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

by Lynn Sholes

  Was it possible that a former world-class journalist could conceive of and carry out a diabolical plan to regain her stature? Could the psychological damage from a devastating fall from grace on the world stage result in something so unspeakable? Inquisitive minds want to know.

  Cotten slammed her palms on the steering wheel. What is wrong with people? she thought. Could anyone possibly believe this shit?

  Cotten drummed the steering wheel repeatedly, shaking her head before grabbing the tabloid, crumpling it into a loose wad, and tossing it in the passenger seat. “Inquisitive minds can kiss my ass.”

  Back at her apartment, she put her groceries away and then threw herself onto her bed. Maybe she should sue. Someone had to be accountable. Slut Star was totally irresponsible. That wasn’t even news reporting, it was slander, vile, hurtful. It was mindless trash.

  And millions across the country were reading it.

  * * *

  An hour later, after consuming a turkey sandwich and a Diet Coke, Cotten went to her laptop. First, she checked her bank statement online. It confirmed what she already knew—she needed money, and the way she could get it fast was by selling the story she’d been working on for several months before she left for Peru. If she could hook up with one of the networks, it could put her back on track. She opened the folder “Toxic Dump” on her desktop and scrolled through her notes.

  A few minutes later, Cotten lifted the cordless phone and dialed her contact at NBC. “Fran, it’s Cotten,” she said when the familiar voice answered. “Sorry I haven’t checked in lately. I got a little delayed on my last assignment, but I’m back.” When there was no response, she said, “Listen, I’ve been putting together this incredible story that I know you’ll be interested in.” Without a pause, she started the pitch. “There is this upscale, gated golf-course community down here. Real affluent neighborhood. Several months back, I had a landscaper call me. I won’t go into all the particulars, but when the place was being built, all the landscaping died—twice. The landscaper pulled out of the deal at that point and had already lost a bundle. He’d never seen acres of land fail like that before, so he started digging, forgive the pun, and discovered from old aerials that the land in question appeared to have at one time been an illegal dump, probably for stuff that was toxic—paints, solvents, and the like—and was supposed to be hauled to special dumps, but wasn’t. This neighborhood is sitting on toxic waste.” Cotten paused. “So what do you think?”

  Cotten’s shoulders slumped at Fran’s reply. “I don’t understand,” Cotten said. “What do you mean, it’s not for you? But this could be a huge story. Honestly, Fran, we can blow this wide open.”

  She listened for a moment longer. “Okay. You, too.”

  Unbelievable, she thought. This was an A-1 story. Scandal, probable health issues, cover-ups. It had all the elements of a ratings booster. Why would Fran turn it down?

  Okay. No problem. She would try the other networks. There were lots of fish in the television ocean. But Fran was her most solid connection. There was something wrong. She’d always liked Cotten’s stuff. Why the cold shoulder?

  She could beg Ted Casselman, her forever friend, mentor, and guardian angel, at SNN, but with the blotches on her record, she didn’t want to blemish his. He would send her work if she asked, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. It wasn’t right. He’d done enough. Too much.

  The next few calls went the same as the first, until Cotten reached an old buddy with a network affiliate in Tennessee.

  “Cotten?” The voice sounded sincerely happy to hear from her.

  “Billie, yeah, it’s me. How are you?” Billie was really Billie May, spoken as all one word, typical of the South, but being the ball-busting woman she was, she preferred stand-alone Billie.

  “I’m great, Miss Hotshot,” Billie said. “Fantastic, actually. Hubby and kids are terrific. So, how the fuck are you?”

  “I’ve been living a Margaritaville life down here in paradise. Now I figure it’s time to come out and get back to work.” Cotten feigned a laugh into the receiver, catching a glance of the Atlantic through her blinds.

  The not-renting-by-the-month man was back, sitting on the corner bus bench. This time he didn’t have a paper.

  Billie said, “Honey, if you think anyone believes you’ve been hiding in Jimmy Buffet land, you’re living in a fantasy world. Listen, baby doll, everybody knows where you’ve been, and ain’t a soul in the industry gonna touch you since that Peru shit. I’m only telling you this because you’re my friend. I don’t want you going around embarrassing yourself.”

  Cotten reeled but then stood stock-still.

  “Face it, baby doll, you’ve been blackballed,” Billie said. “It’s a bitch, I know, but that’s the reality of it. Nobody’s going to touch you. My station would have me in thumbscrews if I picked you up. I know the rumors aren’t true. Hell, everybody in the business knows it’s not true, but the damage done by the gossip can’t be ignored. Doesn’t matter what your peers really believe. It’s all about the image.”

  Cotten drew up the blinds, desperately needing the white heat of the Florida sun to bounce off the glass in sharp shards to shear off what she was hearing.

  “You mean it’s more than tabloid trash? The rumor is circulating, and people believe I could have masterminded the whole thing just to get a shot at the headlines again?”

  “That’s it, baby doll. That’s the word on the street. You’ve got a mountain of rumor control and image repair on your plate. I’m just telling it like I hear it.”

  Cotten couldn’t speak.

  “Hang in there, sweetie,” Billie consoled her. “It’ll run its course.”

  Nausea turned Cotten’s stomach. “I really appreciate your honesty, Billie. You’re a good friend.”

  “Gotta go, baby doll.”

  Cotten glanced through the window again. The bus bench was empty.

  “Yeah,” Cotten said. “Me, too.”

  Quake

  A crisp moon rose over the New Mexico desert as the third-year astronomy student sat on a boulder and slipped off his backpack. A flat area along the sandy wash would be a good place to camp. The heat of the day was gone, and the night chill swept across the landscape; a soft breeze whispered through the sage and rabbitbrush. Runoff from a hard summer rain two days previous filled a rocky depression nearby. Bone-tired, having walked seven miles on one of the ancient roadways radiating out of Chaco Canyon, he strayed off the road for another five miles, finally stopping atop a hill to survey the scene. Nothing left but rubble here. Unlike the other outliers, communities built near the hub of Chaco Canyon, this place was all but destroyed. The student drank from his canteen and decided on the direction he would take. From a distance, he heard what sounded like a fingernail scraping along a comb—the call of a spadefoot toad.

  Freedom, that’s what he felt, total freedom. In the near silence of the desert and the shadows of the great Anasazi Indian ruins, he was at peace. This trip was devoted to the Anasazi, the mysterious culture that had disappeared seemingly overnight after inhabiting the area for thousands of years. He felt a strong spiritual kinship to the Indians of the Southwest, especially those who had constructed such magnificent buildings.

  He also shared the Anasazi’s love and knowledge of astronomy; they were systematic sky watchers who understood much about the heavens. His trip up the remote canyon was to search for something he’d only seen in pictures. At the Peñasco Blanco ruins overlooking the Chaco Wash and the Escavada Wash, on an overhanging rock along the dark walls of the canyon, there was an Indian painting. Found in the early 1970s by archaeologists from the University of New Mexico, it depicted the images of a crescent moon, a rayed disk, and a hand. From years of study and recreation of the night sky from when the painting was made, it was theorized that the Anasazi saw and chronicled a spectacular celestial event: an exploding star. />
  At the same time those images were painted, on the other side of the world, Chinese astronomers documented the appearance of a “guest star,” probably the bright explosion of a supernova, marking the death of an exceptionally massive star. According to their accounts, the guest star appeared on July 5, 1054. On that day, the predawn sky blazed with the brightest star ever seen by humans. Its remnants became the Crab Nebula.

  The young student hoped to find another, as yet undiscovered painting of the exploding supernova. Tired as he was, his excitement made him want to begin his search for the painting right away. He was eager to stand in the footsteps of the original artist and gaze upon the horizon. Electrified at the thought, he decided to begin his search immediately.

  The young man slipped on his headlamp, turned it on, and adjusted the bezel to direct the light. He trudged up the wash. The temperature dropped rapidly as the dark walls of the canyon rose like silent sentries on either side of his path. He stopped for a moment and gazed skyward as he snapped the front of his jacket closed. The stars spread a spatter of silver across the heavens.

  Finally, he found a low ledge and started climbing, slipping on the loose gravel. Regaining his footing, he moved more cautiously. The incline was gradual, but he could tell in the delicate moonlight that the wash was falling farther and farther below.

  After ten minutes of steady progress, he suddenly came upon the remains of a pueblo sunk back in a narrow alcove. Then beyond it, he stared up at the ruins of a tower kiva that he guessed could have stood over thirty feet high. It could be reached only by a set of precarious hand- and footholds if he kept on in the same direction. Instead, he hooked right onto a ridge that narrowed as he rounded a bend in the canyon wall. He came upon a flat stone ledge jutting out slightly about one hundred feet above the floor of the canyon before it ended abruptly.

  He must have chosen the wrong route, he thought. Just as he turned to retrace his steps, the headlamp illuminated the wall ahead, catching something in its beam that made him stop short. There, just below an outcrop of rock, was the object of his search. He gasped at the painting’s vibrant colors, glowing back in the light. The Indian who had painted this had been so moved by what he saw in the night sky that he was compelled to preserve it forever.

  With his fingertips, the student traced the images of the crescent moon, a multipointed star, a sun sign, and a handprint.

  He glanced back in the direction of the horizon to the place where the magnificent event had occurred. The moon was high, bathing the desert in a dusty pastel blue.

  As he took in the sight, he heard an unfamiliar sound. At first, it was faint, nothing more than what he thought was the rush of the desert wind up the side of the canyon.

  Suddenly, he lost his balance, staggering against the wall. Then came the rumble—low but building rapidly as the earth seemed to moan. The canyon wall leaned out as if taking in a breath, and the ground rippled, forming waves that passed by like great swells on an ocean.

  The rumble grew to a roar of cracking and ripping—chunks of the wall rained down. The young man turned and sprinted down the path. At times the ground dropped from under him, and he fell hard. But it almost immediately swelled up, throwing him forward. Struggling against the liquid motion of the earth, he fought his way along the path until he was at the bottom and racing along the wash. Finally clear of the falling debris, he knelt, out of breath, watching the ground move back and forth, shaking and trembling.

  Then, along the sloping cliff face, he heard rumbling as tons of earth roared downward. To his astonishment, as the land slid away, it exposed an expansive, dark cavity. Like the curtain opening on a Broadway play, the pale moonlight revealed a theater-like setting of massive stone walls, narrow doorways, steep staircases, and dozens of windows framed in stone masonry. All that was missing were the ghost actors moving across the desert stage.

  Standing alone under the silver brush stroke of the heavens, the student gazed wide-eyed as he breathed in the ancient air rushing from the ruins. He knew the spirit of the great Anasazi was now a part of him forever.

  * * *

  Eli Luddington watched the evening news with interest. He had received a call the previous night telling him about the earthquake before reports hit the airwaves. Camera crews, reporters, and scientists had waited for daylight to converge on the location and check the damage. The quake had caused a major landslide, the result of which took them all by surprise. As Eli listened to the TV reporter recap, exhilaration surged inside of him.

  “A magnitude five-point-five earthquake rattled the desert floor late last night in a remote area of New Mexico,” the announcer said. “Seismologists reported the epicenter was located about thirty-three miles south of Farmington. Though not considered a major earthquake, it did cause a landslide in a canyon wall, exposing a phenomenal discovery. Authorities first on the scene who observed and inspected the area were in awe. What they found were newly uncovered ruins of an ancient Indian civilization. Initial reports were that archaeologists and anthropologists are completely puzzled. A young astronomy student hiking in the area was the sole witness to the event and was not hurt. No casualties have been reported.”

  “At last,” Eli whispered, “we have found your secret hiding place.” He strode to his private bar and made a hefty Tanqueray and tonic—four fingers gin, two fingers tonic, screw the ice.

  “Mother Nature always provides,” he said. Eli lifted his glass and his eyes, as if he could see through the ceiling. He didn’t nurse his drink but swallowed it in three gulps, taking the smile off his face only long enough to get the alcohol down. This was extraordinary news.

  He immediately mixed himself another Tanqueray and tonic, but he babied this one as he continued watching the news of the quake. Just as the segment was over, the chimes from the front entrance rang.

  Eli had dismissed the house staff early that evening, so he answered the door himself, drink in hand. He already knew who would be there—he had summoned them.

  Mariah and Richard Hapsburg stood on the expansive marble portico flowing out from the entrance to the Luddington estate house.

  “Eli, this is such wonderful news,” Mariah said, then kissed him on the cheek.

  Eli ushered the couple inside.

  “We need to celebrate,” she said.

  “Good evening,” Richard said, passing Eli in the doorway.

  “You should be more cheerful, Richard,” Eli commented, closing the heavy oak door. “This is a great day.” Moving past them, he said, “Let me get you both a drink.”

  Setting his cocktail on the bar, he studied the labels of several bottles of champagne. Finally choosing a 1983 Salon Le Mesnil, he popped the cork and caught the overflow in a starched white cloth napkin he held at the neck of the bottle.

  “Mariah,” Eli said, pouring champagne into a Waterford flute and handing it to her. “Richard?” he asked, raising the bottle and his brows.

  “Sure,” Richard said, “why not.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Eli filled a flute with champagne for Richard and retrieved his gin and tonic. “So we finally come to this moment. We knew three tablets remained of the original twelve. After finding the one in Peru, there are only two left. Again, let me commend you for your work there.” Eli set the bottle in a silver champagne bucket. “My dear friends, one of the two tablets still lost most certainly is in this new location so conveniently provided for us by the earthquake. We have extensively searched the ruins of the Four Corners region for years with no success, never knowing of this most secret place. We must find the tablet before anyone else has a chance. I have arranged with the State of New Mexico and all the local authorities for you, Richard, to be the dig master on the site.”

  Mariah smiled endearingly at Eli, and Eli reciprocated.

  “Mariah, you will assist,” Eli said. “When you find the artifact, contact me, and I will see that i
t is destroyed immediately. As always, we will take no chances on anyone else seeing and deciphering the message.”

  Mariah downed her champagne and held out her glass.

  “What about the last tablet?” Richard asked.

  Eli understood the simple pleasure Richard derived from reminding him of the only tablet held by the enemy. It was like sandpaper on Eli’s ego. So he momentarily ignored Richard, stroking Mariah’s cheek with his fingertips. He turned her head, brushing her eyelid with his thumb before palming her other cheek. “Exquisite,” he said.

  Mariah held his hand against her face, then pressed the back to her lips and kissed it. “Thank you, Eli. I will never forget.”

  Eli finally turned to Richard. “Beware of Cotten Stone,” he said, regarding Richard’s question of the last tablet. “She will soon be given the key.”

  * * *

  In the Escalade, on the way back to their townhouse, Mariah patted Richard’s thigh. “Why so grumpy?”

  “You know why,” he answered, steering the SUV along the tree-lined road. “He irritates the shit out of me. Always touching you . . . and you . . . when he does, you turn into someone I don’t know. As if you like it. You encourage him.” He paused, staring at her. “No, let me rephrase that. You tease Eli, make him think that if I wasn’t around, you’d fuck him until his heart gave out. And to tell you the truth, sometimes I wish it could.”

  Mariah said, “Look at me.”

  Richard shook his head.

  “Richard, look at me. Look at my face.”

  He finally took his eyes from the road for an instant and glanced at her.

  “I will always be thankful to Eli. I owe him everything. You may never understand, because you didn’t see me after the accident.”