by Lynn Sholes
The man sighed. “Best team the faculty has put together in a long time, even if we did lose.” With the plaid blanket gathered around his shoulders, he stood and crabbed down the bleachers, easing carefully over each row of seats.
Tyler was the first of the faculty to congratulate the students. Cotten couldn’t hear what they were saying, but there was a lot of laughter—camaraderie that men always seemed to share in their games. Competition brought out the best in men, she thought . . . and the worst in women.
She climbed down from the stands and approached Tyler. He was tall—perhaps six feet, crowned by thick black hair. There was a slight quirk to the corner of his mouth—as if he knew a secret he was not about to reveal. His tanned skin was a result of exposure at many archaeological digs, she assumed. Even through his sweats, she detected a tautness to his body—a solid look of being in good shape.
“Dr. Tyler?” she said.
He looked up and dropped his hand from a player’s shoulder. “Yes?”
His eyes were the deepest blue she’d ever seen, nearly navy except when they caught the sun—even more remarkable in person than on the videotape in the archives.
“My name is Cotten Stone, and I work for SNN. If you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you.”
She extended her hand and found his grip polite but firm.
John turned to one of his teammates. “You guys go ahead. Order me a Sam Adams.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your plans, Dr. Tyler,” she said.
“It’s fine. They’ll be celebrating at O’Grady’s all afternoon. More than enough time for me to catch up.”
A gust of wind blew Cotten’s hair in her face. Her nose tingled from the cold, and she knew it must be red.
“You look like you could use a cup of something hot—coffee maybe?”
“That would be wonderful,” she said.
* * *
In his office, John took her coat and hung it on a hook just inside the door.
Cotten sat in an under-stuffed, wood-frame chair. “So, are you always the quarterback?”
“Actually, since it’s my first year here, I got thrown into the job. That way, they can blame the new guy if the faculty loses. I’m sure I won’t hear the end of it. I warned everyone in advance that their grades could be affected by the outcome, but it didn’t seem to help. Now let me get you that cup of coffee. I’ve only got instant though.”
“That’ll be fine,” she said.
He flashed a smile and moved to a makeshift kitchenette that was partially set off from the rest of the room by a bookcase.
John filled the cups with tap water, then stuck them in the microwave and set the timer. As the microwave thrummed away, he wondered about the pretty young woman sitting in his office. What would bring her looking for him? Why wouldn’t she have phoned instead of coming all the way up here?
After he’d fixed the coffee he placed a piping hot cup of Folgers in front of Cotten, then handed her the sugar bowl.
John watched her heap in two heavy-laden spoonfuls, stir, then add another half spoon. She looked nervous, like she was keeping a tight hold on something—like she might explode at any moment. Guarded was a good description.
She looked up and said, “I know, too much sugar. Sugar and Dutch chocolate are my weaknesses.”
“Just two vices?” John said. “If only I could be so fortunate.” He sat and sipped his coffee, giving her time to grow comfortable.
Cotten glanced around at the shelves that were chock-full of books. “Quite a collection.”
“Most belonged to my predecessor. But they do make for interesting reading.” He set his cup down and said, “So, Ms. Stone—”
“Please, just Cotten.” She picked up one of his business cards. “You even give out your cell phone number? That’s pretty trusting and generous.” She put the card in her wallet. “And should I call you, Doctor, or Reverend, or Father?”
“How about John?” She appeared to be trying so hard to be proper. Maybe conversing with a priest made her uneasy, he thought. “I have enough students calling me doctor, and I’m currently on a leave-of-absence from the priesthood. So Father is optional.”
“I didn’t know you could take a leave from your vows.”
“Not the vows, just the duties. And, yes, under special circumstances, you can.”
“All right . . . John.” She flipped her hair off her neck and rolled her eyes. “God, calling you by your first name feels disrespectful. Oh, I shouldn’t have said it like that—the God thing. But calling you John is like calling my sixth grade teacher by his first name.”
She was stumbling all over her words, and he wished he could help her relax. But he did find the blush in her cheeks and flushing rising up her neck was part of her charm. She had a way about her, a genuineness, if that was a word, that he found pleasing.
“Well, I’m not your sixth grade teacher,” he said. “And besides, you’ll make me feel like an old man if you don’t call me John.”
Cotten took a deep breath. “Okay, let me start again. John, I’m doing background for a news feature. The topic is religious legends, things like Noah’s Ark, the Holy Grail, that sort of thing.”
Her voice sounded less flustered—more professional.
“That’s my field,” he said. “Biblical history.”
“I know. I ran across interviews in our archives that referred to Dr. Gabriel Archer and his expertise in those areas. One of the clips featured you. Since you were so close by, I wanted to talk to you in person. So . . .” Cotten turned palms up. “Here I am.”
“I’m glad you came. I knew Archer pretty well at one time. He’s quite a character.”
“Do you know if he studied languages?”
That seemed an odd question, he thought. “Sure. Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic—a lot of ancient tongues, and of course Latin. Scholars in his field have to have extensive knowledge of those languages.”
“Oh, sure,” Cotten said. “Of course.”
“He loves to get involved with religious myths and legends. And the man can quote scripture with the best of them.”
“I saw some evidence of that in the tapes I watched.” She cleared her throat and pushed back her hair. “Do you know if he had brothers or sisters? A twin, maybe?”
The conversation was getting even more peculiar, John thought. “I believe Archer was an only child. I never heard him mention brothers or sisters—as a matter of fact I don’t recall him ever saying anything about family or his childhood.”
Cotten’s brows dipped.
“He is passionate about his work, though. His enthusiasm is . . . commendable,” John said.
“You sound like you’re being kind when you use the word enthusiasm.”
“I think his zeal has ended up damaging his credibility.”
“How? Seems like that would be a good quality.”
John took another sip of his coffee. “Is your background piece specifically on Archer?”
“No, but I thought he was interesting and maybe I could start with some of his quests and accomplishments.”
“I see. And you’re right. It would seem that his zeal should be an admirable quality.”
“But?”
“It’s sad, really, because he’s a brilliant man. I studied under Archer and worked with him a couple of times in the field.”
“Brilliant but eccentric?”
“To the point some might call him an obsessed fanatic. When he discovered an ancient plate in Jerusalem while excavating the tomb of a Crusader, Archer became convinced it would lead him to the Holy Grail. But he wouldn’t let anyone else look at it, wouldn’t even allow others to authenticate it. I suppose after so much ridicule, he was paranoid that someone might steal his find and claim it, leaving him with nothing but a lifelong work to be scoffed at. It’s hard for any
one to take him seriously. He claimed to have deciphered writing on the plate that gave the location of the Grail, but who knows? Most thought he was over the edge, and the plate probably had no value other than being an interesting artifact.”
“You don’t think he could have really gone on to find the Grail?”
“Hasn’t made the headlines, yet,” John said. “In my opinion, the Holy Grail is more religious folklore than fact. I like to think of it as a state of mind more than a real object—something in our lives we strive for but may never find.”
Cotten frowned. “What is Archer’s theory?”
“There are plenty of scenarios—Archer’s being one of many. Tradition has it that the Cup from the Last Supper was also used the next day to collect Christ’s blood at the Crucifixion. According to numerous stories, Joseph of Arimathea, who was present at the Crucifixion and supplied Christ’s burial tomb, was the Cup’s first owner. Most historians believe he eventually took the Cup to the Isles of Avalon in Britain—the basis of the Arthurian Legend which most of us are familiar with. But Archer proposes a different scheme. He says Joseph traveled with Saint Paul on the apostle’s first mission to Antioch. He took along the Cup as a symbol for newly baptized Christians to venerate. After Paul moved on, Joseph stayed in Antioch. When he died, the Cup disappeared—presumably buried with him.
“From what I’ve read, Archer then says that the Cup resurfaced around the middle of the third century and was put on display by the Bishop of Antioch. Then it was lost again—in an earthquake, I think around a.d. 526. Then it was found again some fifty or so years later. All the stories of the Grail have that same element in common—it’s found, it’s lost, then found again. Adds to the mystery, I guess.”
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.
“. . . 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, b
ut 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 thermostat, hearing the familiar thump as the gas heater kicked on.