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

by Lynn Sholes

  “Ms. Hapsburg,” the female attendant said, bringing Mariah out of her reverie. “There’s a call for your husband from Mr. Luddington.”

  Mariah looked at Richard, sleeping soundly. “No need to wake him. I’ll take it.”

  “Of course,” the girl said, gesturing to the handset next to Mariah’s armrest.

  “Hello, Eli,” she said, placing the receiver to her ear.

  “Where is Rumjal?”

  His voice had the edge of a box knife, and Mariah knew immediately that there was a problem. “He’s in the toilet, Eli,” she lied. Did he know when she lied?

  “Do you have any idea what is plastered across the cover of today’s edition of the National Courier?”

  Mariah felt a film of clammy sweat bead on her skin. Whatever it was couldn’t be good. She didn’t respond, waiting for Eli.

  “The pictures.” His words continued to cut through the phone.

  “That can’t be. Richard’s men got the pictures and destroyed them. Unless there were copies or—”

  “Mariah, this is no game. As long as we make progress, we’ll be left alone. But if we fuck up, we’ll get more help than you can possibly imagine.”

  “Eli—”

  “And you don’t want the kind of help I’m talking about.”

  Gin

  Cotten climbed the steps to her Fort Lauderdale apartment, Thomas Wyatt carrying her suitcase behind her. “This is home, such as it is,” she said, unlocking the door.

  Wyatt followed her in and set her bag beside the sofa.

  “Sorry about the mildew smell,” she said, sliding the laptop case’s strap off her shoulder. She set the case on the coffee table. “You can’t get away from it when you live so close to the water. Everything has its price. I’ll open up and let some breeze blow through.”

  “I’m sure I’ll have to do the same. I’ll be staying in the apartment down the street that Monsignor Duchamp had. I want to be nearby.”

  Cotten smiled at him. “That’s nice, Thomas.”

  “I mean it’s my job.” He shook his head. “That didn’t come out right.”

  “Don’t say any more, you’ll just dig a deeper hole.” Cotten knelt on the couch, leaned over the back of it, pulled the blinds up, and cranked the window open. “There, that should help. Glad it’s fall and not the middle of the summer, or we’d be sweating right now.”

  “So have you decided what you’re going to tell the Gazette?”

  “Not really. I can give them the truth, but I don’t know how it will play once the Courier runs Star’s piece. It’s probably already in the supermarkets.” She backed off the sofa. “Sit down. You’ve got a minute, don’t you?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Wyatt answered.

  Cotten plunked down on the other end of the sofa. “I know we’ve gone over the threading-the-needle thing in your grandfather’s note a hundred times before we left and on the plane, but I’m still at a loss.” She curled her legs up beside her. “I just don’t think it has anything to do with making clothing or sewing. We found all the references on the Internet to sewing techniques. None of them led anywhere. Plus, you said your grandfather was a doctor, not a tailor. Maybe it has something to do with a medical technique that was popular during his time. Should we be looking into things like suturing wounds or surgical procedures from the late 1800s?”

  Wyatt rubbed his chin. “Not a bad idea. Maybe he was trying to leave a clue to the tablet’s hiding place using medical terminology.”

  “Maybe it was hidden in a hospital.”

  “Or a medical university. You’re right, though. Medicine and needles do go together. The sewing angle might be too obvious. I’ll run a search on eighteenth-century surgical procedures and see if anything comes up that was called ‘threading the needle.’ ”

  “Why do you think he stole the tablet to begin with?”

  “I don’t know. Neither does the pope or John. But judging from the note, he felt strongly enough about sharing what’s on the artifact with the world to take the chance of getting caught. I wish I knew more about him, but it was so many generations ago. I’ve got a few distant relatives in the UK who might be able to fill in some of the gaps.”

  “Sounds like a trip to England is in order.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Bet you never thought you’d get mixed up in something as screwy as this, did you?”

  “No,” Wyatt said, followed by a laugh.

  “Me neither,” Cotten said. “Up until three years ago, I led a pretty dull life. Dull sounds good to me these days.”

  Wyatt said nothing for a moment, seeming to be deep in thought. “Cotten, can I ask you something?”

  “Maybe. Well, I guess you can ask, but whether or not I’ll answer . . .”

  “Why are you doing this?” He cleared his throat. Cotten could tell he was trying to walk a thin line between not insulting her and attempting to logically answer questions that would dumbfound just about anyone.

  “Please don’t get me wrong, Cotten. It’s just—”

  She held her hand up. “I’m not offended, if that’s what you think. Thomas, trust me when I say that this has been a mystery to me as well. I never asked for any of it. Three years ago, I was told that I was the only one who could stop the sun, the dawn, from taking place. It was only after John Tyler figured out that I had misunderstood the meaning of the words that the whole thing became clear. S-u-n was really s-o-n—Son of the Dawn—that’s what they called Lucifer in the Bible. And that’s about the time all dullness evaporated out of my life. As I understand it, the plan was to clone Christ by using His DNA found in the blood residue inside the Grail. The story goes that Lucifer wanted ultimate revenge against God for casting him and the other Fallen Angels out of Paradise. He was going to create the Antichrist from the DNA in the Grail. When John and I were faced with destroying the clone, we sort of changed roles. John was, and still is, a man of granite faith. Far different from the person I thought I could ever be. I was weak, doubting, unbelieving in anything spiritual or religious—I blamed everything wrong in my life on a lack of God. At the moment of decision in the lab, John realized he couldn’t destroy the embryo—the least of his reservations was that it might’ve actually been Jesus Christ. His faith kept him from committing what he thought was murder, abortion, sacrilege. The scientist in him begged to question if the Second Coming was actually supposed to take place in this manner rather than what we had all been taught in Sunday school.”

  Cotten stared across the room, the memory so vivid that she shuddered. “I, on the other hand, was simply fighting for my life—our lives. I didn’t have the baggage of a priest. After the Grail conspiracy, I was called a hero. I milked it for everything I could, riding high as a famous journalist. That is, until the fossil hoax. I probably deserved that fiasco. I was way too overconfident. It was a setup, you know. But in the end, it didn’t matter. Fans are fickle. They love you when you’re on top and forget your name when you tumble. I may never be able to recover. But I’ve done what I have to do to survive. And I’m continuing. Does that kind of answer your question?”

  “Much of it, but I have a feeling the well goes deeper. Enough for now. Thanks for opening up to me,” Wyatt said.

  Cotten looked at him. She’d told him enough to digest for one night. She wondered how deep his well was. She didn’t know much about him at all. “I feel kind of naked around you, exposed, like you know everything about me and I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Not much to know, really.”

  “Come on, Thomas, I need some little tidbit. Give me some footing. I feel like a fly under a microscope. The scale isn’t balanced. Tell me something about yourself. It’ll make us even.”

  “All right, I was born—”

  “No, no. Not the documentary stuff. Spill some dark secret. Level the field for me.” />
  “Like what?”

  Cotten thought for a moment. “Okay, here’s something. Why no gin? You said you’d drink anything but gin. That might be a good place to start.”

  Wyatt shifted, as if uneasy. “I don’t like the smell of it,” he answered, then tugged on his ear.

  “Come on,” she said. “I don’t even care if you tell me the truth. Make something up. Give me something.”

  Wyatt leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “My mother was an alcoholic, and gin was her choice. I hated the way it reeked on her breath. Even today when I smell it, my stomach rolls over. When my mother drank, she became someone else. She was a morbid and remorseful drunk, so she attempted suicide more times than I can count. Sliced her wrists, overdosed on sleeping pills the incompetent doctor prescribed, drove the car off a dock. My father took the worst of it until he’d had a bellyful. She’d call him at work, crying and saying she was going to kill herself. At first, he’d run home, but that wore thin over time, until finally he got to the point he’d hang up on her and go on with his day as usual. I understand that, but for me as a kid, it wasn’t fair. I got left with the responsibility of her care. I can remember so many times waiting outside my elementary school for her to pick me up. When she didn’t show, I didn’t do what most kids would do. I didn’t go to the office. I started walking, hoping no one would notice. Keeping it a secret. Sometimes, what I would walk into at home . . .”

  Wyatt took a deep breath, seeming to attempt to recover from the memory. “I hated the drunk person, and the only reason I protected her was so when she sobered up, I could have my mother back. And when she was herself, I wouldn’t have ever wanted anyone other than her to be my mother.” Wyatt looked down at his hands. “I tried to hide her alcoholism from everyone, because I knew they would think less of her. And my mother, my sober mother, was a remarkable and wonderful woman.” He sat back and looked at Cotten. “So now you know why gin makes my skin crawl.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cotten said, more for making him tell the story than expressing sympathy. “I shouldn’t have pressed you. I thought it would be some funny college fraternity story. It wasn’t right of me.”

  “It’s okay,” Wyatt said. “Are we even?”

  “Even,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  The silence that followed was interrupted by the phone. Cotten answered. “Okay, I’ll be right down.”

  “What’s up?” Wyatt asked.

  “The postman left a package for me at the front office. Be right back.”

  Cotten hurried down the stairs, wondering if she was more anxious to get the package or to return to Wyatt.

  “Funky stamps,” the front-desk clerk said, giving Cotten the package.

  It was about half the size of a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper and rough twine, and the stamps were foreign—each bore a picture of a llama. The package was from Peru.

  “Thanks,” Cotten said, taking it from him.

  She read the handwriting. It was addressed to Mayta, her Incan name. Attention: Cotten Stone.

  Cotten climbed up the steps, tearing open the package on the way.

  “A present?” Wyatt asked when she came in.

  Cotten opened the box and gasped.

  “What is it?”

  “Maybe the answer to everything.”

  Superhero

  Thomas Wyatt got to his feet. “So, what is it?”

  “A talisman.” Cotten held up a bundle of dark gray condor feathers, ringed at the top with smaller white condor neck feathers. A narrow strip of leather coiled around the top of the bundle, binding it to a center stem—a hollow condor bone.

  “Unusual gift.”

  “A reminder,” Cotten said. “In Peru, I met a spiritual man who taught me what I guess you would call meditation—but even more than that. I’m still a novice.” She handed Wyatt the talisman. “It’s to remind me to practice.”

  “That’s the answer to everything?” Wyatt asked.

  “Well, my shaman friend thinks so. But I think this is more straightforward,” Cotten said, taking the small Elph camera from the package and holding it up. “I had it in Peru.”

  “Did the Cusco police have it?”

  “No,” Cotten said. She explained how Yachaq had rescued her and that while in the village she dressed in the native clothing given to her. “I had almost forgotten about it. The camera was in my pants pocket when I fled Edelman’s camp. My clothes were left behind in Yachaq’s village. He must have found it and traveled to the city to mail it back to me. That had to be a lot of trouble for him.” She showed Wyatt the address label she had made and stuck on the back of the camera. “Actually, I got the idea from a travel show on TV. Of course, you have to luck out and have an honest person find it. And I did.”

  Cotten pushed the power button on the Elph, but as she expected, the battery was dead. “Thank goodness for technology. We’ll try plan B.” She opened the small door to the bay that held the memory card and ejected it. “I just have to hook up my laptop to the printer.”

  When everything was connected, Cotten popped the memory card into the slot in the printer, and the pictures began uploading onto the computer.

  The thumbnails appeared and lined up on the screen. The money shot at Machu Picchu with Nick and Paul; various pictures of the dig site; Edelman; the mountains; three photos of the tablet; and one of Paul struggling to eat the cuy.

  Cotten clicked on the first picture of the tablet, enlarging it.

  “Shit,” she said. “The angle is off a bit. You can’t really see all the markings.”

  Quickly, she clicked on the next picture. “There,” she said. “Those are some kind of glyphs.” She pointed to the top of the tablet. “That’s what Edelman thought was the prediction of the Flood. Her finger slid down the picture so it trailed along the bottom half of the tablet. “You can kind of see the lines and dots, can’t you? The khipu-like writing?”

  “Sort of,” Wyatt said.

  “Edelman said that most anthropologists think khipu was a simple accounting method, but there are others who believe it was more than that—a type of three-dimensional language. Kind of like a computer language. So, khipu could be an accounting tool as well as a language.”

  Cotten chose the last picture and shook her head. Larger fragments of the writing could be seen before the glare took over the image. “It was at night and I had to use the flash,” she said. “The tablet reflected a lot of that light right back at the camera.”

  “At least we can see some of it,” Wyatt said.

  “But not what I need to see.”

  “It’s better than a stick in the eye,” he said.

  Cotten looked at Wyatt. “That’s a terrible saying.”

  “Better than nothing, then.”

  Cotten raked her fingers through her hair and closed the window with the pictures. “So what do we do with this?”

  “Print a hard copy first,” Wyatt said.

  Cotten printed the pictures, then opened her Internet browser, went to Google, and typed in khipu. “Maybe we can find one of those experts who believe khipu is a language. Someone must be able to read this.”

  * * *

  Lester Ripple sat at a harvest gold vinyl-topped card table that could barely be seen beneath the sheets of paper that lay helter-skelter on top of it. Just as many were strewn across the floor like rectangular snowdrifts. Every piece had copious amounts of pencil-scribbled equations among sketches of comic-book superheroes.

  Ripple’s fingers held the pencil so tightly that his nail beds blanched. He mumbled as he tried to keep the pencil up to speed with his brain. Sometimes it just happened like this. He called it brain streaming, like video streaming, but it was all in his head. Getting it out fast enough was the problem.

  The point of the pencil was dulling, but he didn’t want to stop to sh
arpen it. In a moment, he would have to give his brain some relief, so he’d sharpen it then. Near the bottom of the paper, Ripple suddenly stopped. The flow of mathematical equations was coming too fast, so fast that they collided in his head. He had to slow down.

  Ripple sharpened the point with a plastic handheld sharpener, the kind that had a small razor blade inside. This one was buried inside the rubber head of Batman. The shavings curled out and spilled onto the table. Ripple brushed them together and then piled them up with the shavings from previous sharpenings. That was something else he had to think about. Too much waste. What could be made of pencil shavings—pencil mulch?

  Lester Ripple blew the graphite dust off the new point and pushed it against his index finger. Very sharp. He liked that. The sharper the pencil, the more exact his calculations. He tapped the point again with his middle finger—tap, tap, tap. The pencil was ready, but he was not. His head was jumbled, images of numbers and symbols swimming about. He put the pencil lead to the small margin on the side of the paper he had just been working on and began to sketch. “Spider-Man,” he said, and smiled. Spider-Man and the likes of him could do anything, especially soothe Ripple’s brain.

  The phone rang, shocking him so that he snapped the pencil in his hand. Before getting up to answer, he took the longest part of the broken pencil and broke it again so that there were three pieces. That satisfied him and so freed him to go to the telephone on the kitchen wall.

  “Ripple here,” he said, answering the call. He removed his glasses and rubbed his bad eye. At home, he preferred glasses to the contact lens.

  As he listened, he fought back his body’s attempt to hyperventilate. He cupped his hand around the receiver and breathed into his palm as he listened. At the end of the call, Ripple said, “Yes. Thursday at eight. Thank you.”

  Ripple hung up and staggered back to the card table.

  He had a job.