by Lynn Sholes
“Oh, please do accept my accolades for that. I apologize if I have not told you. Excellent work.”
“Thank you, Eli. I appreciate it. Cotten Stone should get the message loud and clear. She will remember what happened to Thornton Graham, and she won’t miss the parallels. There will be no mistaking who she is dealing with. A shot across the bow, so to speak.”
“Why don’t you just do away with her? You got rid of the agent, so why not her?” Mariah said.
Richard dabbed his lips with his napkin before looking at Eli for approval. To his wife, he said, “Because she is one of us—at least half of her is. Her father was one of the Fallen. We are capable of doing away with her, but you see, from the beginning it was agreed that we would never harm those who are one of us or our offspring. That is how we have built our numbers. We need a large army. If we cross that line, betray that vow, the agreement would be forever crushed. We can never allow our legion to decrease in number. Better that we either break Cotten Stone or return her to the fold.”
“All right,” Mariah said, after appearing to digest Richard’s words. “I understand that, so that makes me ask another question, Eli. The Venatori agent is dead, and there is no suspicion that it was anything other than a heart attack. Why are you agitated?”
“Because neither of you see the crux, the linchpin. I have no doubt that Cotten Stone will get the warning. She’ll make the leap between Thornton Graham and Thomas Wyatt, but she won’t heed the warning.”
“Why is that?” Richard said.
“Because you have yet to strike her sole weak spot, the chink in Cotten Stone’s armor that would bring her to her knees—John Tyler.”
The Men’s Room
“Still want me?” Cotten said over the phone to Ted Casselman.
“Absolutely,” Ted said. “Accepting my offer will be the best news I’ve had all week.”
“I’ve got to clear a few things with you first. Okay?”
“Shoot.”
Cotten sank back into the cushions of her couch. “Well, I quit my job. I called the Galaxy Gazette and told them I wanted out of my contract. I’ve already put it in writing, but I haven’t mailed it yet.”
“It sounds like you’ve done everything needed,” Ted said.
Cotten bit the left side of her lower lip. “Not exactly.”
“Just send the letter and leave that bottom-feeder work to Tempest Star over at the Courier.”
“I wish,” Cotten said. “The Gazette paid me an advance for doing the story of the ruins in New Mexico. Problem is, I’ve got no story for them. There’s a story there, but it doesn’t have an ending yet. That’s the piece I want to do for SNN, but I can’t get out of my contract unless I pay back the Gazette.” Cotten’s stomach tightened. “And I don’t have any money, so . . .”
“I’ll take care of it,” Ted said.
“No, that’s not what I want. Here’s the deal. Just hear me out with an open mind.”
Cotten spent the next five minutes telling Ted the details concerning the crystal tablets—the one in Peru, the one in New Mexico, and the missing last tablet. She filled him in on the Hapsburgs, Thomas Wyatt and his connection with the Venatori, and his death, which she was convinced was not of natural causes. “This is the story I want to cover for SNN. Ted, this will be even bigger than the Grail conspiracy. With the tablet, I believe we’re looking at the handwriting of God, and I’m sure it says He is delivering a message to—”
“Cotten, you don’t have to sell me. I trust you, your instincts and your skills. Plus, I know full well that you’ll chase down this story whether SNN pays you or not. Am I right?”
Cotten cradled the phone with her shoulder. Her voice came in nearly a whisper. “It’s very important to me, Ted.”
“What do you owe the Gazette? And you don’t need to pay me back. The way I see it, SNN is giving an advance and financing one of its top reporters to deliver a prime-time news exposé.”
“It’s close to two thousand dollars. And I need to take the pictures of the Peruvian tablet to a specialist for translation, which means more travel. Thomas and I did research on khipu experts and found that one of the best in the world is in Chicago. That’s where I’ll start.”
“Not a problem. Lick a stamp and send the letter. You have no business working for a sleazy tabloid. It’s going to be good to have you back home at SNN.”
“I’m not ready to move to New York yet. I have to get the whole thing about the tablet out of the way first.”
“Hey, kiddo. You work from wherever is most convenient for you. We can think about a move later.”
“Ted, you are the best. I’m not just saying that.”
“Yeah, yeah. You think flattery will get you a raise already.”
They both laughed.
“Hey, are you keeping in touch with John Tyler?” Ted asked.
“Yes. I talked to him right after Thomas died, and we talked again yesterday. They’ve flown Thomas’s body to D.C. for a private funeral. He had no relatives, so the embassy staff, along with members of the Venatori, will be attending. John made all the arrangements. We talked for a long time.”
“There’s something special between the two of you, isn’t there? It’s a shame he’s a priest—an archbishop at that.”
“But he is a priest. So that’s that.”
“Uh-huh, like I said, it’s a shame.” Ted paused a moment, then said, “I won’t harass you anymore on that subject. I can tell it’s a tender spot.”
“Kind of,” Cotten said.
“All right, kiddo, lay me out a plan and let me know what’s up. I’ll get you some money, and when you’re ready to make plane reservations, give me a call. I’ll book it all through SNN’s travel department.”
* * *
After arriving in Chicago at O’Hare, Cotten took a shuttle to the Crowne Plaza in Greektown. Her appointment was at three with Dr. Gary Evans, a professor in the Andean Studies Program at the University of Illinois at Chicago’s Department of Anthropology.
At 2:55, she stood in front of his secretary. “I’m Cotten Stone, here to see Dr. Evans.” In her right hand, she carried a small zippered leather portfolio.
“Ms. Stone is here,” the secretary said into the phone. She listened for a second and hung up. “Dr. Evans is expecting you. Go ahead in.”
Cotten rapped lightly on the door and then entered his office.
“Good afternoon,” Evans said, rising and extending his hand across his desk. He appeared to be in his mid-sixties, with an oily comb-over and an ill-fitting suit. His glasses were thick, as was his Midwestern accent. The office was small and cramped—books, papers, and folders were stacked in columns lining the walls.
“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Evans.”
“You said you had some khipu,” he said, staring curiously at the portfolio. “Please have a seat.”
Cotten sat opposite Evans.
“Ever since you called, I’ve been looking forward to seeing what you found,” Evans said. “Especially since you told me I am the first to have the opportunity to examine it.”
Cotten moved the portfolio to her lap. “Yes, you are the first.”
“How did you come to have the khipu?” Evans asked. “You didn’t seem like you wanted to go into details on the phone.”
Cotten swallowed hard. “It’s much too complicated to explain in a phone call. And I may have misled you. I don’t have the actual khipu, I only have pictures.”
Cotten unzipped the portfolio and took out three five-by-seven photographs of the tablet, which she had printed at home. She spread them on Evans’s desk. She watched his face—his eyes blinked rapidly and his brows dipped as he scooted the photographs closer to him.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A crystal tablet that was found at a remote dig site in the Peruvian Andes.�
��
Evans reached into his desk drawer and removed a large magnifying glass. Lifting the first of the three photos, he held it at different angles while examining it carefully with the glass. Then he went on to the second and the third.
“What do you think?” Cotten asked. “The bottom part of the tablet looks like a rendering of khipu, doesn’t it? The lines are like the rope and the dots are knots. That’s what it could be, right?”
“Maybe,” Evans said with a shrug. “I don’t understand about this tablet. Just what is it? I was expecting you to bring me a sample of real khipu.” He glanced up. “I’m not sure what you have here, Ms. Stone, but I don’t think I can help you. I’d have to see the khipu itself. The way the textile was spun, the color of the thread, all of that is as important as the knots—or dots, in this case.”
“But can’t you make something out of it? Can’t you at least work with the lines and dots?” She realized she sounded desperate.
“Research takes a lot of time, and I have very little to spare. Can you even verify these photographs or give me some evidence that these are pictures of an actual artifact? It could be just some etchings on glass for all I know.”
“But they aren’t. I’m telling you it was a crystal tablet recovered from an archaeological dig site in Peru. I took the pictures myself before the tablet was destroyed. Didn’t you read about the disaster—Dr. Carl Edelman, the entire camp—”
“The slaughter? Of course I read about it, but I don’t recall any mention of a crystal tablet.”
“Because it was destroyed. That was why everyone died—because of the tablet. Everyone who saw it had to die.”
“You saw it, Ms. Stone, and you didn’t die.”
Cotten stood and poked her finger repeatedly at the khipu-like drawing on one of the photos. “There is something in that writing, in that khipu, that is so important that—”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Stone.”
“Please,” she said again. “You came highly recommended. I was counting on—”
Evans gathered the pictures in his hand and held them out to her.
Cotten backed away. “Just look at them again. Please, Dr. Evans. Some moment when you have nothing to do or curiosity gets to you, look at them. My name and phone number are on the back.”
Cotten turned and walked out of his office.
* * *
Lester Ripple was early. He was always early. He drove around the block three times before getting out and walking around the building three times. His frigging eyes teared like a baby crying. The frigging cold wind sucked, he thought.
“Third floor,” he said aloud, recalling where he’d been told to report. Maybe it was an omen. Third floor. Third floor. Third floor.
He checked his watch. Still too early, but he couldn’t walk around outside any longer. He knew his cheeks must appear fire-red from the cold, and his frigging eyes—Jesus, his first day on the job and he was a mess. He might get fired even before he started. And he did want the job even though it wasn’t in the Physics Department, where he had first applied. They wanted a mathematician in the Anthropology Department. Go figure. Research assistant professor would be his title. Tenure track. That was a good thing. General responsibilities were to develop and conduct a program of funded research, secure grant support, and publish research findings. Now, that last one might have a bug in it, since nobody wanted to publish his thread theory. And that was the key to everything. No way would he back off that. But he wouldn’t have the responsibility of teaching classes, and he preferred that option. But anthropology? He was anxious to find out the more specific details of what was expected of him.
Ripple went inside and started up the stairs. Even if he had to kill time, it didn’t matter, he would be punctual. There was no tolerance for tardiness.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he said, not even halfway up the first flight. His armpits were damp, and a trickle of sweat rolled down his lip. Nerves. That’s what it was, he was nervous. The TV ad that professed “Never let them see you sweat” came to mind.
Then, “Oh God,” he said, feeling the peristalsis in his bowels. He had to get to a bathroom. He couldn’t be sitting across the desk from his new boss and have intestinal cramps—and what if he couldn’t hold it, what if he broke out in a sweat and gooseflesh and couldn’t hold it?
Ripple rushed up the stairs, finally on the third-floor landing. He fast-walked down the hall, praying for a toilet on this floor. There it was, a brass plate declaring a men’s room.
In the stall, sitting on the toilet, he took a blister pack of Imodium from his pocket, peeled it open, and chewed the two double-action tablets. Saved, he thought.
Finally, feeling better, he emerged from the stall and washed his hands in the sink. The paper towel dispenser was controlled by a built-in motion detector. How cool was that? He waved his hand in front of it, and out scrolled a paper towel. After drying his hands, he tossed the paper in the trash can.
Something caught his eye. He leaned over the can, deliberating how he could pick it up without getting contaminated. He straightened and waved his hands three times in front of the paper towel dispenser. He tore the paper towel off and put it in the palm of his right hand, using it as a barrier between his skin and the object.
Lester Ripple reached into the trash can and picked out three photographs.
Temptation
It was overcast as the pope walked alone down the path through the Vatican Gardens. The fleeting warmth of the fall day had faded as evening approached, and he wore a windbreaker over his white cassock. He had spent time in his private chapel grieving the loss of Thomas Wyatt. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” he said, making the sign of the cross and praying that God would welcome the soul of Thomas Wyatt into everlasting peace. The pope held a Bible open to Psalms 23:4 and read aloud, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—”
“Appropriate choice.”
He paused and glanced in the direction of the voice. A man with hair the color of ash, nearly the same color as his silk shirt, sat on a bench beside the path. He turned up the collar of his black topcoat.
“Join me?” the Old Man said, and motioned to the bench beside him.
“What do you want?” the pope said.
“A moment of your time.” He smiled, his words taking on a genteel calmness.
The pope hesitated. The Old Man’s nonthreatening manner was definitely meant to throw him off-balance. “We have nothing to say to each other.”
“Of course we do. In fact, we have more to say than can possibly be discussed here. So, perhaps we should prioritize.” He patted the bench beside him. “But first I insist you sit and relax.”
The pope slowly sat and closed the Bible on his lap.
“I am amazed,” the Old Man said. “You display no alarm at my presence. Commendable.”
“Should I?” The pope gestured to the surrounding gardens. “You visit in my province. Perhaps it is you who should exhibit uneasiness.”
The Old Man gave him a patronizing wink before saying, “One of your warriors has fallen.”
“That is the nature of war.”
“Others will follow.”
“I asked you what you want,” the pope said.
“Ultimately, your surrender.”
“Impossible. You reveal your inability to prophesy. Have the eons of humiliation taken their toll and driven you mad?”
“Many have accused me of worse.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“You must make time. The blood of many will soon be on your hands if you let the daughter of Furmiel gain access to the secret.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Don’t you understand? Can’t you begin to imagine how hurt I am? It is not humiliation I feel, but great pain, and a sense of loss—
and rage. If you had Paradise ripped out from under you, you would find a way to even the score. You would be no different from me.”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you declared yourself on equal terms with the Creator. And no, I am nothing like you.”
“I was on equal terms with Him. We were all equal. All beautiful. All deserving. He did not like it when I challenged Him. That is what that battle was all about. I and those who joined me were a threat He could not tolerate. And do not kid yourself. You are like me, because in your heart there is hate, mistrust, and darkness. They reside in the hearts of all men.”
“You said there would be the blood of many . . .”
“Time is running out. The woman is getting closer to finding the last tablet. I will not let that happen.”
“Is that why you took Thomas Wyatt? You are afraid of Cotten Stone?”
“I detest her disruptiveness. If we are rushed into the final days, it will cause us to show ourselves. This in itself will turn many against us.”
“Once again, what do you want?”
“Your intervention.”
“If I do, will it save the lives of those you speak of?”
“Why don’t you do what’s best for all and convince her to stop, turn around, give up. She will only face more pain if she continues. She will wind up hurting the one person she loves the most.”
“And if I do as you ask, what will I gain in return?”
“Power beyond all power.”
“I already have power.”
“Riches that exceed those of any king who ever lived.”
The pope made a sweeping motion toward the papal palace. “Look around you. What do you call this?”
“You have a small mind. You don’t envision what I can give. It is beyond your scope of understanding.”
“I have never professed to be anything other than a simple man.”
“Then I will give you the wisdom and intellect to propel you beyond the realm of the greatest thinkers of our time, or any time in history.”