site near Machu Picchu.”

  “Correct,” Merida said.

  This man is really pissing me off. “Is this a test? Why are you asking me if you already know?”

  Merida leaned back in his chair and rapped his knuckles on the table. The cigarette hung from the side of his mouth, the smoke wafting up, making his eye blink. “A little over a week ago, the bodies of twelve men were discovered at the archaeological dig site you referred to. They included your American camera and sound men, and Dr. Carl Edelman, a British citizen, and nine others. All dead. And in such a horrendous manner, it disturbs me to describe it. Murdered. Burned. Shot. The only one who escaped was you.” He took a long drag from his cigarette. “And here you are, safe and sound. Do you not think that curious? Ms. Stone, why are you here safe and sound?”

  Cotten wanted to say that it was because while the fireflies were levitating the five-thousand-year-old crystal tablet, they didn’t bother to cause her to go insane and commit suicide like everyone else. Instead, she said, “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you do know?” He crushed out the half-smoked cigarette.

  Cotten threaded her hair behind her ears. “That night we ate dinner and drank some of the local moonshine brewed by the natives on our dig team.”

  “Moonshine?”

  “Liquor—homemade liqu
or.”

  “Ah, guafarina,” Merida said before writing a few notes on the pad before him. “And then?”

  “It was strong stuff and made me ill, so I left the others and went to my tent. I tried to sleep but couldn’t right away.”

  Merida opened a paper bag that sat beside the notepad on the table.

  Cotten stopped talking as she watched him remove a brown plastic pill bottle. He turned it in his hand to read the label.

  “Ativan. CVS Pharmacy, Fort Lauderdale. Prescribed for Cotten Stone.”

  “Yes,” Cotten said. “They’re mine. So?”

  “You have been suffering from anxiety? Feeling too much pressure?” He gave the container a shake, the hollow sound of the pills clattering against the plastic and echoing off the bare walls of the room like a rattlesnake. “It must be difficult to rise to the heights of fame like you have, only to fall so far. Is that why you suffer from anxiety?” Merida paused, as if pondering his next question. “What would you be willing to do to regain your celebrity status?”

  “My life is complicated right now. But that has nothing to do with what happened in the mountains. Yes, Ativan is for anxiety, but not for treating patients who have psychotic episodes. I’m not being treated for violent behavior, if that’s what you’re alluding to. I didn’t have anything to do with the death of Edelman or anyone else. Something happened that night. Something made them homicidal or suicidal.”