by Lynn Sholes
“Thomas,” she called again, easing the door a little wider. Voices came from inside, so she called out again.
When there was no response, Cotten opened the door and entered the apartment. The television was on and tuned to a talk show. That accounted for the voices. The living room was empty. She hit the switch on the remote and turned off the TV.
“Are you here, Thomas?”
The heels of her shoes clacked on the floor tile. The kitchen was empty. The bathroom door was wide open—no one in there.
The apartment had two bedrooms, and the door to one was open a sliver. Cotten pushed on it with her fingertips. The door glided open, and the room came into view.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” she said.
Snake Handler
Thomas Wyatt was prostrate on the tile floor, face-down. A small trickle of blood spiderwebbed from under his head and across the tile.
Cotten rushed to him and dropped to her knees at his side. “Thomas,” she said, touching his neck. She couldn’t find any sign of a pulse—his skin was cool to the touch. She tugged on his shoulder, trying to turn him over, but only twisted his torso at a grotesque angle. It was enough to see his face. His nose was smashed, and blood had dried and caked beneath his nostrils and around a small gash in his forehead.
His eyes were open, but they didn’t move.
Cotten scrambled to her feet, grabbed the phone, and dialed 911.
* * *
Cotten took a sip of her Absolut, then put the glass down on the nightstand. She held the phone to her ear, listening to the ring as she lay down on her side. At last she heard him answer.
“John, something awful has happened,” she said. “Thomas is dead.” She explained how Wyatt hadn’t shown for lunch and how she had gone to his apartment and found him on the floor of his bedroom.
“I’m so sorry you had to be the one to find him. Our Washington embassy was notified by your local police. I was informed a short time later. Cotten, we’re all shaken by this. We have lost a good and decent man. I called His Holiness with the news and he immediately prayed for the repose of Thomas’s soul. Right now, the important thing is, are you all right?”
“Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t seem fair. The paramedics said he had a heart attack and collapsed. But he’s only in his early forties, John. How can that be?”
“Until the autopsy is performed, we won’t know. I’ve already authorized it. Cotten, do you need me to come there?”
It was all she could do to keep from saying yes. But being close to John while feeling so vulnerable wouldn’t be good for her—wouldn’t be easy on either of them. “I’m okay, really. It’s just so awful. And I don’t buy the heart-attack business. It’s like when Thornton died after he got too close to uncovering the Grail conspiracy.” Cotten remembered the trauma of finding out her ex-lover had collapsed in his hotel shower. He had called her from Rome just the day before, telling her he was on to something and that he feared for his life. “They killed Thornton and tried to make it look like natural causes, but we know it wasn’t. Now they’ve come for Thomas. We were meeting for lunch to finalize our options of what to do with the pictures we have of the Peruvian crystal tablet. It’s a long story, but I got my camera back, and there were pictures I had taken of the tablet. Thomas was going to call you today and send copies, but—” Cotten swallowed hard. “John, they want to stop us from finding out what it says. They murdered Thomas. They want to get to me, hurt me, make me back off.”
“You can’t let them do that, especially now that you have photographs of the tablet.”
“I don’t know what to do next. I don’t think Thomas had any family, but I’m not sure.”
“No, he doesn’t have any immediate family. Cotten, you need to stay calm and clear-headed.”
“I will,” she said. “The shock of it, you know, it stops you in your tracks.”
“What did Thomas think of the pictures? Are they of use? What can you tell from them?”
“Glare has blotted out some parts. The bottom half resembles what khipu looks like. But we can’t see all of it. Thomas and I had located some experts. All we had to do was decide where we were going to send the pictures. Now he’s dead.”
“Let’s see what the autopsy shows, a natural death or something suspicious.”
“It won’t matter. They have the means to make it look like a heart attack. As a matter of fact, I’m sure the autopsy will determine his death was due to some cardiac problem. That’s how they work. No signs of foul play—but we recognize it for what it is.”
There was a contented silence for a moment, and then Cotten said, “And you know what else? I was just thinking, these two tablets that we know about, the one in Peru and the one in New Mexico, they were both found in places where entire civilizations have disappeared. Just vanished. I wondered if it was a pattern. Has that got something to do with it?”
“Interesting concept. Let me think about that. You might have hit on something.”
“I don’t have any idea what it would mean, but it seems to be an uncanny coincidence.”
“Are you going to be able to sleep?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She had thought the vodka would help, but she’d lost her desire to drink it. “Will you stay on the phone with me for a while? You don’t have to talk. Knowing you’re there is enough.”
* * *
Richard’s face was buried in the crook of Mariah’s neck, the scent of her skin, like wheat, wafting into his nose. He loved it when she relinquished herself to him, almost as much as when she made him lie back while she worked her wonders. Either way, she satisfied him beyond belief. There was always this undertone, this hunger for her that lay just beneath the surface.
The lovemaking had sapped all his strength, but Eli wanted them at his place in an hour. By the time they showered, dressed, and drove over there, it would be a good hour.
Mariah’s legs were still wrapped around him, though her knees had fallen to the sides and her hips had settled onto the mattress. He started to rise up, and she bit his ear.
“Want to do it again in the shower?” she whispered.
Richard slid down and mouthed her nipple, then took it between his teeth until he felt her twitch. “Always to excess,” he said. “Nothing is ever enough for you.” He sat up and straddled her and stared down at her face. “You’re so beautiful,” he said.
She smiled. “And good?”
Richard slapped her thigh. “Worst piece of ass I ever had,” he said, climbing off her.
“Have you worked out a plan to deal with Tempest Star?” she asked.
“That’s something I’d better get to work on. I’ll go over it with Eli,” Richard said, strolling nude to the bathroom that adjoined their bedroom. “And Eli wants to talk about the Stone woman.” He stood in the archway that opened into their bathroom and turned around to look at her. “You coming?”
* * *
It had taken the full hour for Richard and Mariah to get to Eli Luddington’s estate. Mariah took her time washing his back, taking every opportunity to please him. But she had finally been the one to hurry them up so as not to be late.
Just before arriving at Luddington’s, Richard said, “Can I ask you a question?”
Mariah nodded, and he said, “Why do you tease Eli? You do everything short of touching his dick.”
“Because it makes him happy,” she said. “He likes it.” Mariah put her hand in her husband’s crotch. “And I think you like it, too. You like to watch.”
Richard laughed and moved her hand away.
The Escalade pulled through the massive gates and along the half-mile entrance road leading into the Luddington estate. Richard parked, then got out and opened the door for his wife. “Be a good girl for once,” he said. “And you’re wrong. I don’t like to watch.”
Mar
iah batted her eyes, mocking him with a smile.
Richard punched the doorbell. “Be careful with Eli, my dear. Remember, all snake handlers get bit sooner or later.”
Seamstress
The young, attractive news anchor at the Satellite News Network Weekend Edition studio desk looked into the camera. A graphic title, “Tragedy in China,” appeared over her shoulder. Reading from the TelePrompTer, she said, “The bodies of over two thousand students and faculty were discovered overnight on the campus of Changsha University in Hunan Province, China. First indications are what the government is calling a mass suicide. The students, along with approximately one hundred teachers in this highly respected school of science and technology, were found barricaded in a large assembly hall. Campus authorities revealed that what appears to be the cause of death was the ingesting of a drink similar to popular athletic drinks but laced with cyanide. Details are sketchy at this time, but civil authorities are stating that the region has been thrown into chaos as grieving parents and friends rush to the scene. The military has been ordered into the area to take control of the situation.”
The graphic changed to a picture of Jim Jones and the People’s Temple.
“The tragedy in China eerily resembles the 1978 mass suicide in Guyana, in which 914 members of the Jonestown People’s Temple committed suicide by drinking cyanide-laced Kool-Aid. It is also reminiscent of the 1997 mass suicide of 39 members of the Heaven’s Gate cult in California.
“We will bring you further details of this terrible tragedy in China as they come in. But now, in other news . . .”
Lester Ripple chewed another mouthful of his dinner—Orville Redenbacher’s Gourmet Popping Corn, lightly salted—and stared at the TV. “Well, that sucks,” he said, then licked the salt off three of his fingers. One, two, three, he counted to himself. He knew of Changsha University. One of his doctorial classmates was from China and had received her master’s from Changsha University. Her name was Gu. She was pretty, he remembered. And brilliant. Brilliant because she agreed with Ripple. Not like the other dickheads who read his thesis. Everyone agrees that there are five seemingly different string theories. That’s a no-brainer. That was kind of like asking if a fat dog farts. But so far, no one had bought into his hypothesis that there is a sixth theory, the one he referred to as his thread theory: how endless parallel dimensions, other worlds, exist and are tied or threaded together by a single element that resides inside every human being. Yes, granted, it sounded philosophical, but it was rooted in science and could be proven with mathematics. And that was the amazing beauty of it all. A perfect marriage of two seemingly different schools that together answered the question, “Is there an afterlife?” He pondered the word afterlife. That could be a misnomer. After what? He would think about that and give it another name. Maybe otherlife, though he didn’t think it had the right ring.
He scribbled a note on his napkin to take care of that minor detail, then folded the napkin three times and put it in the shirt pocket that already contained a cereal-box top with an equation written on it and his electric bill, which seemed to have a pattern of numbers running through his account number, the kilowatt hours used, and his meter reading. Things like that didn’t just happen for no reason. There are no coincidences. He might play those numbers in the lottery Saturday night.
Ripple smiled at the name he’d chosen for his theory in honor of his grandmother—Ripple’s thread theory. She’d spent her life as a seamstress, sewing other people’s garments together. As a child, he had watched her for hours as she stitched different pieces of cloth together to form a new and unique piece of clothing. She told him that the cloth was already there, it was just a matter of choosing the right pieces to form the final garment.
His beloved grandmother never knew that as she sewed, she had taught him the secret to the universe. She had expressed it to him in such simple terms one day. Her words were like the clouds parting. Like the earth moving. Like God speaking to him.
“Lester,” she had said, “if you want to get anywhere in this life or the next, you have to thread the needle.”
Linchpin
Eli Luddington led Mariah and Richard into the study. The room was rich with the deep hues of the Brazilian rosewood bookshelves and handmade cabinetry that went from floor to ceiling. Polished brass and silver, beveled glass, Waterford crystal, pure white marble, gold leaf—everything was the finest that money could buy.
“Mariah, you look stunning tonight,” Eli said. “Don’t you agree, Richard?”
Richard nodded and sat on the leather couch. He patted the space next to him, expecting his wife to join him. But as usual, Mariah had to have her moment patronizing Eli.
It galled Richard to watch his wife glide her hand down Eli’s shoulder and arm. But she was never going to change her ways—especially with Eli.
“Oh, Eli, it is always a delight to be in your company,” she said.
Eli took her hand in his, lifted it, and kissed her fingertips.
“Mariah,” Richard said with a brittle tone to his voice, “we have a lot of business to discuss. I think we should get started if you still want to go to dinner.”
Mariah generated an obviously artificial smile and sat.
Eli waved his hand. “Oh, no, Richard. If you have made reservations, I apologize. I’ve had dinner prepared for the three of us.” He glanced at the Roman numeral dial of the antique grandfather clock. “We should be called to dinner in another few minutes.”
Eli Luddington grated on Richard. Even when he spoke Eli’s common name, it was acidic in his mouth. He wondered how the spoken word could create a displeasing taste. And even more profound was the bitterness in his mouth if he called Eli by his given name—the Great Fallen Belial, from which came the letters e-l-i to give him his common name. Perhaps, Richard thought, the name forced him to recall the generations upon generations of the work they had done, and it had finally tapped all of his energy. Whatever the reason, he tired of Eli, of the work, of the mission. And in secret moments alone, the thing he thought about most was how he could ever be free, be done with this. These thoughts were not something he could share, especially not with Eli or Mariah.
Just as Eli predicted, a servant entered the study and announced that the dinner was served.
Eli outstretched his hand, and Mariah stood and took his arm. Richard tagged behind. His eyes fixed on the part of his wife’s supple back that the dress she wore left exposed. Like pure sweet honey, he could taste her skin. She would never stay with him if he gave up his power and denounced his birthright. And he did so desire her. She was the only thing that prevented him from walking away from Eli and, ultimately, the Old Man. Somehow, Eli had known it would be that way, and that’s why he had first introduced Richard and Mariah. Mariah was the lock Eli held on him. So if not for his wife, it would be over. There was no more thrill in the power, no more excitement over the grandiosity and enormity of the mission that had gone on for eons. None of that enticed him anymore.
Eli escorted Mariah to her seat and then took his at the head of the long, formal seventeenth-century dining table he had imported from Scotland. Mariah was to his right, and Richard sat to his left.
To Richard’s surprise, Eli didn’t raise his wine glass in a toast. Instead, the first few minutes at the table were uncomfortably silent.
“You do not mind that I serve only the entrée?” Eli said. “We’ll skip the appetizer and soup tonight. I wasn’t in the mood. I hope that is all right with you both. We’ll have the salad and vegetables, of course. I had this urge to go straight to the main course—lamb. It seemed so appropriate.”
“Oh, I agree,” Mariah said. “And, anyway, I know I should be cutting back on what I eat.”
Richard held in a smug smile. She completely missed Eli’s point of going straight for the lamb. The symbolism escaped her. An old church prayer rang in his head:
Lamb
of God, who taketh away the sins of world,
Have mercy upon us.
The clank of Eli’s fork on his plate made Richard look up.
“I can now tell you both that I have bought Tempest Star,” Eli said. “We can manipulate her any way we choose. Her only target is going to be Cotten Stone.”
“Nicely done, Eli,” Richard said. That was one thing off his plate, he thought.
“How did you get her to agree?” Mariah said.
Eli patted Mariah’s hand. “I bought her—or maybe it was more like a trade. She wants fame and fortune, and she shall have it. You understand how that works, don’t you, Mariah?”
Mariah didn’t answer. First, she stared at Eli, and then she looked down at her arugula salad and toyed with it with her fork.
Eli took a sip of his Cabernet Sauvignon. “I didn’t toast tonight, as I didn’t think this was an occasion to warrant it.”
Richard chewed a bite of lamb and wondered if Eli was going to scold him for something or just complain in general. He swallowed and turned to his host. “I would think you would be happy with the Tempest Star victory. Are you dissatisfied, Belial?”
Eli shifted back in his chair and curled his fingers around the stem of the wine glass, clearly reacting to Richard calling him Belial. “Why are you hostile, Richard—Rumjal? Are you suggesting we address ourselves formally, or may we remain on more casual, familiar terms?”
“I was not suggesting anything.”
“Then perhaps I detect that you anticipate the pebble that is stuck in my shoe.”
Richard rested his fork on the side of his plate. “What is it, Eli? There is always some burr that irritates you.”
“I suppose you are correct. But that is the nature of making every effort to keep a plan running smoothly, seamlessly. Any little barb could be a setback.”
“Are you not happy with how we handled the Venatori agent? Our contact said everything went off smoothly—no burrs, no barbs.”