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

by Lynn Sholes

  “You bet,” he said, then chuckled. “I still don’t believe it. A real celebrity right here in Loretto. Stop by and say hello. Everybody would really get a kick out of meeting you.”

  “I will, Sheriff.”

  Cotten hung up. She felt empty. And gloomy. Her friend was obviously suffering, and there was probably nothing she could do about it.

  Something still bothered her, though. Maybe she was just being overly cautious—the news reporter always coming out. Question everything. After all, doing just that is what got her the senior news correspondent position at SNN.

  She wasn’t ready to call it quits, yet. Instead, she would dig just a little deeper.

  Cotten decided to start with a thorough search of the house, hoping that whatever she found would convince her to either go home or stick around and investigate further.

  She headed down the hall and entered Tera’s room again. In many ways it was a typical girl’s bedroom except for all of her mother’s paintings. There was a large collection of books on the shelves along one wall. Cotten scanned the titles: Evidence of God; Experiencing Prayer; Peace on Earth; Billy Graham’s The Journey; The Power of Intention, by Dr. Wayne W. Dyer; The Isaiah Effect, by Gregg Braden. Not the usual reading for a kid Tera’s age.

  On another shelf were what appeared to be Tera’s school books. Cotten brushed the books with her fingertips recalling Lindsay’s phone call. Because of who you are, Cotten. The stories in the news over the years—all the religious stuff you’ve covered and been involved with. You’re the only one who will understand.

  Cotten took a deep breath.

  She continued through the house, exploring cubbies and nooks, drawers and cabinets. In the kitchen, beneath the dinette, she found a stack of teacher’s manuals that matched Tera’s texts. There were also folders with tabs marked math, reading, and spelling. Lindsay was home-schooling her daughter. Why had she chosen that route rather than sending her to public school?

  Cotten fanned herself with an empty folder. Even though it was early fall and the weather cooling off, the day was unusually warm. With the windows closed and covered, the air inside smothered her. Not to mention the stench of spoiled garbage.

  Cotten sensed the walls closing in and likened it to what a claustrophobic must feel in a crowded elevator. She made her way back to the living room, snatched the blanket off the front window and slid up the bottom pane. Then she unlatched the front door, helping it coast back until it hit the stop on the wall. A fresh breeze blew through. The screen door whined as Cotten stepped onto the porch. The sun washed away the cloying darkness of the house and she let the pureness of the day stream over her.

  After clearing her head, Cotten strode to Lindsay’s bedroom where she rifled through drawers and closet—all of which were in disarray. It struck her that the rooms looked like they might have been searched before she arrived. Maybe somebody else was anxious to uncover clues to where Lindsay and Tera had gone.

  On top of the dresser was a framed photograph that caught Cotten’s attention. As she lifted it, a wave of familiarity swept through her—a sensation akin to déjà vu.

  Cotten touched her finger to the face in the picture—a little girl whose wispy blonde hair tumbled around her shoulders. Her blue eyes, like her mother’s, were clear and wide as she smiled at the camera. She held a calico kitten to her cheek, seeming to relish the softness of the fur. The girl looked to be seven or eight. It had to be a recent photo of Tera.

  Cotten felt herself well up with emotion. Not because she was concerned for the child, but because of some unexplained connection—like she knew more about Tera than she realized. Almost as if a distant memory was just on the verge of recall.

  Stunned, Cotten set the picture on the dresser and backed away. She parked herself on the side of the bed, trying to rationalize an explanation for what just happened. Never had she experienced anything so unexpectedly stirring. Lindsay was right, there was something unique about Tera, and Cotten was determined to find out what had happened to them.

  At the foot of the bed was an antique trunk. She lifted the lid, and the unmistakable sharp scent of cedar permeated the room. Cotten removed a crocheted throw blanket, and beneath it discovered pencil drawings—detailed, beautiful drawings. She sorted through them, overcome with wonder at Lindsay’s talent. There were also small paintings with the same dramatic detail as those on the walls. Each bore the tiny blue thunderbolt signature.

  Reams of poetry filled a shoebox. Cotten read several before replacing the lid. Next, she found a scrapbook. Fastened in corner mounts on every page were black and white photographs. It had to be Lindsay’s mother’s album. Near the back were some faded color photos, as if bathed in yellow light. One was of Cotten and Lindsay in high school. She wanted to take time to muse over them, but not now.

  There was a folded piece of paper shoved under the picture—a corner sticking out. Out of curiosity, Cotten removed it only to freeze. Her name was written on top.

  Carefully unfolding the note, she read:

  Dear Cotten. If you are reading this, then it is too late. We have gone into hiding. Tera told me that a guardian angel would come to protect us. I know that must be you. She said they are hunting us and they will stop at nothing to keep you from finding her first. They are pure evil, Cotten. Please pray for us. Lindsay and Tera.

  Despite the warm, stale air, Cotten felt a chill run through her. Desperation flowed from Lindsay’s words. As if someone were watching, Cotten glanced around the room, then folded the note and placed it in her pocket.

  She knew it was time to make the call.

  devin

  “Does Dolphin Stadium have a Code Adam?” Alan Olsen asked.

  “No, sir,” the Miami-Dade police officer said. The cop led the way into the men’s room. As he entered, he keyed his shoulder mic. “Unit forty. Possible missing child. Standby.”

  “How can you not have an emergency alert?” Alan felt his face start to burn with frustration. “You know how many kids come to these games? How could you not . . .”

  “Unit forty, possible missing child. Ten-four,” replied the thin, metallic voice from the police radio.

  “I’ve already checked in here,” Alan said. “Devin came in, but I never saw him come out.”

  “Start Me Up” by the Rolling Stones blared from the giant stadium speakers. The Dolphins and Jets were ready for the second-half kickoff.

  The officer moved along the line of stalls. After confirming there were no children in any, he said, “Let me see your tickets.”

  Alan reached into his pocket, then handed the officer the stubs.

  “Have you gone back to see if your son is at your seats?”

  “Yes. I did that, too.” Heat built inside Alan, and the pressure in his head thudded. “I’ve done all that. Can’t you alert stadium security?”

  “Let’s have a look just to make sure. Kids do this all the time. Wander off, then wind up back in their seat wondering where their parents are. First, let’s see if he’s there.”

  “But if something is wrong, we’re wasting . . .” There was no sense finishing the sentence. Alan could tell he was being ignored. Maybe the police dealt with this all the time, but he didn’t, and he wanted to see some sense of urgency in the cop’s attitude. Besides, the policeman didn’t understand about Devin.

  “Listen,” Alan said. “We’re wasting precious time. If we find him, then no harm done, but if he’s in trouble . . .”

  The officer headed up the tunnel ramp with Alan a pace behind. Turning onto the steep steps leading upward, Alan’s gaze focused on their empty seats. No Devin. His gut tensed, forcing air out of his lungs in an unexpected rush. He was close to panicking—something he never did. It wasn’t part of his nature.

  The deafening roar heralded the kickoff. Alan and the officer climbed the steps until they stood beside the two empty seats
.

  “Take a good look around and see if you spot him,” the officer shouted into Alan’s ear. “He might be in the wrong seat.”

  Damn the cheap seats, Alan thought. He could easily afford a corporate skybox, but he wanted Devin to experience the game like most other kids his age. Please don’t let it prove to be a mistake, he prayed.

  He scanned the nearby crowd while the officer spoke into the shoulder mic, but the crowd was too noisy for Alan to hear what he was saying. He hoped it was finally the call to alert the security staff.

  He followed the officer down the steps and back through the tunnel. A few moments later, they entered the Miami-Dade Metro Police Substation on the ground floor of the stadium. The space was compact with a small waiting room and a few chairs. The officer showed Alan into a second room where another officer sat behind a desk. “This is Sergeant Carillo. He’ll take it from here. Show him your ID, then give him a full description of your son.”

  “Can we make this fast?” Alan said. “Devin is missing and nobody’s looking for him.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Olsen,” Carillo said. “Parents get separated from their children here all the time. We’ll find your son.”

  Alan removed his driver’s license from his wallet and handed it to the sergeant.

  “This your correct address?” the sergeant asked, making a few notes on a pad.

  Alan nodded, clasping his hands together to still the shaking and contain the anger. The delay was becoming unbearable.

  Returning the license, Carillo took a brief look at Alan and said, “Have a seat. Can you give me a description of your son?”

  Pulling the chair out, Alan felt his jaw clench as the wood legs scraped the floor. Sitting, he said, “His name is Devin. He’s eight, about four-six, four-seven. Sixty pounds. Blond hair, blue eyes. He was wearing jeans, a yellow T-shirt and a Dolphins jacket. Oh, and a Dolphins cap.”

  Carillo busily scribbled on a pad of paper, not even looking up when he asked the next question. “When did you see him last?”

  “During halftime, we went to get a snack. Devin said he had to use the bathroom, but the lines were a mile long.” Alan wiped the sweat from his face with his hand. “He has a bladder control problem and has to urinate often—at least once an hour.”

  “You want something to drink?”

  “No!” Alan took a deep breath. “Sorry. No, I don’t need anything to drink.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  “We went to the front of the line and I asked this guy if Devin could please cut in line ahead of him. The poor kid was standing there with his legs twisted like a pretzel and a look of agony on his face.” Alan wiped his brow again. “The guy took pity on Devin and let him by.”

  “What did you do?”

  “The concourse was packed. I walked over to the outside stadium wall and waited.”

  “How long?”

  “Eight, maybe ten minutes.”

  “That’s a long time for a kid to take a piss.” Carillo finally looked up and locked on Alan’s eyes.

  “I realize that. That’s why I’m so upset.”

  The cop made a few more notes. “Did you just hang around there or did you wander around, maybe leave and come back?”

  “I never moved.”

  “Did you talk to anyone?”

  “No. Well, yes. Some guy struck up a conversation with me about football statistics. I found him a bit overbearing and boring. I mean, I’m not that big of a football fan.”

  “Then why did you come to the game?”

  “Devin loves the Dolphins. He can rattle off all the players’ stats. This was his first NFL game.”

  The officer tore the page from the pad and stood. “Anything else you can tell me before I call this in?”

  Alan hesitated. There was more, a lot more. But probably the guy wouldn’t understand or believe him. “No, nothing else,” Alan said.

  the barn

  Cotten retrieved her purse from the rental and pulled her cell phone out of its side pocket. She checked her watch—12:30 PM in Kentucky, 6:30 PM in Rome. Leaning against the car, she scrolled through her phone list to the private Vatican number for Cardinal John Tyler. After getting his voice mail, she dialed his cell.

  “Ciao,” came the response after a half-dozen rings.

  “John. You’re working late.”

  “Actually, I’m in Washington for a security conference. We’re winding everything up this afternoon. Hang on a second.”

  Cotten heard the mumble of background voices diminish as John found a quieter location.

  “I was just thinking about you.”

  “Really?” she said. “We must have ESP.” She shifted her weight to her other foot. His words flooded her with warm memories and a deep yearning. I’ve always wanted what I could never have. “It’s great to hear your voice.”

  “How are your wounds healing?” John asked.

  “Not everybody can brag about being shot by Chechen rebels.”

  “That’s not funny. Ted told me you’re investigating a story in Kentucky? How’s it going?”

  “What is it they say, fair to middling?”

  “I don’t hear that colloquialism around the Vatican very often. But I believe it means less than terrific. What’s going on?”

  Cotten started with Lindsay’s call, a description of the farmhouse, Lindsay’s paintings and poetry, Sheriff Maddox’s comments, the outburst at church, what happened to her when Cotten saw and touched Tera’s picture, and ending with the note in the scrapbook. “Pretty suspicious, isn’t it?”

  “It’s all suspicious. What part in particular?”

  “All of the above, but mostly what happened when I touched her photo.”

  “Knowing you like I do, nothing would surprise me. Your connection with Tera tells me there’s something else going on there, something deeper than the sheriff’s explanation.”

  “It was as if I felt whole—complete—like she was an extension of me.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Cotten scanned the area around the farmhouse. There was a barn nearby. “I’ve got a few more things here to check out. Then I’ll head back to town and start asking around to see if anyone knows anything. If it turns out that they really are in danger, I’ll find a way to get them some protection.”

  “I had planned on flying back to the Vatican in the morning. What if I delay that a few days and come to Kentucky?”

  “You sure you can take the time? I mean, I’d love to see yo, but I really don’t have much to go on here.”

  “Your comment about the connection to the girl concerns me.”

  “How so?”

  “Things have been unusually quiet for a long time. Too quiet. This could be the start of another round with our old friends.”

  “That occurred to me, too.” Cotten closed her eyes, thankful that John would be by her side if their concerns proved true. Actually, even if there were nothing to worry about, she’d be happy to be near him again. She touched the mouthpiece of the phone as if it might magically bring him closer. “How about I pick you up in Louisville? It’s a nice drive between there and Loretto.”

  “I’ll call you back with my flight info.”

  Before she had a chance to stop them, the next words tumbled out. “I miss you.”

  There was a pause. “Same here.” She heard him take a deep breath. “I’ll call you in an hour or two.”

  Cotten flipped the phone closed and tossed it on the front seat of her car. The battery was almost dead, and that would remind her to plug it into the car charger.

  She wandered down the hard-packed clay path toward the barn. Lindsay’s cat sat off to the side at a respectable distance, still leery of Cotten’s intentions.

&
nbsp; Like the house, the outside of the barn was in critical need of repair and a fresh coat of paint. Farm tools lay scattered in thin, overgrown grass. Weeds grew between the logs in a stack of firewood. Bees buzzed about a patch of purple wildflowers near the corner of the old structure. An ancient oak provided shade.

  How could Lindsay be so artistically talented and yet live in such shambles? Perhaps the paintings and poetry were her distractions from a crumbling life—maybe they had become obsessions to help get through the days . . . and nights.

  Cotten stood in front of the barn doors. She would take a quick look inside before heading back to town. The heavy latch scraped and groaned—both of the twelve-foot-high doors swung open lazily. The aroma of turpentine and oil paint flowed out.

  When Cotten’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she marveled at what she saw.

  Overhead, suspended from rafters, hung dozens of paintings in many sizes. They weren’t just beautiful works of art—there was something spiritually and mystically inspired about them. The barn walls were also covered with paintings and drawings. And scattered about were racks of blank canvases along with boxes of oils, acrylics, charcoal, brushes, and palettes. The entire barn had been converted to an art studio. The smells of hay and earth were replaced with linseed oil and gesso.

  An unfinished painting drew Cotten to the rear of the barn. It was a portrait of a man. Unlike the other beautiful images, his face was contorted, his eyes filled with hate and rage. Outlining his body was a pale, red glow.

  Cotten wandered through the barn, looking at all the stunning art. She stopped in front of another painting, this one of a child who looked just like the girl in the photo—blonde, ice blue eyes, delicate features—sitting on a cliff at sunset, cupping a brilliant ball of light in her palms. Like the painting of the girl in Tera’s room, she was surrounded by the familiar soft, deep violet-blue glow. It took Cotten’s breath.

  But it wasn’t just the painting that had caused the reaction—it was the easel—the small easel—one suitable for a child.