CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy

by Lynn Sholes

  John watched Cotten's expressions, so animated and telltale. He continued. "Archer claimed his research led him to believe that during the last Crusade, a fellow named Geoffrey Bisol took the Cup and fled south. He and a small band of Crusaders were captured near Nineveh in northern Iraq. Bisol maintained that he buried his dead comrades in some of the ancient ruins nearby before making his way to Jerusalem. He didn't have the Cup with him when he arrived in the Holy Land, but swore he knew where it was hidden. Over the years, many groups have extensively excavated the ruins around Nineveh. No one has ever claimed to have found anything that would support Gabriel Archer's theory."

  Cotten closed her eyes. She shivered.

  "Are you all right?" John asked.

  "Just a chill."

  SINCLAIR

  "Do YOU RENOUNCE SATAN?"

  "We do."

  "And all his works?"

  "We do."

  The priest recited the vows, then reached into the water in the Baptismal font, scooping up enough to flow over the crown of the baby's head. "I baptize you in the name of the Father ..:'

  When the water touched the sleeping infant's skin, she awoke crying.

  and of the Son ..."

  Her cries grew louder.

  11 ... and of the Holy Spirit."

  Tears welled in the mother's eyes as she looked down at the infant.

  Charles Sinclair stood close by watching the christening of his only granddaughter. His wife clung to his arm. In his early fifties, Sinclair was tall and lean in his tailored double-breasted suit. Thick eyebrows and a generous amount of black hair sprinkled with sterling softened his hard-edged features. His jet eyes peered out from an olive complexion and mirrored a mind that seemed to be working at high speed.

  Light poured in through the stained glass windows of historic St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter. The cries of Sinclair's granddaughter filled the church.

  While the priest continued, Sinclair's mind wandered, and his gaze drifted to the magnificent frescos adorning the arched ceiling. He should have received some word by now, he thought. Concern creased his forehead. A gentle nudge from his wife brought him back.

  The priest stood in front of him. "Congratulations, Dr. Sinclair. It's an honor to bring your granddaughter into the Kingdom of God."

  "Thank you, Father." Sinclair reached into his suit pocket and removed an envelope containing a check for the priest's services. Then he hugged his daughter and shook hands with his son-in-law. As the rest of the group gathered to pose for pictures, Sinclair glanced toward the back of the church and saw his attorney, Ben Gearhart, slip in and wait in the shadows of the vestibule. "I'll be right back," Sinclair said to his wife.

  Joining Gearhart, he strolled out of the cathedral and crossed the street to Jackson Square. They stopped at the foot of the statue of Andrew Jackson. Sinclair asked, "What have you found out?"

  "I haven't been able to get in touch with Ahmed, so I sent someone out to see what was going on. I got confirmation earlier this morning that he and Archer are dead. We cleaned it up."

  Unlike Sinclair's skin, Gearhart's fair complexion reacted to the cold, dry air blowing across the Square. His cheeks glowed from windburn, and his blue eyes watered. He rubbed his nose with a tissue as he spoke.

  "At first I blamed the military activity for the lack of communications, but then I became suspicious," Gearhart said. "I tried to contact him several times but with no luck." He lifted his head to read the taller man's expression.

  Sinclair raked a hand through his hair. "How did they die?"

  "Ahmed was shot with his own gun."

  "And Archer?"

  "There was evidence of a struggle, but it appears he died of natural causes. Sounds like he fought with Ahmed, shot him, then keeled over from the ordeal."

  "And the artifact?" Sinclair's face tightened.

  Gearhart wiped his nose and shook his head.

  Sinclair went on. "I take it from your silence that we don't know where the box is, much less have verification of its contents." He walked a few steps ahead, put his hands in his pockets, then turned to face the attorney. "So where is it?" His voice was low, full of control and gravity.

  "My contact believes someone else was in the chamber. A videocassette was found near the bodies. It contains news footage shot by a reporter for SNN. A woman named Cotten Stone."

  Charles Sinclair saw his family emerging through the cathedral's large wooden doors. His wife waved at him. "Is Stone still in Iraq?"

  "We've traced her to New York."

  "She could jeopardize everything."

  "I realize that. But nothing has shown up in the news. She may not know what it is."

  "If she even has it at all." Sinclair looked up at the statue of the seventh president.

  "I have someone in New York right now," Gearhart said.

  Stepping forward, Sinclair leaned in close to Gearhart. "No more mistakes, my friend." He lowered his head to the wind and walked back to the church.

  "Is anything wrong, Charles?" his wife asked when Sinclair returned.

  He gave her a light peck on the cheek. "You ride with the children to Broussard's. I'll be right behind."

  "Bad news?" she asked.

  "Nothing for you to worry about."

  Sinclair gave his family a reassuring wave as they walked to the first of two limousines. Then he went back inside the cathedral. The scent of the candles hung heavy, their smoke collecting in the columns of light from the windows.

  The old man was there, waiting.

  Sinclair walked up the aisle, slid in the pew, and sat next to him.

  "How is your granddaughter?"

  "She didn't like the cold water," Sinclair said.

  "Understandable." The old man, his gray hair the color of ashes, did not look at Sinclair, but stared at the altar. "How are things?" The words were almost whispered.

  "There has been a minor setback, but Gearhart is taking care of it."

  He looked at Sinclair. "Should I be concerned?"

  "No. Not at all."

  "Tell me about it. We should have no secrets, no matter how small."

  The old man waited as the church became overcome with silence.

  Sinclair finally spoke. "A woman reporter-she might have seen something in the crypt. Like I said, Gearhart is on it."

  "You know who she is?" the old man asked.

  "Her name is Cotten Stone."

  The old man rocked back. "Stone," he repeated, then nodded slowly as if coming to an understanding. "You know, Charles, perhaps it is time to give you some additional assistance." He turned to Sinclair. "I have an old friend who can help."

  Sinclair fought back a sigh. "It will all be done as you've requested. There's no need to involve anyone else."

  The old man patted Sinclair's leg. "Just to be on the safe side. After all, you never know . . ." He turned back toward the front of the church in silence, seeming to signal that the conversation was over.

  Sinclair stood and moved to the aisle. Out of habit, he genuflected and made the sign of the cross before walking to the back of the church. Pushing open the door to leave, he turned and stared at the crucifix suspended over the marble altar. Shards of sunlight struck it in an almost surreal way. He could clearly see Christ's head sagging to the side-tired, weary, encircled by an askew crown of thorns.

  A gust of cold wind blew through the door, whirling leaves inside and making Sinclair pull his topcoat closer to his neck as he headed toward the waiting limousine.

  INTRUDER

  COTTEN STONE ENTERED HER apartment, thankful to be out of the New York winter. She was exhausted, not only from the concerns brought on by her meeting with John Tyler and the mystery of the box, but knowing the time spent away from Thornton had not healed her heart. Seeing him again brought back emotions she had hoped were cold and dead.

  Cotten stripped off her heavy coat and scarf and unloaded her small bag of groceries. The apartment was chilly, and she turned up the ther
mostat, hearing the familiar thump as the gas heater kicked on.

  She rubbed her arms for warmth while thinking about Tyler. She'd become more and more unnerved in his office, realizing as he described Archer's theory that she'd been in the crypt, seen the Crusader's bones ... held the box. Tyler must believe her to be completely crazy-and ungrateful. She practically ran out of his office after saying she had all the information she needed. How embarrassing. And John was so polite, even offering to answer more questions.

  Thornton crept into her thoughts.

  Thornton.

  Just letting herself get so deeply involved with him was another in a long line of stupid mistakes. Not only was he married, his face was a household fixture in millions of homes around the country. It would have been hard to pick someone with a higher profile to jump into bed with.

  And of course there was the box. Another mistake. She should have left it in the crypt. But wasn't that what she'd done most of her life-run away from problems, decisions, relationships-hoping they would disappear?

  They never did.

  Before putting the cold cuts in the refrigerator, she made a sandwich, then wandered back into the living room to watch the news. That's when she spotted the blinking light on her answering machine. There were three messages. She sat on the sofa, pressed play, and bit down on the ham sandwich.

  Beep.

  "Cotten? It's Ted. I got your message that you weren't coming back in today. Are you all right? Why did you leave the edit? What's going on? Call me."

  Beep.

  "Cotten, it's Ted again. They've just about finished your piece, but there's a tape missing. What should they do? We're running it tomorrow night. If I don't hear from you I'll tell the editor to use some stock cover shots. Call me as soon as you can."

  Beep.

  "Hi."

  Thornton's voice.

  Pause.

  "I really need to talk to you. I know you think it's over, but it's not. We weren't just having an affair. I love you. And I know you love me. Please, Cotten, we've got to talk."

  Pause.

  "Can't we just meet for dinner? That's all I want. Just to talk. Call me back. I love you."

  The sound of his voice had made her stomach tighten-the same feeling she got so many times when the phone rang and she knew it was Thornton ... prayed it was Thornton.

  The first time they made love it had been raw lust. They'd had lunch on occasion, flirted in the hallways, elevators, and stairwells at work. Then he'd asked her to meet him for a drink one evening. They met in a hotel bar near SNN and within twenty minutes they were tearing each other's clothes off in a hotel room eighteen stories above Broadway. After three clandestine meetings, the first hint of affection finally entered into their lovemaking. But that vanished quickly on Thornton's part, while she still yearned for the gentleness, the sweetness, the love in lovemaking. It became evident he only wanted sex. Nothing more. He denied her accusation, saying it was because they only had those few stolen moments, and she aroused him so much ... Cotten wanted to believe him, but almost every time, as soon as they finished-he finished-he'd leave, take his limo home to his wife Cheryl while Cotten lay in the rumpled sheets, in the dark, and cried. She'd been a fool to think anything would ever change. A stint in Iraq was supposed to make her forget.

  Now it started all over again-his voice brooding and full of sincerity. His words full of promises. How could she detest what she craved? It made no sense. She drank the poison because she loved the taste.

  Cotten glanced toward the kitchen. She could see the stove. The box was just one more pebble in her shoe.

  Picking up the phone, she dialed Thornton's cell. She almost hoped that maybe he'd be home with his wife and wouldn't pick up.

  "Hello," he answered.

  "Hi," she said, almost in a whisper.

  "Oh, thank God." His voice was urgent. "I've been going out of my mind. I have to see you."

  "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "Please, Cotten. We need to talk. I've made a decision."

  There was a long pause.

  "Let me guess. You're going to leave her."

  "Yes."

  Cotten didn't respond. This wasn't a new tune.

  "I know I've said it before. This time I mean it."

  "Thornton, don't. I'm emotionally exhausted."

  "I know I haven't been fair. Just let me see you. Please. You won't regret it."

  I already do, she thought.

  Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she said, "All right," flinching even as the words came out. It was going to be the same old pattern. They'd meet. They'd talk. They'd have sex. It didn't matter what he promised.

  "Can you meet me?"

  Cotten slumped into the couch cushions. "When?"

  "I'm working late, but I'll finish up and get out of here in an hour."

  She hung up without answering.

  They had often met at Giovanni's in the past-a small out-of-theway restaurant about ten blocks from her apartment. It reminded her of the one in The Godfather where Michael Corleone committed murder for the first time. Cotten didn't know which of her sins was worse, adultery or stupidity.

  When she entered Giovanni's, the head waiter greeted her. "Good evening, Ms. Stone. Mr. Graham is waiting." He led her to a table in the back.

  Prints of the old country covered the walls, along with empty Chianti bottles and plastic flowers.

  "Cotten," Thornton said, standing and taking her in his arms. "God, I'm glad you came." He tried to kiss her, but she turned away.

  "Hello, Thornton." She slipped into the chair across from him.

  He took her hands in his and rested them on top of the table. "I was crazy with worry. Ted told me all about your escape from Iraq. You're a lucky lady."

  "In some respects."

  "So how was it?" Thornton asked. "Did you get the story you wanted?"

  "Most of it. It's running tomorrow night."

  "I know," Thornton said, squeezing her hands. "I previewed it before leaving work. You did an outstanding job." He paused. "Ted told me you got upset and rushed out of your edit yesterday. He said he tried to call you all day today, but you weren't home. They had to do the edit without you. What happened, sweetheart?"

  "Nothing really," she said. "I misplaced a tape and haven't been able to find it yet."

  "Important stuff?"

  "It was all important;' she said, pulling her hands away as the waiter approached.

  "Something to drink?" the waiter asked.

  "Bring me a big fat Tanqueray and tonic;' Thornton said. "Cotten?"

  "Absolut on the rocks with a twist, please."

  The waiter left, and Thornton leaned back. "I've got to go to the doctor and have my clot time checked tomorrow. Pain in the ass. They can't keep the damn Coumadin levels stable."

  She knew he was stalling. "Yes, you've told me that before." Cotten unwrapped her silverware and put the napkin in her lap, fidgeting with it.

  "Well, who'd have thought you could get blood clots in your legs just from sitting on a goddamn airplane? Now, with the blood thinner, God forbid, I cut myself shaving-I'll bleed to death."

  "Get to the point, Thornton. You're waltzing all around it. Trying to work up a little sympathy first?"

  He reached for her hands again, but she kept them just out of range.

  "I know what you're going to say, that we've been through this ad infinitum," he said. "But this time it's different. I swear."

  "Just tell me what you decided."

  "I'm going to ask Cheryl for a divorce."

  "Why?"

  "What do you mean, why? Because I love you. I want to be with you.

  "When are you going to tell her?" Cotten prepared for the catch.

  "Right away."

  She glared at him.

  "Very soon. Just as soon as she gets her decorating business on its feet. That way she'll have something to preoccupy her while getting through-"

  "Thornton, she's been try
ing to get that business going for two fucking years." By the end of the sentence, Cotten had raised her voice enough that some heads turned in their direction.

  He held his hands up, as if to surrender. "Cotten, please."

  "This is the same bullshit you've told me over and over. Nothing's changed, has it? You know as well as I do you can't leave her." Cotten looked up at the cheap, fake flowers. How appropriate, she thought. "I'm so goddamn stupid. I knew what you were doing, and I still came here. I was going to let you sweet-talk me into bed. And while you fucked me and whispered how you couldn't live without me, you'd be checking your watch so you wouldn't get home too late and have to make up some excuse." Cotten rubbed her temples. Her voice dropped. "I can't take this anymore. I never should have come. Go home to Cheryl and leave me alone."

  She grabbed her purse, stormed out, and cried her way down the Manhattan sidewalk.

  Cotten walked for nearly an hour in the freezing drizzle before flagging a cab. She'd cried until she couldn't anymore. Maybe she'd overreacted and been too harsh. What if he really was trying to leave Cheryl? She was so confused. Maybe she should move out of New York, even go home to Kentucky. That notion quickly dissolved. She had to break this off completely and get over it.

  She could live without him, she kept telling herself. There was life after Thornton Graham.

  Cotten sat in her living room and stared at the phone on the table beside her. She knew she would see Thornton at work-there was no way to avoid it. Setting rules up front would be the best thing. She wouldn't talk to him unless it was a matter dealing with her job. She wouldn't answer his calls. And she wouldn't see him alone under any circumstances. Those were the rules-and that's what she would tell him. It was over. The end.

  The phone rang, and Cotten answered, but not without first looking at the Caller ID.

  "Uncle Gus," she said when she picked up. "How are you?"

  "Doing great, little girl. Just checking up on my favorite niece."

  That was a joke between them. She was his only niece. She heard him laugh and pictured her uncle's Santa-like frame. Even his hair was snow white like Mr. Kringle's. She loved Gus and wished he would lose weight and stop chain-smoking. She heard the click of his cigarette lighter.