by Lynn Sholes
“How about cash?” the agent suggested.
“I don’t have . . .”
Cotten turned and walked away, feeling the stare of the ticket agent on her back. Oh, God, what’s going on? How could they have done this to me so fast? She had about fifty dollars in her purse, and that was all. Even an ATM would be of no use.
She found a pay phone and called John again. There was no answer when the college switchboard rang his office. “Shit. His cell. What’s his cell number?” Cotten scrambled through her purse and took out her wallet. She fumbled through the batch of business cards she had tucked away. “Come on, come on.” Finally, she found it. She had kept his card from their first meeting. Her hands shook so that she had a hard time holding it steady enough to read as she dialed.
“I couldn’t get you,” she cried when he accepted the collect call.
“Take it easy,” he said. “Settle down and talk to me.”
Cotten explained what happened.
“Give me a half hour, then go back to the Delta counter. I’ll order the ticket prepaid. And I’ll have a car rented in your name at the Avis desk in Asheville.”
“I’m sorry I had to . . . I don’t know how to thank you.”
“We’ll get through this, Cotten. Just stay safe. Call me when you land. I’ll fly down as soon as I can.”
“How soon?”
“Tonight—tomorrow at the latest. Okay?”
“Yes.”
Thirty minutes later, Cotten walked up to the ticket counter again, choosing a different agent this time.
“May I help you?” the agent asked.
“You’re holding a ticket for me. My name is Cotten Stone.”
The woman typed in the information. “Can I see your ID?”
Cotten put her driver’s license on the counter.
The agent checked it then handed back the license. “Your flight will begin boarding in about twenty-five minutes, concourse D, gate 23. Do you have any baggage to check?”
“No,” Cotten said. “I’m traveling light.”
* * *
“Jesus Christ, Cotten, I thought you were dead,” Ted Casselman said. “What the hell is going on?”
“It wasn’t me in the car. It was my friend.” Cotten choked with tears as she whispered into the air phone. “Ted, they murdered Vanessa.” She sniffled and wiped under her nose with the cuff of her sleeve.
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“And they killed Thornton, too.”
“Cotten, you’re not making any sense.”
“Ted, they’ve even canceled my credit cards. They’re after me—going to kill me because they think I know something—something Thornton told me. He didn’t tell me anything. I don’t know who these people are. I’m scared to death.”
“Where are you?”
Cotten didn’t answer as she stared out the plane’s window at the thick blanket of clouds.
“How can I help you if I don’t know where you are?”
Silence.
“Cotten, please.”
“Find out what Thornton was afraid of, what he was working on, what he had found.”
“I’ll try, Cotten, I will, but how can I help you now?”
“You can’t,” she said.
* * *
Snow fell as Cotten drove the rental from the Asheville Regional Airport along U.S. 64 through the town of Bat Cave toward Chimney Rock. She remembered watching the movie The Last Of The Mohicans and longing to see the area where it was filmed. You’re about to get your chance, she thought.
John had given her directions when she called from the airport, telling her that even though the cabin wasn’t that far from the city, it would be an arduous drive along the snaking, narrow mountain roads. Once she left U.S. 64 she realized he hadn’t lied. She wasn’t used to mountain highways, especially with the weather turning nasty. The light snow became sleet and freezing rain—a gunmetal gray twilight veiled the dark mountains.
Cotten followed the country road, from time to time seeing the faint lights of farmhouses barely visible through the sleet. With the windshield wipers flapping to a honky-tonk song on the radio, she strained to see a mailbox with the name Jones on its side. Pulling into a dirt driveway, she drove up to the old two-story farmhouse.
The porch light flicked on when she knocked on the front screen door.
“You must be Ms. Stone,” the farmer said, opening the door. “I’m Clarence Jones. Get in out of this before you catch your death.”
Cotten guessed he was in his middle to late seventies. He had thick gray hair, leathery cheeks, and worn overalls. He bore the hunched back and bony hands of a man who spent his life working hard.
“Sit right here while I get the key to the place,” Jones said. He patted the back of the couch.
“Thanks,” Cotten said. The furniture was old and threadbare, but comfortable looking, she thought as she sat on the sofa. Pictures covered the walls, most likely of his family. Jones had been handsome in his youth.
“Is that your wife?” she asked when he returned. She nodded to a gold-framed portrait.
“That’s my Lilly. She passed ’bout five years ago. Used to aggravate me from morning to night. Pretty lonesome around here, now. I miss her.” He placed the key on the coffee table in front of Cotten. “That’s the key to the Tyler place. I’ve already gone up and turned on the gas. You’ll still want to build a fire, but it’ll be fairly warm by the time you get there.”
“This is awfully nice of you,” Cotten said.
“Owen Tyler’s boy said you needed to get away for a while. Well, you sure picked the right spot.”
“I hope so.”
“You gonna be up there alone?”
“No, John is coming.”
“Then I won’t have to go checking on you.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“There ain’t no phone, so if you need anything, you’re gonna have to come down to get it. There’s a grocery store in Chimney Rock proper, and a gas station, too.”
“I’ll remember that.” She looked at her watch. “I really should be going. I’m pretty exhausted.” She stood and walked to the door.
“Gotcha. Traveling does that. You get on up there and kick your shoes off. Road’s a little tricky, just take it slow and easy.” Jones followed her onto the front porch. “When you leave here, go back the way you came till you see a white sign with red letters that says Riverstone. That’s the name of the Tyler place. Turn onto the dirt road. That’ll be north. It gets pretty steep, but keep on goin’ up the mountain. Only cabin up there. The front light should be on. Get that fire goin’ soon as you get there and by the time you turn in, it’ll be warm and cozy.”
“Thanks again, Mr. Jones,” Cotten said, shaking his hand.
Cotten got the heater fan blowing on high and turned the rental around, heading back toward the main highway. The sleet had changed to a light snow. Soon, the Riverstone sign came into view.
Taking the narrow road, she heard the gravel crunched under her tires as she headed up the incline.
The trees along the sides were thick, some barren and some evergreens. Mostly barren. Occasionally, slabs of bare rock became exposed as the road cut back and forth, digging its way up the mountain. Near the peak, the wind picked up and threw sheets of snow across her path. Jones was right; it was steep. She had to gun the engine a number of times. The tires spun in the dirt and skidded over patches of ice.
The cabin appeared hauntingly in her headlights. A yellow light bulb on the front porch flickered like a faint beacon through the falling snow.
Inside there was a light on over the sink in the small kitchen to the right. A musty, closed-up smell met Cotten’s nose as she went around the cabin turning on lamps and lights. She found a six-pack of longneck Budweiser and a few
cans of soda in the refrigerator, but not much else. The cabinets held several Ball jars of home-canned vegetables and jams along with a few cans of pork and beans, mixed fruit, and some spices.
After inspecting all the rooms, Cotten started a fire using the kindling she found in a basket beside the hearth—light wood her dad used to call it. It didn’t take long before she threw a log on and the fire roared, sending warmth into the living room.
For dinner she had a pop-top can of fruit cocktail and a beer. Cotten plopped down on the bench of the trestle table. Great meal, she thought, sipping the Budweiser.
Later, the wind picked up and she stoked the fire—sleet tapped on the windows like nails. She thought of Thornton and Vanessa—her ex-lover and her best friend.
Murdered.
Her life was imploding. John was the only one left she trusted. And maybe she was putting his life in danger as well.
The old cabin moaned in the howling wind, and the trees outside creaked like wooden ships in a gale. Lying on the couch, she watched the fire until she fell asleep.
Cotten dreamed she heard music—its beat pounding louder than the wind. There was laughter, too. Shouts and singing. She felt herself shoved and pulled, caught up in a tide of bodies.
Suddenly, she smelled burning candles and incense. Praying voices hummed like bees. She felt hot breath on her cheek; lips whispered in her ear.
Geh el crip ds adgt quasb. You are the only one who can stop—
Cotten bolted upright. Trying to drive the sleep from her head, she raked back her hair and stared at the fire, now only glowing embers. But something besides the old priestess’s words had awakened her. A thump on the front porch.
Through the window she saw orange light from the cabin falling onto the white snowdrifts. In the distance, snow banked against her car.
Cotten inched open the door, and an arctic blast blustered its way inside. In the pool of light from the open door, she saw faint footprints on the porch. Were they hers from hours ago or fresh prints? Had they found her already?
Cotten slammed the door shut, securing the lock and chain. She moved from window to window, checking the latches. Satisfied every entrance was locked, she built up the fire until it crackled and popped —drowning out the wail of the storm.
One by one, she turned off all the lights, then paced, peeking through the drapes and blinds for signs of an intruder. But there was only driven snow and swirling tree limbs in the darkness.
Cotten looked at her watch—three o’clock. The dawn would not come too soon.
She found an old pistol and a box of cartridges on the top shelf of a bedroom closet. After loading the gun, she returned to the couch and sat with the weapon beside her, watching the door. Waiting. Ready.
magnolia
Sinclair sat in his private plantation estate video conference room staring at the dark monitor screens long after the faces of the Guardians had faded to black. He leaned back his head having grown tired of the endless demands on him. Now that the final phase had begun, he must appraise the Guardians on almost a daily basis. The old man had to be kept pleased and satisfied—all the while meeting the time schedule. Plus, Sinclair was the one responsible for the complex duties—all the way down from procuring the Cup to performing the scientific tasks. Sometimes he thought his dedication to the project was not appreciated or respected enough.
Then there was that goddamn Wingate-Cotten Stone screw up. What the hell was Wingate thinking hiring someone to assassinate the woman? Wingate wasn’t good under pressure—that was becoming clear. And he had a real problem following orders.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sinclair spotted Ben Gearhart. “Come in.”
“How did it go?” the attorney asked.
“Fine,” Sinclair said, keeping his post-video conference thoughts to himself. He swung his chair around and looked at the crest on the wall behind his desk—the crest with the Croix Pateé and the dog rose bramble. “We’re so close, Ben. All the planning—all our work is about to pay off.”
Gearhart nodded, but Sinclair could see there was something else on his mind. “What is it?” he asked.
“Charles . . . he’s here. I saw him outside, on the lawn.”
“Fuck.” Sinclair closed his eyes and pressed two fingers hard against his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose. He didn’t need this right now.
* * *
The old gentleman, his demeanor always composed and relaxed, sat in a high-backed wicker chair in the gazebo.
“Good afternoon,” Sinclair said. “You surprise me. I didn’t know you were coming.” He stepped inside the gazebo. “I just finished another video conference bringing the Guardians up to date.”
“Technology is so incredible, Charles. It astounds me.”
Sinclair edged to a bench and sat. He thought he knew what the old man wanted to discuss. “The project is going well and on schedule,” he said without being asked.
“That is a great relief. You see, Charles, I got the impression that loose ends still weren’t clipped. Those untidy things can be bothersome. Perhaps bothersome is a poor choice of words. Treacherous is better.”
Sinclair tugged at the knot in his tie. Suddenly, it felt as if there were pressure on his larynx—a sensation not unlike someone’s hands around his throat, squeezing ever so softly.
“The good cardinal delivered the Cup just as planned,” Sinclair said. “Ianucci has performed perfectly, as predicted.”
The old man’s face was granite. “The Vatican knows he made the switch.”
Sinclair’s gut contracted. “We knew they would figure that out. But there has been nothing in the news.”
“And there won’t be. It would be too embarrassing for the Church to admit that one of their own betrayed them. They will keep it quiet, amongst themselves, and in the next several days I expect they will announce Ianucci’s retirement. And that is very fortunate for us.” Sinclair knew the old man was leading up to something by the tone of his voice, the deliberate low volume, the expression on his face, the suspenseful pause before speaking again.
“Attention to detail is so important,” the old man said. “You know that.” The lines around his eyes crimped. “Don’t lose sight of the cardinal, not for the smallest moment in time. And you must keep Stone flushed out. You cannot let up. As soon as Ianucci’s task is completed, dispose of him.”
Sinclair nodded as he glanced toward the river. It surged over anything in its way. “We’ve begun the work in the lab,” he said, changing the subject. “Maybe even a day ahead of the timeline. This is a delicate stage, and we won’t rush it at the risk of making an error.”
“Oh, I am sure the science is as it should be, Charles. You are the best in the world—just the man to bring about our miracle, are you not?” He paused a moment. “Perfection in everything, Charles. Nothing less will do.”
The old man’s eyes bored into the geneticist’s. Sinclair recognized the fury—he envisioned the flames of hell burning inside.
The grip on Sinclair’s throat tightened.
“Now, tell me about the fiasco in Miami.”
Sinclair shifted his weight and stretched his spine against the back of the bench.
“Wingate,” Sinclair said. “He decided he would take matters into his own hands. He doesn’t understand. He operates only on a need-to-know basis. But I did tell him not to do anything to Stone, just give her the interview, charm her, deny the blackmail issue.”
Sinclair’s stomach felt as if he had swallowed acid as the old man stared at him. “Within an hour of his attempt on her life, we had her immobilized. Her bank and credit card accounts were frozen. Stone was cut off, contained. But her priest friend came to her rescue. When she attempted to purchase an airline ticket to Asheville, we did some background checking and found that his family has property in the area. She’s up there now. Arr
ived last night. We believe the priest is on his way there.”
“And?”
“She and the priest are on the run. We’ve kept the pressure on. It’s only a matter of time.”
The elderly gentleman crossed his legs and turned to look at a huge magnolia tree nearby. “I am anxious to see that in bloom, again, Charles. Creamy white blossoms. Exquisite fragrance. One of the more perfect creations, don’t you think?” His focus returned to Sinclair. “You do open your windows to allow the scent to ride in on the breeze, do you not? It would be a pity not to.”
“When it’s in bloom,” Sinclair said, wondering if this was yet another of the old man’s ramblings or—
“A perfect flower has no blemishes. Flawed blooms are an insult to the eye. The horticulturist has no use for flowers with imperfections. He discards them without the slightest hesitation. Wingate is a blemish. I’m sure you follow me.”
thornton’s notes
A thumping sound jolted Cotten out of a light sleep. “Shit,” she whispered, snatching up the pistol and slipping across the room to the side window.
She had watched and listened all night, sometimes her hand resting on the gun. When the first hint of dawn came, she’d relaxed enough to doze off.
Now the pale light from the overcast morning seeped into the room. Cotten inched back the curtain just enough to peer out.
A red Jeep Cherokee was parked beside her rental.
Cotten shrank from the window and sat pressed against the wall. She didn’t think it was Jones. A red Jeep didn’t fit his image, and she hadn’t seen one at his farm.
Again the noise. This time she was awake enough to recognize it. A knock at the door.
She held the revolver with both hands and looked through the peephole. A man stood on the porch, his back to her, his head hidden under the heavy hood of his coat.
“Who is it? Who’s there?”
He turned and smiled as he pulled back the hood.