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

by Lynn Sholes

  “There are seven names on the list, all of them powerful world leaders. They cover the entire gauntlet of politics, economics, communications, and the military. Remember the Bible quote—the seven heads—the seven world leaders. The cup, full of abominations. The Grail. Someone, some group, with enormous resources managed to switch the real Cup with an almost-perfect replica right out of the Vatican’s Secret Archives. I think the Templars are alive and well, and they are the seven heads. The ten horns puzzled me for a while, but then I realized the list probably didn’t include everyone, only the world leaders. There must be a core, those who are directing the chorus. My guess is there are three more, one of which is the Grand Master. I think Thornton figured it out, set off some alarms, and he had to be stopped.”

  “But if the Templars are Guardians of the Grail, why would they be such bad guys in the Bible?” Cotten toweled her hair. “And why abominations? If the Grail contains Christ’s blood, how could that be considered an abomination?”

  “That’s the part that really rocked me. It’s not the blood, it’s what someone could do with the blood . . . that’s the abomination.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  John turned the pages in the Bible until he came to one he’d dog-eared. “You might want to sit down for this.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, and he joined her.

  John didn’t say anything for a few moments.

  “Come on, tell me.”

  He heaved out a sigh. “I think I have some idea of what God has planned for you . . . for us—why we have been brought to this place at this time. I believe that you are someone extraordinary.”

  Cotten’s stomach clenched. He was leading up to something that she felt sure was going to scare the hell out of her. “Just tell me,” she said, closing her eyes.

  “You are very special,” John said. “I believe you are more than special. Chosen. Gabriel Archer thought so, too. He said you were the only one. The old priestess told you the same thing. What if they were messengers? Delivering a message from God? And they did it by speaking to you in a language only you could understand—the language of heaven, the tongue of angels. You thought they told you to stop the sun, the dawn. But you misunderstood them. Cotten, it has nothing to do with stopping the sun from coming up. In fact, that would prove easy compared to what lies ahead.”

  She held her breath as she watched him open the Bible again to the page he had marked.

  “It’s not something you need to stop, it’s someone.” He scrolled his finger down to Isaiah 14:12, and held it up for her to read.

  Cotten scanned the single sentence. She looked back at John—her mouth agape, her breath catching in her throat, her palms dampening.

  The room iced.

  Looking back at the text, Cotten read it again, this time aloud, “How have you fallen from the heavens, O Lucifer, Son of the Dawn.”

  For false christs and false prophets will arise and show great signs and wonders, so as to deceive, if possible, even the elect. (Matthew 24:24)

  the false prophet

  “Lucifer? Like in the devil, Lucifer?” Cotten said. “I don’t understand. What I’m thinking can’t be right. Can’t be . . .”

  John sat patiently while she tried to keep up with the hundreds of thoughts rolling through her mind like marbles spinning over tile.

  “Son,” Cotten said. “So it’s not the sun in the sky, but the Son of the Dawn . . . Lucifer . . . Satan? I’m supposed to stop Satan.” Her head shot up. “Jesus Christ, are you insane?”

  Visions of Archer and the Santeria priestess swept past her like a flock of blackbirds. The box. The Cup. The Crusader Cross. John sipping coffee talking about the Knights Templar. Thornton. His list. Vanessa waving goodbye. Her shoe. The Guardians of the Grail.

  The Son of the Dawn!

  Cotten’s hands flew to her temples as she shook her head. “No, this is crazy. It makes no sense. I feel like I’m watching a horror movie like The Exorcist or something.”

  “Cotten,” John said, taking her wrists and lowering her hands. “It does make sense. Everything makes sense now. Don’t you see? Gabriel Archer was there in the tomb, not to keep the Cup, but to give it to you. He was there to pass the task on to you, a task given to you by God.”

  “Bullshit,” she said, pulling away and getting to her feet. “He was just an old man, not a messenger of God. And now he’s dead! I heard him take his last breath.”

  “Yes, but not before he fulfilled his task—to deliver the message that you are truly the only one.”

  “That’s a bunch of Catholic crap. I don’t believe there is a God.” She whipped around, turning her back. “And if there were, He’d have to be nuts to pick me. I don’t even go to church. I’m nobody.” She plowed her fingers through her hair. “Nobody.”

  John stood and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s back up,” he said, “step-by-step.”

  She turned to him and forced herself to listen. Cotten felt as if her bones were dissolving, and the structure that kept her upright was collapsing.

  “Lucifer was the most beautiful angel in heaven—so beautiful that his name meant Son of the Dawn. But he was cast out of heaven for leading a rebellion against God because he thought he was God’s equal. After he was defeated, his name on earth became Satan. Down through the ages, he has waited to get back at God for casting him out. I believe that time is now. Are you with me so far?”

  “I think,” she whispered.

  “Good,” John said. “The Cup that held Christ’s blood was preserved, and inside that vessel beneath the layer of beeswax is Jesus’ DNA.”

  Cotten took a step back, and he slowed down, holding his hands up like a warning for her to listen and hear him out. “I know this part is going to be a leap. It was for me. But this is the crux of the whole thing, the link that puts it all together. Someone, guided by Lucifer, stole the Grail and wants to use the DNA to recreate the body of Christ. That person, the one under Satan’s influence, is called the False Prophet. I believe that person is the current Grand Master of the Templars. He prepares the way for the Antichrist. He is the one organizing everything—the leader of the seven heads. It will be Lucifer’s ultimate revenge on God, to use God’s own flesh and blood to do the bidding of the devil. That’s the abomination.”

  John picked up the Bible. “I reread the Book of Revelation while you slept. All the clues, the answers to everything, are here.” Locating the passage, he said, “Revelation 13:14: And deceiveth them that dwell on the earth by the means of those miracles which he had power to do in the sight of the beast; saying to them that dwell on the earth, that they should make an image to the beast, which had the wound by a sword, and did live. Not so many years ago, no one would have toyed with the thought of creating a real image to the beast. But with today’s technology, and given the fact that we have Christ’s DNA, it will be easy for the False Prophet to create the Antichrist through the miracle of cloning Christ’s body, a body that rose from the dead after being crucified and wounded in the side by a spear.

  “And here,” he said. “Revelation 13:15: And he had power to give life unto the image of the beast. By cloning the body of Christ, the False Prophet is able to give life, to create life. Other than natural childbirth, how else but by cloning could any human have the power to give life?” John took a deep breath. “And Cotten, you are the one who has been appointed by God to stop it.”

  “Why me? Why not some Mother Teresa, or Billy Graham, or the pope?”

  “I can’t pretend to know why God does some things, but for whatever reason, He chose you. You were given the knowledge of the language of heaven—the tongue of the angels. All things are led by the Divine hand. Think about this, Cotten. You were led to me, but if it had been a different woman, maybe I would have taken no interest, and the box would not have been delivered to the Vatican. A different w
oman wouldn’t have found me on old news footage, wouldn’t have looked for me. A different woman wouldn’t be a reporter. There would have been no news story to follow, no Thornton and Vanessa to drive that other woman to uncover the mystery. The Cup could have just disappeared, landed in evil hands, and Satan’s plan would have unfolded without obstacles.

  “God and Satan are at war; they battle every moment of every hour. We can’t possibly understand it all. We are only His instruments. God moved you through your life in ways that brought you to that crypt in Iraq on that given day, and at that hour. When Gabriel Archer handed you the box, he passed on the task of defeating Satan for the second—”

  “Stop! I don’t want to hear anymore. Stop it!” Cotten collapsed into John’s arms, sobbing. “No,” she whimpered. “I can’t do this. I can’t. There’s been a mistake.”

  John held her close. “God wouldn’t have chosen you if He didn’t believe in you. And if it were a mistake, why would they be doing everything possible to stop you?”

  She breathed into his chest. “But why haven’t they stopped me? Why Vanessa and Thornton? Why not me?”

  John lifted her face in his palms. “Because He has something for you to do. You are His—chosen, Cotten.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “So far it looks like you’ve done everything He’s asked.” John cleared the hair from her eyes. “You told me once that your father said you were meant for greatness. I think he was right. I believe you’re special. Now you have to start believing it, too.”

  Cotten’s voice was weak. “I’m just Cotten Stone, a simple Kentucky farm girl, daughter of Furmiel and Martha Stone—simple farm folks. I’m definitely no one special. You’d be a better choice. That would make sense. Why weren’t you given the job of stopping this thing—whatever it is?”

  “Maybe He knows I can’t. He didn’t choose me, but He let me decide to help you. Maybe He knows neither of us can do it alone.”

  “You’re the one with all the faith. Shit, you talk to Him on a regular basis.” She touched his crucifix with the tip of her finger. “I haven’t prayed since I was a kid.”

  “Praying isn’t something you whisper on your knees in church. Praying is simply communicating with God. I’d say He’s found a way to open up a pretty good line of communication, wouldn’t you?” John’s words came in a low voice. “He can see all the flaws in my faith. There’s never been anything I wanted more than to serve God, but I’ve floundered, never wholly giving up my life to Him. No matter how profoundly I’ve thought I wanted to live my life for God, I haven’t managed to find a way, so I’ve wandered from one endeavor to another. I’ve even buried doubts when they’ve arisen. But we can’t hide from God.”

  “Stop it. John, I’ve seen your strength, your solid faith. But me, I’ve never believed in anything, not even myself. I’ve always wanted the things I couldn’t have. Look at you, look at all the ways you’ve proven your devotion to doing God’s work. I’ve done nothing!”

  She felt her stomach turn sour. Had she destroyed his faith? It wouldn’t be fair; he was a good man. If the two of them had never met, if she’d never dragged him into her screwed-up life . . . Everything she touched . . .

  “I have to trust in Him, trust that He has brought me to this moment, brought me to you.” John’s eyes searched hers as if he hoped he could read her thoughts. “Cotten, there’s one more thing . . .” He drew away.

  Cool air replaced the warmth of his closeness.

  “John? What is it? Don’t keep anything from me, now. There is nothing else you can tell me that could be worse than what you’ve already said.”

  * * *

  It was the middle of the night, but light sleep plagued Charles Sinclair. He had dozed for twenty or thirty minutes, then eyes flashed open, his mind clear and alert. This was not a time for the passive state. His brain and body were fed a continuous charge of energy knowing what was taking place only a few steps from where he slept.

  Sinclair slipped from the bed, rearranging the covers, putting a down pillow against his wife’s back so she wouldn’t notice his absence. There was no need to disturb her. He wandered down from the family quarters to the lab to satisfy himself that all was well—that the process was safe and proceeding on schedule.

  Sinclair pressed his finger in the DNA analyzer before entering the code. In a moment he heard the familiar heavy metallic thump as the magnetic locks released, and the door to the lab unlocked. He pushed on the stainless steel door and entered.

  The molecular biology lab was dark—only a few security lights and the glow from a handful of computer monitors lit the room. Sinclair smiled as his gaze fell on his prized possession. Walking past a centrifuge and a few incubators, he approached a long counter—on top sat an acrylic case containing the Cup—beside it the silver titanium travel case.

  In the state-of-the-art surroundings of gleaming chrome, stainless, brass, and glass, the Grail looked out of place—an anachronism. The ancient beeswax, meticulously removed from the Cup, lay in a separate sealed container. In its place, a thin, specially created polymer, clear as cellophane, adhered to and conserved both the inside and outside of the Cup.

  Sinclair moved to a second polycarbonate container a few feet away. But this one was extraordinary, developed and produced for this purpose alone. The container was mounted to a microscope so its precious contents would not be disturbed during observations—tubes and hoses attached to its sides provided a controlled environment of air, humidity, and temperature. Inside, within a small glass petri dish rested the miracle. But unlike all the previous clonings by other scientists, there would be no human surrogate mother. Instead —and perhaps this was his most exquisite invention, he thought—the virgin to carry this Christ-child would be a synthetic womb. He’d experimented for years with women who, for a price, offered to be surrogate mothers. And then later he’d experimented with donated uterine organs, but the failure rate with both was unacceptable. Embryos often divided properly at first, then stopped. Those he managed to encourage to divide appropriately, most often failed to implant. And those that did, terminated in miscarriage.

  It was during this time of haunting frustration that the old man had come into Sinclair’s life. Within months, he guided the geneticist in a creation that rivaled that of nature’s—a perfect synthetic uterus. And, he had solved the mystery of primate cloning—why there was chromosomal chaos during the last stages, and better yet, how to remedy it with a key protein-rich chemical soup. The thought brought a satisfied expression to his face.

  The hum of computer cooling fans and mini-pumps filled the room as Sinclair looked into the microscope and adjusted the focus. “The world is about to change forever,” he whispered. “The Son of God belongs to the Son of the Dawn.”

  Behold, I come as a thief, and thou shalt not know at what hour! (Revelations 3:3)

  the red heifer

  “What do you mean, there’s more?” Cotten said. Her hands trembled in anticipation.

  John moved from the window. “Like I said, while you slept, I reread the book of Revelation. It seemed so clear that we are dealing with evil in its purest form. But then I read more passages—the words of Ezekiel, Matthew, and others, all describing the Second Coming.

  “You have to realize when these men described the event, they thought it would happen soon, perhaps even in their lifetime. Their writing related to customs, beliefs, traditions, and ways of life they were familiar with—they used the terminology of their time. They had no idea what was to come hundreds, even thousands of years later. If you had described the concept of cloning to any of them, they would have considered you insane—perhaps even a heretic for thinking you had the power of God to create a human. When I reread their words describing how Christ would return to Earth, I could clearly see that maybe, just maybe, this is how it is supposed to be.”

  “What do you mean?�
� Cotten said.

  “This might really be the Second Coming.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “The book of Revelation—the Apocalypse—is filled with the visions of John the Apostle, a man who had no knowledge of the science we know today. He predicted the events as best he could, relying on the depth of his information at the time. Tonight, I used his words to convince you that this whole thing is an attempt by Lucifer to get revenge on God—that we are about to see the creation of the Antichrist. But consider for a moment that there’s something even deeper here. What if using the DNA from the Grail and the cloning of Jesus Christ is in fact the Second Coming? The time is right. The signs are present. What if we pursue this and though we think we are stopping something evil we really become responsible for stopping the true Second Coming?”

  John looked up at the ceiling, then back at her. “Okay, I’m going to reach out to the farm girl in you. We’re going to talk cows.”

  Cotten offered up a confused laugh.

  “One of the last signs in the Bible that the end is near, that it is time for Jesus to return, is the rebuilding of the Temple in Jerusalem. But first, those who would rebuild the Temple must undergo purification. According to the book of Numbers, a perfect red heifer—no defects, and on which a yoke has never been placed—has to be slaughtered and burned, its ashes made into a paste to be used in the purification ceremony.”

  “That should be easy enough.”

  “Except that no flawless red heifer has been born since Herod’s Temple was destroyed in a.d. 70—about 2,000 years ago. That is, until last April. They thought one was born in 1997, but white hairs popped out on the tip of her tail, so she was ruled unacceptable for sacrifice. But the calf born in April looks like she might just be the one. So you see, if the purification can take place according to the directions given Moses, the Jews will certainly take over the Temple Mount and begin rebuilding. The red heifer means the time is at hand.”