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

by Lynn Sholes

  Gus shifted his gaze to John. “And, priest, your God is not what you think. He is not the all-merciful, all-forgiving god you pray to. Not Furmiel, not any of us, can ever return to our home in Paradise.

  “Fortunately for you, Cotten, all of my brothers have sworn to never harm any of our own kind—your kind—as our number would dwindle and diminish our legion. To do our work, we have recruited mortals—egotistical, power-hungry men, the likes of Charles Sinclair and the Templars. But you, dear Cotten, are different—a one of a kind. For not only are you of this place, but part of you is of a higher order. You are one of us.”

  His expression softened, and Cotten saw the same familiar smile she had loved for so long—now a repulsive mask of evil and betrayal. It sickened her.

  Lowering the pistol, Gus Ruby said, “I’m not here to kill you, Cotten. I’m here to bring you home.”

  the lab

  As Gus Ruby lowered the gun, John sprang forward, slamming the big man full in the chest, knocking him backwards into the hall. Dropping his weight onto Gus, John gripped his wrist and wrenched the weapon away. Fighting for breath, Gus tried to rise up but stopped as John aimed the gun at his face.

  “Don’t move,” John said. “Not a sound.”

  Wind knocked from him, Gus coughed and struggled to talk. “You haven’t been listening, priest.” His lips warped into an arrogant grin. “You’re wasting your time. You can’t kill me.”

  Cotten stepped beside the two men. “You’re right, Uncle Gus,” she said. Geh el Grip. You are the only one. It was all becoming so clear to her.

  “He can’t hurt you,” Cotten said as she slowly reached to take the gun from John’s hand. She pointed it at Gus. “But I can. Isn’t that right? You said you can’t kill me—that there is a pact not to harm another of your kind—our kind. That must mean we have the power to harm each other . . . that I have that power.”

  John rolled off of Gus and stood.

  Cotten motioned with the gun. “Get up, Uncle Gus.”

  With great effort, Gus Ruby managed to pull himself to stand. He looked at Cotten, his chest straining the buttons on his shirt as he breathed. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

  His confidence seemed to ebb.

  “But you don’t know that for sure, do you?” she said. “You don’t know which part of me controls the pressure on the trigger.”

  “Cotten, you’ve done enough to pay your father’s dues,” Gus said. “It’s time you were set free. We want to bring you into the fold.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” John said.

  Gus laughed. “You’re out of your league, priest. You have no say in this matter.”

  Gus glared at Cotten. “How has your life been so far, sweetheart? Has God shone his glorious grace on you? Hmm?”

  “Leave her alone,” John said.

  “Unlike your god, Father Tyler, the Son of the Dawn is forgiving. Cotten, your father was never allowed to return to Paradise, no matter what he did, no matter how he begged. And his punishment never ended, did it? His day-to-day battle to survive, to provide for his family, to live as a man, crushed him. God never let up on him. Remember the drought? All the hardship? Poor Furmiel finally broke. Why would anyone choose to honor that kind of a god? But we are opening our arms to embrace you. You will be given anything you want—wealth, fame, contentment—there is no limit.”

  His voice turned soft, tender, the old Uncle Gus that she had loved all her life.

  “Come home, Cotten.”

  Tears streaked Cotten’s cheeks and her arm trembled as she raised the gun. “I am home . . . and I’m the one who has to end this.” She pointed the gun at Gus’s head.

  “Don’t make the biggest mistake of your life, sweetheart.”

  Cotten shook her head. “Where’s the lab?”

  “That’s your problem,” Gus said.

  “Turn around,” she said. When his back was to her, Cotten nosed the gun into Gus’s shoulder and said, “Down the hall.”

  They guided the big man to a guest bedroom they had entered earlier. Cotten nudged Gus inside the closet.

  John stripped the king-size sheet off the bed, wound Gus inside the top sheet, and then tied the contoured sheet around him.

  As he did, Gus said, “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re wasting your time?”

  “We’ve got to keep him quiet,” Cotten said. She took off her pinafore and ripped a broad swatch from the cheap material. “Here, jam this in his mouth and tie it with the rest.”

  When John was done, Cotten stared at Gus for a moment, wondering if all their effort would be in vain. “Think that will hold him?” she asked. “Or does he have some kind of special—”

  “It will hold the flesh. That’s all I can guess,” John said.

  “All right, let’s do it,” Cotten said.

  They descended the staircase, veered opposite the study and entered a room as elaborate as the lobby of a Park Avenue hotel. It opened to the dinner hall. They froze at the sight of servants scurrying about, adding last minute touches to banquet tables.

  Cotten suddenly stopped short, hearing the clatter of pots, the tinkle of crystal, the voice of what was probably the head waiter ordering about the servants. “Not that way,” she said. “That must be the kitchen. She broke down a passageway to a closed door at the end. Cotten turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  This part of the house looked barren and sterile. She peered up into the eye of a security camera.

  “Go, go,” John said, almost pushing her down the empty corridor. The lighting here didn’t come from Strauss or Waterford chandeliers, but from recessed fluorescents. The walls were stark and the doors stainless steel.

  “See what’s in there,” Cotten said, pointing to the first door.

  John opened it. “Looks like laboratory supplies,” he said.

  “Then we must be close. This wing has got to be Sinclair’s private lab suite.”

  The remaining doors they passed stood open, revealing what appeared to be rooms for surgical procedures, pharmaceuticals, general laboratory operations, more storage, and even a collection of medical and science reference materials. The hall made a turn to the right, ending with an imposing steel door.

  They stood before it.

  “Looks like a bank vault,” Cotten said. “This must be it.”

  John pointed to the combination keypad and a device shaped like the bowl of a spoon.

  “Oh, shit,” Cotten mumbled, realizing what it was for.

  John reached into his pocket.

  She watched him open the cardinal’s box. Inside rested a human index finger severed at the second knuckle.

  John turned and glanced around the corner, down the hall. “I think I heard something. They’re bound to be coming any second.”

  Cotten motioned to the box. “Do it.”

  John took the finger from the box.

  She fought back a gag as she saw the trail of dangling tissue and ooze from the severed end.

  He positioned the pad of the finger in the spoon. The device hummed faintly, bringing the keyboard to life, each key backlit in soft blue. The readout scrolled the message: Cardinal Antonio Ianucci. Identity confirmed. The screen darkened and then displayed a new message. Enter code.

  Cotten looked at John. “What code?”

  “I have no idea,” he said.

  “We’re dead.”

  Just south of Scotland’s capital city of Edinburgh is the village of Roslin, the home of Rosslyn Chapel and Rosslyn Castle, the home of the St. Clairs (Sinclairs). In that small village is a state-of-the-art research center, Roslin Institute. It is here that Dolly the sheep was cloned.

  The God of peace will crush Satan under your feet. (Romans 16:20)

  the clone

  “A code, a code,” Cotten whispered. “Why wo
uld the cardinal get us this far and not tell us the code? If he knew about the security, he must have known we needed a code.”

  Suddenly, in her mind Cotten heard Archer’s mumblings. A rush of heat swept through her. As if inspired, she said, “Oh, my God! John, I think I know what it is! I’ve known it all along—Archer told me.” She reached to the keypad. “Please let this be it. Please.” She looked at John. “Matthew,” she whispered, then pressed 2-6-2-7-2-8.

  The keypad turned from blue to green, and the display read: Code accepted. Entry authorized. There was a heavy metallic thump as the magnetic locks released, and the motor-driven door slowly opened.

  On the inside wall was a red rectangular button the size of a pack of cigarettes labeled open/close. John slammed it with his palm, and the mechanism reversed. With a heavy thud, the door closed and locked.

  Cotten whirled around, catching a panoramic view of the laboratory. “Where is it?”

  Her eyes fell on a silver travel case, and then next to that, a transparent container. The Cup. She approached the acrylic container in awe of the beauty and simplicity of the remarkable relic inside. Two thousand years ago, Jesus Christ drank from it and the next day it caught His blood as He died on the Cross. Carefully, she removed the Cup. Her finger traced the rim, then made a long stroke down the outside of the bowl and the stem to the base. It was completely encased in some sort of thin, clear coating, but even with the protective veneer, touching it gave her chills. Cotten placed it in the silver travel case, closed the lid, and hugged it to her chest.

  The Cup of Christ had come back to her.

  She turned to watch John as he walked to a stainless steel cart near a far corner. He stared at an incubator with a microscope attached. Digital displays flashed above it showing temperature, levels of oxygen saturation, CO2 concentration, humidity, and other vital indicators. Inside was what appeared to be an ordinary petri dish. He peered through the lens of the microscope and became still as if spellbound.

  “John?” she whispered.

  Slowly lifting his head, he made the sign of the cross.

  “Is that it?” she asked, standing beside him.

  He faced her, his eyes hazed, a thunderstruck expression.

  “Hurry before someone comes. Destroy it,” she said.

  John didn’t move.

  Cotten placed the silver case on the counter and put her eye to the microscope. There in the dish she saw four cells like tiny bubbles clumped together.

  “Blastocyst,” she whispered. It looked exactly like every picture she’d ever seen of a fertilized egg growing and dividing—the beginning of a human life.

  “What if it’s really . . .” John faltered. His words sounded painful. “We could be murdering the Son of God.”

  Cotten’s lips parted to speak—Geh el crip resonated in her head.

  “But what if we’re wrong?” He stared at her, but his eyes were filled with doubt. His voice cracked. “How could I ever live with myself knowing I was no different than those who drove the nails into his hands?”

  She reached to touch his face. Here in the final moment, John wasn’t going to be able to destroy the clone. He was on fire inside, she realized. His entire being burned with dread. All the doubts and concerns he had expressed must be ripping him apart. Was this thing the Antichrist? Or was John about to stop the Second Coming? Would destroying the clone be the equivalent of committing abortion? Murder?

  “I can’t,” John said. “I can’t play God.”

  A chorus of voices echoed in Cotten’s head. “Geh el crip.” She took his hand. “We aren’t playing God. He chose us—brought us together and led us to this place.” She choked. “Thornton. Vanessa. I can’t believe they were sacrificed for no reason. John, you made me see reality. Why did I wander onto that dig site in Iraq at just the right moment? Why did my twin die at birth only to talk to me in a language you said is the language of heaven? Why have you searched for the way God wants you to serve? John, this is it.”

  Her mind cleared. She was the only one who could stop the Son of the Dawn. John’s very faith gave him doubts—and God knew that would happen. That was why she was chosen. She was part of the contract her father had made with God.

  Geh el crip.

  John gripped her arm and took a step back, pulling her away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing him aside. “But I have to do this.” She ripped the hoses and wires from the incubator, then picked up the entire apparatus and smashed it on the floor.

  As if in slow motion, the box split open on impact sending jagged transparent shards across the tile. The microscope tore loose and spun on the floor at her feet. But the petri dish miraculously landed upright and intact.

  Cotten glared at it for an instant, and then stomped down, crushing it under her heel.

  The dish shattered.

  “It’s over,” she said. “It’s done.”

  Suddenly, the lab filled with the blare of alarm horns. Cotten covered her ears. Red and white strobes flashed.

  “Come on,” John yelled, the noise appearing to startle him back to life.

  “Wait,” Cotten said, spotting a row of oxygen canisters along the wall. Her eyes searched the room. Near the door was a workstation with pipes leading to it. “Gas lines.” She recognized the Bunsen burner on the counter.

  She rushed to the canisters, yanked the hoses from their attachments, and opened their valves. Oxygen hissed into the room.

  The Bunsen burner had a hose running from its base to a gas outlet on one of the pipes. She flipped the control handle, turning on the gas flow. She rotated the knurled knob at the base of the burner, funneling the gas up through the barrel.

  “Light, light, light,” she yelled over the screaming alarm. “Find a match!”

  John grabbed a Duraflame lighter gun from a nearby shelf.

  She took it and ignited the burner. It flickered pale and weak. Quickly she adjusted the Bunsen’s air vents, and at last the luminous flame turned orange and yellow. She wasn’t after the kind of flame the burner was most often adjusted to produce—not the controlled compact flame with a pale violet-blue halo around a dark core.

  She wanted fire—the fires of hell.

  Quickly she retrieved the silver case that contained the Grail. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, grasping John’s arm.

  They turned toward the door. It was already opening.

  Then the beast was captured, and with him the False Prophet who worked signs in his presence, by which he deceived those who received the mark of the beast and those who worshiped his image. These two were cast alive into the lake of fire burning with brimstone. (Revelation 19:20)

  face to face

  Cotten clutched the titanium case, and was set to run, every fiber in her body, every strip of sinew and thread of muscle on the ready. But then she caught sight of the man standing just outside the open door.

  A flash of heat blew in, and the air sizzled. Cotten shuddered.

  An old gentleman gazed at her, his eyes piercing.

  John stared at the man in the doorway. “The missing tenth horn,” he said.

  A debilitating pain just above Cotten’s eye sockets wracked her—similar to the pain that follows eating ice cream too quickly. But this was more intense, like glowing hot spikes driving through her skull, the muscles to her eyes—her very brain—cramping, burning. Cotten pressed the heel of her left hand to her forehead and cried out. “John, get us out. I can’t see.”

  She heard a snap, and then John took her hand and put an object between her thumb and forefinger. His crucifix from the chain around his neck.

  He lifted her hand by the wrist. “We’ve got to do this together,” he said.

  John spoke while moving her forward.

  “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

 
“Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in our battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high place.”

  The pain slackened for an instant, and Cotten fluttered her eyes briefly to see John. Sweat beaded above his lip and on his brow. But there was confidence in his face and his voice. His eyes bore down on the old man who was now more a mirage, a quavering image like heat rising from pavement. The pain in her eyes made her close them.

  “Cotten.”

  The voice shot nerve impulses through her, and the room flooded with the distinct aromas of fresh cut hay, shucked corn, Kentucky soil.

  “You haven’t forgotten me, have you?” the voice said.

  “Daddy?” Cotten said, a wave of emotion washing over her.

  “It’s not your father, Cotten,” John said. “He’s a liar.” John inched forward and continued the liturgy. “. . . take hold of the dragon, the old serpent, which is the devil and Satan, bind him and cast him into the bottomless pit that he may no longer seduce the nations.”

  Again the voice—this time in the language only she could understand. “Cri sprok inhime. Sprak dien e vigo. Listen to me. You are my little girl.”

  She felt John use their joined hands to make the sign of the cross.

  Three steps forward.

  “In the Name of Jesus Christ, our Lord.”

  “Gril te.” It was Vanessa. “Put your trust in me, Cotten. I’m your best friend. I died for you. Step away from the priest. He is the one who lies.”

  “Stop!” Cotten shouted, pressing a hand to her ear. “Nessi, forgive me.”

  “Don’t listen to the voices, Cotten,” John shouted. “It’s a trick. He’s trying to weaken you.”