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

by Lynn Sholes

  “What did you say the network paid?” Casselman asked.

  “Eight K,” she answered, hearing Ted whistle. “Don’t give me a hard time. I’m absolutely sure it’s the real thing. If the network hadn’t bought it, it would have sold on the black market for way more than that. And somebody else would’ve gotten the story—and the glory. I’ve checked it out, Ted. The experts say it’s the real deal.”

  “Checking something out and confirming authenticity are two different things, kiddo. Nobody should know that better than you.” He paused. “I just don’t want you to turn into Geraldo opening Capone’s vault—or worse, another Dan Rather debacle. Know what I mean?”

  “I had a paleontologist examine the fossil. He gave me a thumbs-up.”

  “Listen to how it sounds, Cotten—just so you’re ready for whatever comes. Good old Gilley—that was the dealer’s name, right? God, is everybody in Texas named Gilley?”

  “No, there are some George Ws and Lyndons. But honestly, that’s how he introduced himself—Gilley.”

  “Better than Deep Throat, I suppose. Anyway, Gilley the Texan, son of a junk collector with a pile of old dinosaur bones, finds this mind-blowing fossil in his old man’s basement in a box with a bunch of other bone fragments. He calls you, all on the q.t., offering you the big story for a reasonable fee—otherwise he’s going to sell this thing on the black market for a bundle. But out of the goodness of his heart—”

  “No, it wasn’t the goodness of his heart. He figures with the notoriety he’ll get if we cover the story, his fossil store will reap tons of bucks. He can write a book, do interviews, and have his fifteen minutes. His other choice is to sell underground, and he’ll realize the same amount up front, but no flash. Said that either way to him is fine. But he’d prefer the flash.”

  “And the paleontologist? Where’d he come from?”

  “Come on, Ted, give me a break. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

  “Because you’re like my own daughter. I worry about you. Don’t want you to get sloppy amidst all this fame.”

  Cotten’s body relaxed back into the seat, and she glanced at the speedometer. She was doing eighty-nine in a sixty-five zone, so she eased off the accelerator. Ted really did worry about her. “His name is Waterman. That’s Waterman with a P-H-D at the end. I met him at a party the Museum of Natural History had for the press a couple of months ago. Worked out perfect. He offered to go down to Texas. Of course, he had to sign a nondisclosure until we air the story. And it took some doing to persuade Gilley to let Waterman see it. Only the brass at NBC, Waterman, Gilley, me—and now you—know about this. And I’d get fired if they knew I was having this conversation with my competition.”

  “Waterman,” Ted repeated. “Got a first name?”

  “Henry—no, Harry,” Cotten said. “Harry Waterman. Why?”

  “Just curious. Maybe I’ll see what I can find out about him.”

  “He wrote the network a letter stating his opinion that it was authentic. If he hadn’t, I don’t think they’d have sprung for the money.”

  “So, you’re shooting live for the evening news?”

  Cotten’s muscles tensed with excitement. She was back on top. This evening, her face would be in everyone’s living room. God, she loved it.

  “Yep,” she said. “Today’s the big day.”

  “Guess I’d better start getting my crew in place.”

  Cotten heard anticipation in his voice. “What do you mean?”

  “Think about the huge follow-up story. How are the scientific community and the fundamentalists going to respond to seeing proof that the Bible literally got it right? Somebody’s going to eat crow—or maybe a brontosaurus steak.”

  “I like a good roasting,” Cotten said.

  There were at least three seconds of silence before Ted responded. “Take care, kid.”

  “Talk to you soon,” she said, and flipped the phone closed.

  Cotten peered at the bloated, galvanized gray clouds hanging low in the sky. She might get to witness the Paluxy River’s transformation.

  Up ahead, she saw the faded sign: Gilley’s Fossils and General Store, One Mile. This was it. The moment she had waited for. The story that would put her on top once again. The Grail conspiracy had been one thing. But this—undisputed proof that man had lived during the time of the dinosaurs. Her fifteen minutes just kept getting longer.

  During the last visit to Glen Rose, Gilley had taken her a couple of miles down the road to visit the Creation Evidence Museum. She’d found it fascinating, especially the collection of dinosaur and human footprints. She’d talked to several people there who were passionate in their beliefs. Wait until they got a load of what she was about to broadcast.

  As Cotten Stone pulled into the gravel-filled parking lot of the rustic tourist attraction, she felt that old familiar rush of excitement. She had created huge headlines over the last two years: when she found the Holy Grail—twice; when she persuaded the Vatican to open its vaults and allow the Jews to reclaim the sacred menorah of the Second Temple brought to Rome by Titus in AD 70; when she covered the amazing find of more ancient scrolls in caves near the Dead Sea; and when she announced the discovery of the thirty pieces of silver that Judas Iscariot was paid to betray Christ. But this would be her crowning achievement. When it came to religious sensationalism, Cotten Stone ruled the airwaves. And now she had the chance to single-handedly debunk the basic scientific theory of evolution right here on a hot afternoon along a dusty stretch of Texas highway. She was riding high, feeling the adrenaline flush her face and throat.

  Cotten pulled in beside the NBC 5 Dallas–Fort Worth remote video truck parked in front of Gilley’s. It was ready to beam her next world-changing story up to an orbiting satellite and back down to an awaiting audience. She was about to show the world a dinosaur bone with a spear point embedded in it—proof that man had lived alongside the dinosaurs.

  As she got out of the car, Cotten looked into the cloudy Texas sky. Hang on to your shorts, she thought. Cotten Stone is about to rock the evening news again.

  * * *

  Only a week after what was supposed to be her finest hour, Cotten Stone stood before the cameras again. But there was no burnishing glow of excitement in her cheeks, no perk in her voice. Instead, her eyes wore heavy makeup to disguise the swollen lids. Her whole body seemed to sag, and when she spoke, her voice was riddled with shame.

  “I would like to apologize to anyone I have betrayed or offended,” Cotten said, avoiding eye contact with the camera. She stared down at her prepared notes, sensing the studio crew glaring at her, their contempt palpable. “It was not my intention to lie or conspire to lie to the viewers of the National Broadcasting Company or its affiliates. Deception was not my goal. I’ve been accused of ignoring evidence that indicated that what is now being called the creation fossil was an elaborate hoax. I adamantly deny having any prior knowledge that it was a fake, and I never intended to trick or deceive anyone. If I have been an embarrassment to any group or person, I am deeply sorry. I hope that you can forgive me.”

  Cotten let the notes slip from her fingers onto the studio floor. She walked out of the bright lights and off the news set. No one followed. No one wished her well. She thought she’d never get to the doors to escape the horrible silence.

  On the crowded sidewalk outside, news photographers snapped her picture, shouting questions.

  “Ms. Stone, is it true you were forced to resign?”

  “Are you going to continue trying to prove the Bible was right about creation?”

  “What’s next, now that you’re out of a job?”

  She saw Ted Casselman standing beside a yellow taxi. He motioned, and as she approached, he opened the car door.

  “Didn’t think you’d feel like dealing with flagging one down,” he said.

  She kissed him on the cheek. �
��Thanks for coming. You’ve always been my rock.”

  “Told you before, you’re like my own daughter.”

  Cotten slipped into the back seat, and Ted leaned in.

  “You sure you want to do this? Leave New York?” he asked.

  Cotten nodded. “South Florida sounds real good to me right now.”

  “Remember, you’ve got friends here.”

  She gave him a faint smile.

  “All right then, kiddo. You’ve already been to hell and back. You can do it again, I know you can.” He kissed her forehead and then closed the door.

  As the cab pulled away, Cotten felt her soul sink into the abyss.

  Peru

  One Year Later

  Cotten Stone leaned her head against the airplane’s cold window. The earth’s surface revealed itself in short clips, most of the time hidden by thick clouds. She checked her watch. Right on time. Her ears had popped as the plane began the final approach into Jorge Chavez International Airport. As if waiting for the other shoe to drop, Cotten listened for the telltale groan of the wheels as they were lowered out of the wells. She closed her eyes. Lima. A new story. A new start. After a painful year of struggling with depression and few jobs since the creation-fossil disaster, this was a chance at redeeming herself, she hoped.

  At the sound of the landing gear’s thump, Cotten’s fingers gripped the armrest. Intellectually, she understood the theories of lift and thrust, but in her gut she still had a difficult time trusting those forces to get something as huge and heavy as an airplane to fly. And then to control the descent without plummeting to the ground and splintering into a million pieces was something else. That’s what made her fingers tighten over the lip of the armrest. Takeoff and landing were praying times for her.

  When the word praying slipped through her mind, a chill so cold it felt more like a pinch at the base of her neck made her shiver. Memories hacked at the dam inside her. Praying wasn’t something she did much. Cotten took a deep breath through her nose and blew it out her mouth. She had gotten a refill for Ativan before she left Fort Lauderdale . . . just in case. Controlling anxiety with visualization and breathing exercises had been working, but right now the combination of the plane landing and the sudden rush of memories blasted straight through her ability to concentrate.

  Cotten shifted in her seat, putting her hand between the seat belt and the space just below her shoulder and above her breast. The restraint of the belt added to the restlessness. She wanted it off—not to touch her or bind her. The urge to stand and move bubbled up in her like the carbonation in a shaken soda bottle, and if she didn’t get it under control, it would spew out.

  Cotten squirmed in her seat, and as she did, she caught a glimpse of lights glittering below. Only fine wisps of organza clouds passed as the plane came closer to the ground. Almost down. Almost down. If she’d kept the damn Ativan in her pocket, she could have retrieved it. But the pills were stowed in her carry-on in the overhead compartment. If she stood and dragged out her bag, everyone would look at her—some might even recognize her.

  Cotten closed her eyes again, focusing on breathing and relaxing her body, starting with her toes, concentrating on every muscle, moving up, all the way to her scalp. Deep, slow, even breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

  The wheels screeched on touchdown. The plane bounced twice before rolling smoothly over the tarmac. The scream of the engines as the jet slowed was more like a beautiful serenade to her. Cotten’s breath came easily now, and her fingers loosed the armrest. The nape of her neck cooled from the dampness of sweat. She sank into the seat, glad the “spell”—she preferred that word to “attack”—had passed, but not knowing whether she’d beaten it or if the safe landing had reduced her stress to a manageable level. It didn’t matter now. She was on the ground.

  This assignment wasn’t expected to be much of anything, but she was getting paid for it as a freelancer, and it did help move her up another rung on the respectability ladder. The disaster in Texas a year ago had not only cost her her network job, her image, and her credibility, but it also yanked the rug of self-respect from under her. There wasn’t much left that could be squeezed out.

  Finally, she heard the soft ding of the Fasten Seat Belt sign being turned off. She waited until the aisle cleared and everyone had deplaned before getting up and taking her carry-on from the overhead compartment. She thought about it, but resisted unzipping the bag and getting out the Ativan.

  The airline crew bade the obligatory farewells as she passed through the hatch. Cotten nodded politely and offered what she knew appeared to be an insincere smile. But that was all she could muster.

  Making her way through the terminal to the baggage claim, Cotten took her cell from her pocket. She flipped it open to scan her contacts list for Paul Davis. As soon as she turned on the phone, she saw there was one missed call. She pressed the down arrow to bring up the screen of recent calls.

  John Tyler. Just seeing his name made her heart trip over itself. She blinked, and in that instant she could see his deep blue eyes in her mind. God, she missed him. If he weren’t a priest, she knew their lives would have been different.

  Cotten pressed the button to return his call, but before it could ring, she canceled. When she did talk to John, she wanted to be able to gather her thoughts and spend some time. Traipsing through the airport was not the place.

  Toggling through the contacts list stored in her phone, she found the number for Paul Davis. He was the cameraman she had worked with on her last assignment, a piss-poor piece on whether the detection of fluoride in what is claimed to be an ancient relic should be considered in the authentication process. The argument was that fluoride is a supplement now added to water supplies, and if it is detected in an artifact, that should prove it to be a hoax. The opposite to that theory is that when someone finds an artifact, what do they usually do? Wash it off in tap water—so voilà, the fluoride. The bottom line was that nobody really cared except a select few in the archaeological community who loved to bicker and banter in efforts to prove one is more brilliant than the other. It just didn’t play to the general public. She and Paul had quite a few laughs covering that story. So when she got this gig, she called him to be her cameraman, and in turn he solicited Nick Michaels, a friend and field soundman, to meet up with them in Lima.

  Cotten was about to push the send button on her phone when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Cotten!”

  She looked up to see Paul Davis waving as he approached across the crowded concourse. She greeted him with a hug.

  Paul was tall and slender with dark brown hair. He pulled his video equipment behind him in a silver Anvil case that Cotten recognized from their last job.

  “This is Nick Michaels,” Paul said, introducing his companion, “the best soundman south of Auburn, Alabama. And he makes a mean pot of chili, too.” Nick, shorter and stockier than Paul, had brown hair that had been groomed with gel to make it look tousled and spiked—and he had an intriguing, mischievous glint in his eye.

  “A Tiger,” Cotten said, shaking Nick’s extended hand. “I’m a Wildcat myself, born and raised in the Bluegrass State.”

  “I won’t hold it against you, Cotten,” Nick said with a smile.

  “Fair enough,” she said. “How much time do we have to make our Cusco flight?”

  “Just long enough to grab a round of Lima’s famous pisco sours,” Paul said, motioning to a concourse restaurant bar.

  * * *

  After the short flight to Cusco, the trio boarded a train for the start of the forty-three-mile journey to Machu Picchu, the fortress city of the ancient Inca, built in the fifteenth century. The steep, zigzagging ride took them first to Aguas Calientes. Cotten wished they had splurged and taken the luxury train—the Hiram Bingham. But the views were breathtaking even when her teeth were clacking together.

  Fr
om Aguas Calientes, they took a bus that followed the Uru­bamba River before climbing the mountain by a series of switchbacks to a final destination eight thousand feet into the clouds.

  “So, do we get to look around while we’re here?” Paul asked when they got off the bus near Machu Picchu.

  “I don’t think we’ll have time,” Cotten answered as they worked their way up steep steps to the tourists’ reception area. “We’ve got a guide meeting us at the Sanctuary Lodge around two thirty. And the trek from there to where we are going is a couple of arduous hours.”

  They did at least manage to find time to get what Nick called the money shot, a photo-op location near the Caretaker’s Hut. Cotten pulled out her Canon Elph digital camera and asked a passing tourist to snap a picture of the three of them together with Machu Picchu spread out in the background.

  “I wish we had more time,” Cotten said before they headed to the Sanctuary Lodge.

  “Maybe on the return trip,” Paul said. “It would be a shame to come all this way and not get to spend some time here.” He looked around quizzically. “How do you think the Inca built all this?”

  “Coca leaves,” Nick said.

  “That was a privilege for Incan royalty and priests,” Cotten said.

  “I still bet the peasants sneaked a leaf or two,” Nick said.

  “We actually should get some of the tea they sell that’s made with coca leaves,” Paul said. “It’s supposed to help with altitude sickness.” He asked Cotten, “What do you know about the site where we’re

  going?”

  Cotten shrugged. “Only that it was recently discovered and is still being explored. They don’t know who built it or what happened to the inhabitants.”

  “Sounds spooky,” Nick said.

  Great, Cotten thought. Just what I need.

  Ripple

  In the men’s room of the Department of Physics at the University of Illinois at Chicago, Lester Ripple blinked a stream of tears down his cheeks. He couldn’t get the damn contact lens in his eye without copious snotting and tearing. He laid his index finger against one nostril to close it off, and he blew his nose into the sink. Then he did the same to the other side. Getting the contact in was always such a pain. Why couldn’t it be a simple thing to do?