by Lynn Sholes
“No!” Cotten screamed.
The old man’s voice thundered. The glass beakers trembled. “Tunka tee rosfal ee Nephilim. You belong to the Fallen. You are one of us.”
John gripped Cotten’s wrist even more tightly. “Don’t listen!”
A hiss, like steam escaping a boiler, sounded, and her flesh seared with the heat of the old man’s breath.
“Behold the Cross of the Lord, flee bands of enemies,” John said. “May Thy mercy, Lord, descend upon us.”
Sign of the cross.
Hot wind blasted her—a gale spun out of hell.
“We drive you from us,” John said, “whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions.”
The pain in her head grew with a fury. Cotten balked and stumbled. She feared she was going to vomit and felt herself heave.
John edged her onward. “God the Father commands you.”
Sign of the cross.
The floor seemed to vibrate. The hot wind, the quivering, her body shaking to its core—she was losing touch. Again she stumbled, one leg collapsing beneath her.
“God the Son commands you.”
Sign of the cross.
“God the Holy Spirit commands you.”
Sign of the cross.
John reached around her, pulling her to her feet.
The air pressure in the lab throbbed—pounding, crushing.
“This is not where it ends.” The voice was harsh like stones scraping. “You are weak like your father.”
The heat boiled Cotten’s strength from her. Another stab of pain made her rip her hand from John’s.
“By the God who so loved the world that He gave up His only Son, that every soul believing in Him might not perish but have everlasting life.” John grabbed her hand again.
The heat was so intense now, Cotten felt her skin blister.
John’s voice echoed above the wind that nearly shattered her eardrums. “Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord, the God of Hosts. Oh Lord, hear my prayer. God of heaven, God of earth, God of Angels, God of Archangels—”
The crescendo of the wind.
The blast of hair-singeing air.
The boom of John’s powerful voice.
The stabbing pain.
Cotten heard crashing sounds as tables overturned, the shattering of glass, the clanging of steel on steel. She wanted to give up, to fall on her knees, to beg for mercy, but John held her to him, more carrying her now than leading her. She hadn’t the strength or the will to continue on herself. For an instant she tried to break from him and flee, but he held her firm.
“Oh Lord, hear my prayer. And let my cry come unto Thee.”
Cotten twisted away. “I can’t. I can’t.”
John yanked her back and enfolded her.
“We beseech Thee through Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen. From the snares of the devil, deliver us oh Lord.”
Sign of the cross.
“In the Name of the Father—”
Sign of the cross
“And of the Son—”
Sign of the cross.
“And of the Holy Spirit.”
Sign of the cross.
Suddenly the wind died to a trickle, and the heat in it cooled. The unbearable pain in her head seeped away. She opened her eyes in time to see a flare of light and a whirl of dust where the old man had stood.
John and Cotten passed through the door. She leaned on him, drained, her throat scorched raw.
He held her to him as he slammed the push button panel, making the door close.
Before it shut, Cotten caught a last glimpse inside the lab—she could see a slight swirling of smoky air, papers drifting down, the flicker of the flame from the Bunsen burner.
John cradled her face between his palms. “It’s going to blow any minute. We’ve got to get out of here.”
They ran, John pulling her as her strength slowly returned. Behind them, the door to the lab sealed in the deadly combination of pure oxygen and an open flame.
* * *
Cotten tried to focus, but everything still blurred—her vision—her awareness. A thick mist clung inside her skull, her thoughts jumbled, foggy, and disconnected. John pulled her down the hall leading from the lab, and she could hear their footfalls, echoing their way into her ears.
The alarm horns shrieked like prehistoric creatures in mortal combat. The fire-like sensation on her skin faded, but she feared it left blisters behind. The unusual smell of sulfur filled her nostrils while she ran, hugging the travel case.
Panicky voices rang throughout the house as she and John burst into the foyer at the base of the huge staircase. Servants, caterers, and guests ran past them toward the front entrance.
“Come on,” John yelled, guiding her into the rush of bodies.
Suddenly, she sensed fresh, damp night air, and stumbled down the porch steps and across the drive—her shoes sinking into the soft earth. Cotten choked back a cry. A breeze off the river swept over her, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
In the next instant, the ground and the air convulsed—a shockwave. The blast struck from behind.
The lab had blown.
The explosion pushed her and John a half dozen yards through the air and landed them in a flower garden. John hit first, face down in the soft loam. But Cotten smacked her head on one of the decorative stones. She lay still for a moment, dazed.
Finally, she lifted her head and looked back at the classic antebellum architecture of the estate house. Smoke billowed from the roof of the east wing—flames shooting from broken windows, lapping at the eaves. The sound of a nearby fountain merged with the crackle of fire.
The earth shook again with smaller explosions.
The noise in her head, like the buzzing of swarming locusts, a violent vibration, grew louder, deafening.
“John?” She saw his distorted face, as if looking up through the water from the bottom of a pool.
Cotten felt herself fading into darkness. Her fingers loosened their grip on the silver case, and a moment later her hand fell away.
He who endures to the end shall be saved.” (Matthew 24:13)
recovery
“I thought I would never see you again,” Cotten said as she looked up into the face of her sister, Motnees, who was framed in a brilliant light.
“I’m always here.”
“Is it really over?” Cotten asked.
“For now,” Motnees said, stroking her sister’s forehead. “Our father is proud of you.”
“So he is at peace?”
“Yes,” Motnees said.
Her image faded, and the light paled. “Never forget.”
“What?” Cotten said, reaching.
“Geh el Grip.” The radiance barely illuminated Motnees and her smile. Then she was gone.
Ted Casselman’s voice transcended the mist and lifted Cotten up to consciousness. Suddenly, she felt like a diver returning from the depths.
“I think she’s waking up,” Casselman said.
Cotten blinked.
John took her hand. “Welcome back.”
The room was bleak, sterile, and smelled of disinfectant. She lifted her arm and stared at the attached IV. The memory of their escape flooded back.
She wanted to speak, but her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her lips felt glued together. She looked at the plastic pitcher and cup next to her bed.
“Are you thirsty?” John asked.
Cotten nodded.
He poured her a glass and held it for her.
The water cooled her mouth and freed her tongue and lips. The light streaming in through the hospital window made her squint. “What time is it?”
“Four thirty,” John said. “You’ve been in and out over the last coup
le of days. You look more alert, like you are going to stay with us this time. The doctor says you’re going to be fine. Only a bad concussion.”
Cotten’s stare locked on John. “Where is it?” she whispered.
“FBI,” John said.
She closed her eyes. It all seemed so unreal, more like a dream she had gladly awakened from, even though some of the vestiges of the nightmare held fast. Her body hurt, and her skin felt sunburned. No, it had all been real—from the tomb and Gabriel Archer to the cloning lab and Charles Sinclair, to—she shuddered, recalling Gus’s revelations and then the old man blocking their escape from the lab. She tried focusing on her boss. “What are you doing here, Ted?”
“You’re both all over the news. As soon as the first reports hit the wire, the production crew and I were on a plane to New Orleans. You know the old saying about someone having a nose for news? Well, honey, you’ve outdone yourself.”
Cotten wanted to laugh, but she didn’t have the energy. It was more like the story had chased her until it finally ran her over.
“Uncle Gus?”
“No sign,” John said.
“No, there wouldn’t be.”
“It’s all over, Cotten,” he said.
“Thank God.”
“Yes, you should do that.”
The nurse came in and checked Cotten’s vitals, rendering the room silent for a few minutes. When the nurse finished, Cotten directed her gaze back at John. “By the way, that was quite a tackle you threw on Uncle Gus,” she said.
“I was saving it for the next student-faculty game, but it seemed like the right time to give it a shot.”
“I ever tell you those eyes are wasted on a priest?” Cotten said.
Casselman thumped the bed rail with his knuckles. “What’s up? Anything I should know about you two?”
“We’re just good friends,” Cotten said.
“This is one special lady,” John said, speaking to Casselman, but his eyes on Cotten.
“That she is,” Casselman agreed.
Cotten’s expression turned somber. “What happened to Sinclair?” she asked.
Casselman pulled a chair to her bedside but didn’t sit. “He didn’t make it. There were about a dozen people injured, and four dead, so far. Sinclair was one of them. The whole deal is outrageous—what Sinclair was up to, stealing the Grail, the cloning. Then to top it off, they found that cardinal you interviewed at the Vatican—Ianucci—murdered right here in New Orleans. They’re saying he’s the one who switched the relic.” He glanced at both of them. “Either of you know anything about that?” When they didn’t respond, he went on. “That and the Sinclair story are on the front page of every paper in the country. And, my dear Ms. Stone, you are going to be the darling of every news broadcast and talk show. The world isn’t going to be able to get enough of that beautiful face.” He reached out and tweaked her chin almost like a relative would pinch a youngster’s cheek. “I smell a Pulitzer on the horizon, Cotten, once you write the whole story.”
She was only half listening to Casselman. “Are you all right?” she asked John.
“A few cuts and bruises,” he said, shrugging. “You’re the one who took the brunt of it.”
“And the old man?”
“What old man?” Casselman asked.
John shook his head, casting his eyes to the floor.
“Who are you talking about?” Casselman asked.
“Someone we ran into on the way out,” John said.
“Oh. Well, I’m sure we’ll be getting a complete list of all those injured or killed. What was his name?”
“Son of the Dawn,” she whispered, turning away.
“What?” Casselman said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cotten answered. “Robert Wingate is involved in this, too,” she said.
Casselman seemed to reel back on his heels. “No shit,” he said. “Well then, listen to this. This has been a hell of a week. Monday morning Wingate was found dead in his car in the garage. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Looks like suicide. Guess the guy couldn’t handle the scandal. Same day that he announced he was back in the presidential race, some kid came forward and accused him of child molestation. After that initial allegation, four other boys came forward. Seems Wingate had a fetish for young boys. That accounts for the boys’ ranch. Always turns out to be little league coaches and scout leaders or priests—excuse me, John. No offense.”
“None taken,” John replied.
Casselman dropped down in the chair. “It’s amazing how far the tentacles of this Grail thing reach—like somebody spit in the pool and the ripples just keep on spreading.” He patted Cotten’s hand. “We’re sending you to Rome to cover the Grail’s return to the Vatican. Of course not until you’re on the mend. And there’s a big fat promotion in this for you, Cotten. Thornton will be missed, but the public will love you in his spot. Not only are you the rising star, the whole backstory will have everyone clamoring to sit in front of their televisions when you’re on.”
She didn’t want any more notoriety. The quest for the big story wasn’t high on her list anymore. “Not me.” Her voice was small.
“But Cotten,” Casselman said, “of course you’ll cover it. Think of the publicity for both you and SNN. Young female reporter saves the most important religious relic of all time.” Casselman grinned. “Twice!” He rubbed his chin. “In the meantime, I’ve got a million questions for you two, starting with this cloning business.”
“Let somebody else go to Rome, Ted,” Cotten said.
Casselman chuckled. “No way. You’re the only one who can do it—the only one.”
Cotten gave a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Movement in the doorway made them all turn.
“Felipe,” John said, surprise in his voice.
A tall man in a black suit with a Roman collar entered the room. His dark complexion matched his eyes. He extended his hand. “John, it is good to see you.” A faint Spanish accent coated his words.
“And it’s good to see you again.” John took the priest’s hand in both of his and gave it a strong shake. “I’d like you to meet someone,” he said. “Your Excellency, this is Cotten Stone, news correspondent with SNN. Cotten, this is Archbishop Felipe Montiagro, the Vatican Apostolic Nuncio to the United States.” He nodded toward Casselman. “Archbishop, this is Ted Casselman, news director for the Satellite News Network.”
Casselman got to his feet. “It’s a pleasure, Your Excellency.” He stepped away from his chair. “Here, please.”
Montiagro waved his hand. “No, no.” He moved next to the bed and studied Cotten’s face for a few moments. “You are a courageous young woman. I hope your recovery is going well?”
“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know about courage. John is the one who got us out.”
He blessed her and whispered a quick prayer. Then he turned to John. “I received a call late last night. You’ve been summoned to the Vatican to document the extraordinary events that have taken place here.”
“Whoa, that’s incredible,” Casselman said, raising both hands high. “An audience with the new pope!”
Montiagro smiled at Casselman. “There is no guarantee of that. As you can imagine, everyone wants to meet the new Holy Father.”
“How soon?” John asked.
“They are anxious.”
“Give me a few days.”
“I’ll relay your request,” the archbishop said. “And John, I have a feeling the Holy Father has something special in mind for you.”
The archbishop turned to Cotten. “Miss Stone, the authorities are making arrangements to return the blessed relic to us. We would be honored if you could be there to take part in the ceremony.”
“She accepts!” Ted Casselman said.
A small idiosyncrasy in Montiagro’s expr
ession made her realize he understood that the final decision would be hers. “We will see you in Rome, then. May the Lord speed your recovery,” he said.
“Archbishop,” John said as Montiagro walked to the door. “Thank you for everything.”
Montiagro placed his hand on John’s shoulder. “It is you we must thank—both of you.”
When the archbishop had gone, Casselman grabbed Cotten’s toes through the sheets and wiggled her feet. “This just keeps getting better.”
the hall of constantine
“They’re ready, Ms. Stone,” the priest said. He motioned with his arm, and Cotten rose from her chair in the Vatican Museum antechamber. Standing nearby was an FBI agent, a group of clergy, and a handful of plainclothes members of Vatican security. Two Swiss Guards were positioned on each side of the tall, ornate door—their colorful armor and plume uniforms dating back to Michelangelo. The FBI agent held the silver travel case.
As Cotten stepped through the doorway into the Hall of Constantine, the first of the museum’s Raphael Rooms, she gasped at the splendor. The room, chosen for this ceremony because of its theme of the triumphs of Christianity, displayed scenes from the life and battles of the great Roman emperor.
The hall was packed with clergy, dignitaries, and members of the world press—a sprinkling of red and purple designated many of the Roman Curia who were present, including the Secretariat of State, along with other heads of the Vatican and Italian governments. Cotten also recognized the U.S. ambassador to the Vatican, and the president of SNN. Beside him was Ted Casselman.
The priest escort ushered her to the center aisle where she turned and took the case from the agent.
The room was so quiet that Cotten could hear the rustle of her crisp gray suit against her stockings as she walked alone up the aisle. Ahead, on a platform riser, stood a solitary man—the newly consecrated bishop and papal appointed prelate of the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archaeology—John Tyler. Her eyes fastened on his—still the bluest she’d ever known.
Suddenly, she felt a knot in her stomach—a pang of dread that a chapter in her life was ending—a door was closing forever. Seeing John in the purple cassock of his new office confirmed it.