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

by Lynn Sholes

  The Volvo pulled curbside where arriving passengers waited for shuttles and hailed cabs. Richard pulled in right behind. He lowered the LaCrosse’s window and propped the semiautomatic in the opening underneath a copy of Sports Illustrated.

  The driver got out and walked around the car. He opened the S80’s back door.

  As the target emerged, Richard pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Cotten Stone made her way through the crowded arrivals along the concourse at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Her carryall at her side, she was bone-tired from the flight and disheartened about her Chicago trip—her meeting with Dr. Evans and the strange but intriguing Lester Ripple. The ache of Thomas’s death lingered in her gut as she prepared to attend his funeral. She knew better than anyone that the Fallen Ones were sending her a message to back off, give up. But she had no intention of doing so. Thomas would not have allowed it. And she would not let his death be in vain.

  Cotten had made a reservation at the Georgetown Inn. As soon as the funeral was over, she would get in touch with Ted and get on track. There was no way she could let him down. He took a huge risk bringing her back to SNN. Both of their careers were on the line.

  As the crowds thinned at the end of the concourse, Cotten paused and looked for Monsignor Duchamp, who had promised to pick her up. Suddenly, she stopped as her eyes fell upon a tall man standing a few yards in front of her. He wore jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a heavy suede jacket. His smile radiated through the crowd. In an instant, she recognized those eyes.

  “John!” she whispered, and ran to him. Dropping her bags and throwing her arms around his neck, she held him tightly. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  John Tyler hugged her as the other arriving passengers made their way around them.

  Cotten pulled back. “Sorry. Somebody might get the wrong impression—me throwing myself at an archbishop.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Why do I do this?”

  John wrapped his arms around her again and whispered, “Hello, Cotten Stone.”

  “Hello, John Tyler,” Cotten said. They stood locked in the embrace for a moment. How at home she was with her head on his shoulder—with him so close. The faintest hint of his aftershave mixed with his skin brought a flood of memories.

  Finally, Cotten let go and backed away. She wiped away the tears. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me, too,” he said, grabbing her suitcase and laptop. “Let’s go. I have a car waiting.” He led the way toward the exit doors.

  Outside, John motioned to a gunmetal gray Volvo S80 parked at the curb. As they approached, Cotten recognized the man standing beside the car.

  “Hello, Ms. Stone,” Monsignor Philip Duchamp said, holding the door open.

  “It’s a long way from New Mexico, Monsignor,” Cotten said. “Good to see you again.” She slid into the back seat.

  “Same here,” Duchamp said. “Excellency.” He nodded to John, who slipped in beside Cotten.

  A moment later, the S80 pulled away into traffic.

  * * *

  Richard drove into the shopping mall and parked the LaCrosse in the middle of the packed lot. His heart still pumped almost viciously, pummeling his chest from the inside. He’d missed Tyler but had no idea where the stray bullet had ended up. He hadn’t seen anyone fall. He had fired, but the suppressor on the gun and the noise at the terminal completely muffled the sound of the shot. Nobody had even flinched. He’d thrown the gun and sports magazine on the seat and hit the gas, racing out of the airport terminal.

  But he had missed.

  Eli would not be pleased.

  Richard got out of the car and removed the dummy plate, tossing it in a refuse can nearby. When he got back into the vehicle, he reclined the seat and turned on the radio. After tuning in a classical station, he adjusted the volume and then leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes. He wasn’t cut out for this.

  Richard Hapsburg had had enough.

  Power Grid

  Lester Ripple balled up all the sheets of yellow notepad paper arranged helter-skelter on the top of the card table. “Useless,” he muttered, throwing the wad on the floor.

  He didn’t get it. Just flat didn’t understand what Cotten Stone meant about how she was going to stop Armageddon. What on earth could she have possibly thought was on that tablet, or whatever it was? The code inscribed there was his theory to the finest detail, and then some. What did it have to do with her? She was a ditzy network reporter, for heaven’s sake.

  Lester looked down at the photographs and wiped his nose with his forearm. The drippage didn’t require a tissue; he didn’t have a cold or infection. The snot was clear. Just allergies. No different from rubbing away eye boogers.

  He held the magnifier over the part of each photo where the glare-obscured text was hidden. “Armageddon,” he said. Did she really mean the last big war, or was she referring to some personal battle? He should have made her explain more.

  “I can put this together,” he said. “I can figure this out.”

  Lester Ripple took in a huge breath through his nose and blew it out. He wanted to let his mind rest. His most incredible enlightenments came at those times—times when he opened himself to the universe and let all that energy flow into him. That was how he first discovered the basis of his thread theory. He would make his mind pure and receptive. But first, as his grandmother had taught him, he must thank the Creator for giving him the wisdom he sought. If, instead, he prayed for wisdom, then that would empower his brain to admit that he didn’t have it to begin with. What always worked was thanking the Creator for already possessing what he had.

  Live as if it were true, and it will be, his grandmother would say. See what you want, and it will come to you.

  Lester knew the answers were all in his head. The secret was how he envisioned them. Like with the drawing of the cube he had shown Cotten Stone. All that mattered was his point of view.

  When the light flooded inside him, Lester Ripple sensed peace. The race in which his brain was always engaged had slowed and drifted away. Good. This was very good. How could he explain this experience to anyone? It was as though he existed on a power grid that connected everything in the universe and maybe beyond.

  * * *

  Cotten stared out the window as the Volvo headed toward the Georgetown Inn.

  “You’re barely going to have time to freshen up before the funeral.” John said. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Mentally. Physically. You name it. But in a couple of hours it will be over, and I’ll go back to the hotel and rest.”

  John took Cotten’s hand. “You’re a tough lady. Trust me when I tell you that God will never put more on your plate than you can handle.”

  Cotten leaned against John and rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know what I would do without you,” she said.

  They rode in silence for a while before John spoke. “I’ve been thinking. Chauncey Wyatt, Thomas’s grandfather, was responsible for the theft of the tablet from the Vatican back in the 1800s. We know the note he left was some kind of clue to where he hid the relic.”

  Cotten lifted her head. “He told me about his grandfather and the note, but we couldn’t make any sense of it. We talked about going to the UK and tracking down some distant relatives.”

  “I was thinking along those same lines,” John said. “I’ve had the London branch of the Venatori do some digging. They turned up a great-aunt.”

  “Then that’s where we need to go right after—”

  Duchamp suddenly slammed on the brakes, throwing Cotten and John forward. The Volvo screeched to a halt, but not before a loud thud and smack of something large flying across the hood and into the windshield.

  “What the hell was that?” Cotten said, staring through the bloodied glass.

  Seduction

 
; Cotten sat on the side of the road in the grass as the police directed traffic around the accident scene. She assumed they had all been here for such a long time because there were fatalities. Duchamp was noticeably shaken, and Cotten wished she could make him feel better. He had jumped from the car immediately after stopping, and John and Cotten followed. The image still clung inside Cotten’s head.

  The mangled and bloody body of a woman lay sprawled on the pavement. And as if that were not enough, her infant son was only a heap of flesh a few feet away—both dead.

  Yellow tarps covered their bodies now, for which Cotten was thankful. The faces of the mother and child were vivid in her mind. Cotten stared at her hands. Though she had wiped them on her skirt and again on the grass, ruddy stains still remained. Her blouse had wet, red blossoms in the front, and a smear of blood streaked her forehead. The baby had not died instantly, as the mother had, and Cotten had tried to stop the bleeding from the infant’s head, but she couldn’t save the child.

  She had to stop thinking about it. But she could hear Duchamp still speaking with one of the officers.

  “I don’t know where she came from. I never saw her,” he said, repeating himself over and over to anyone who would listen.

  Cotten watched as John put his hand on Duchamp’s shoulder and led him to the side of the road where she sat. Cotten stood.

  “I think the police have everything they need for their investigation,” John said.

  Duchamp’s face was pale—no color in his lips or cheeks.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Cotten said.

  Duchamp shook his head. “Maybe if I had been paying more attention . . . if I had only seen her . . . swerved in time to miss—”

  “Stop torturing yourself,” John said. “This accident is another of the suicides. The woman jumped in front of the car. There’s no other explanation. One of the officers said they found her vehicle parked in the emergency lane down the road. Keys, purse, diaper bag, all left inside. She wasn’t going to return. This was a deliberate act.”

  “But, John, the baby,” Cotten said. “Why did she have to kill the baby, too?”

  “That’s all part of their strategy. The more horrific, the better,” John said. “And don’t think we weren’t targeted. They are trying to bring it home to you. Like with Wyatt.”

  Cotten threaded her hair behind her ears. “We have to stop this. We have to find the last tablet.”

  * * *

  “I’m not coming back,” Richard said into his cell phone.

  Mariah threw her purse on the bed. She was ready to go to Eli’s for dinner, and now Richard was pulling some sort of stunt.

  “What are you talking about? Didn’t you take care of Tyler?”

  “I tried, but it didn’t work out. I can’t do this any longer. The fire has gone out inside.”

  Mariah paced around the bed with the cordless. “Richard, you listen to me. You are tired and upset. You can’t make decisions in that condition. You aren’t thinking straight. Get on the next plane and come home. I’ll talk to Eli. He’ll arrange for some other way to finish Tyler.”

  There was silence on the line. Mariah bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. If Richard went down, she’d go down with him, and she was not going to allow that. She had come too far to turn back.

  “Are you still there?” Richard asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I love you, Mariah. Come with me. We’ll be together—go somewhere, anywhere in the world—away from Eli. Maybe we’ll start a family, if you want.”

  “Richard, what’s the matter with you? Do you hear yourself? You don’t sound like the same man who was in New Mexico. You sound pathetic.”

  “New Mexico was my last hurrah. That type of power has lost its hold on me. I reap nothing from it. There’s no excitement. And I’ve lost faith in—”

  “Bullshit. You were born to this. It’s in your blood. We will all stand together and win. You can’t just decide that you don’t want to play anymore. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “It worked for Furmiel, Cotten Stone’s father.”

  “And look what happened to him. He became so despondent he killed himself.”

  “Mariah, will you come to me?”

  She hung up the phone without answering. She had thirty-five minutes to get to Eli Luddington’s, and now she had to change clothes. The pants outfit was gorgeous, but she needed to wear a dress tonight.

  * * *

  “He fucked it up,” Eli said to Mariah, sitting at the head of the dinner table, she to the right of him. They dined alone.

  Mariah reeled. If Eli had talked to Richard, she was doomed. “You spoke to Richard?”

  “He doesn’t answer his cell.”

  A short reprieve, she thought. If she could keep them from talking long enough, and prevent Eli from boiling over, she might be able to bring her husband home. “Maybe his phone battery is dead. That happens,” she said.

  “Richard has a charger for the car and his regular charger. He’s avoiding me.”

  Mariah put down her soup spoon. “I’m sure he will call soon. He’s been under a lot of stress lately. Let me talk to him. Give him some space, Eli. Trust me with Richard, like you always do. Remember, that’s my job.”

  “Your husband is not happy.”

  Mariah cringed. Her vow to Eli, the only one she had ever had to make in exchange for what she thought of as her rebirth, was to keep Richard loyal and solidly enmeshed in the mission.

  “I’ve done all I can. Richard is just the brooding type.”

  “Have you kept him satisfied at home?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Is the sex good?”

  Mariah pushed her soup bowl away. “Everything is fine. You know how Richard feels about me. And he’s very jealous of you.” Step one. “And he should be. You are such a powerful and handsome man. What woman wouldn’t be attracted to you?”

  The hard, angry lines in Eli’s face softened. “I like it when you flatter me.”

  Mariah reached for his hand and stroked it. “It’s not flattery, and you know that.”

  Eli sipped his wine. “Let us hope Richard calls soon and has a reasonable explanation and good news.”

  Mariah’s appetite dwindled. Eli was serving six courses, and if she appeared worried, he would pick up on it.

  “Richard isn’t as strong as you. He has weaknesses.”

  “That’s precisely what brought you into the picture.”

  “I could never admire Richard the way I admire you.” She lowered her eyes, pretending to be embarrassed by the confession she was about to make. “If it were not for Richard . . .” She looked at Eli, forcing her eyes to tear. “Only because you want me with Richard do I stay with him. You understand who it is I really desire, don’t you?”

  Eli swallowed the rest of his wine. “You have never said anything like this before.”

  “I thought it inappropriate. But I’ve shown you a thousand times in the way I touch you and allow you to touch me. Have you never noticed how I respond to you? Could you be that blind? Even Richard sees.”

  Eli poured another glass of wine and sat back, seeming to study her.

  Mariah’s stomach clenched so tightly that it pained her. Hopefully he didn’t see through her. Step two. Mariah slipped her hand under the table until it came to rest on his thigh. She tested the situation first, not moving. When he showed no signs of objection, she faintly stroked his leg.

  Smiling, she said, “We could have the best of both worlds. Richard doesn’t have to know. I can still keep my promise to you—serve you in more than one way.”

  Eli just kept looking at her. She could see he was weighing what she said. That was a good sign. One of the knots in Mariah’s stomach loosened.

  “And isn’t that why you asked me here
for dinner while Richard is away? Because you want to be with me like I want to be with you?”

  Mariah withdrew her hand, stood, and went to Eli, standing close beside him. “Finish your wine,” she said, moving his free hand beneath her dress so it cupped her crotch. “And when you have taken the last sip, I want you to come upstairs and taste me. Then whisper in my ear how I compare.”

  Mariah stepped back, unzipping the back of her dress so one shoulder fell away, exposing her back and a side glance of a bare breast. Step three. As she left the room, the dress fell to the floor.

  Violet

  “The Venatori must have a hefty budget to put us up in suites at the Cadogan,” Cotten said to John when he came to her room after settling in. “This has to cost a fortune.”

  She and John had arrived in London three days after Thomas Wyatt’s funeral.

  “You like the room?”

  Cotten spun in a circle. “What’s not to like? This is definitely uptown. But I don’t know why they would spend this on me. And I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but why spend it on you and not one of the Venatori big guns?”

  John’s eyes arrested hers. “They did.”

  “What do you mean?” She paused as she realized what he had said. “Okay, you’ve got that long title—the something-something that’s got to do with sacred archaeology, but not the something-something of the Venatori.”

  “Your innocence has always been such a part of your charm,” he said with a smile. “The prelate of the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archaeology was my position. Now it’s more like my cover.”

  “Cover?” She took a step back. “You make it sound like some covert—”

  “It has to be that way. It’s no secret that the Venatori exists, but no one can track the hierarchy. That makes it difficult for there to ever be a clear target at the top. I report only to the pope. I have no rank or title.”

  “Did Thomas know?”