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

by Lynn Sholes

  “Do you know the secret? The one she seeks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, and I will do as you ask.”

  The Old Man laughed out loud.

  “Why is that funny?”

  “I am no fool.”

  “You know what I think?” the pope said.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “I think you’re desperate. But you must know there is no temptation to which I will succumb.”

  “I won’t make this offer again.”

  “And I believe Cotten Stone is about to strike a crippling blow that will hurt you.”

  “Look at your hands. Do you see the blood? Can you live with that?”

  The pope stood, turning his back on the Old Man. “Begone from me, Satan,” he said. When he glanced around to repeat his command, the bench was empty.

  The Hulk

  Lester Ripple took everything off the card table in front of the television and stacked it in three piles in the hallway that led to the single bedroom. He needed a clear space to work. Clear space, clear mind.

  He sat in the Samsonite chair and spread the three photographs on the vinyl-topped table in front of him. Beside them he set a lighted magnifying glass.

  Ever since finding the pictures in the men’s room, he could hardly wait until he got home. On the first day of work, he certainly didn’t want anyone seeing him pilfering from the bathroom trash can. But the quick glimpse of the photos had immediately snatched his attention. Dr. Evans must have believed him to be a muddle-headed fool as his concentration and focus during the all-day orientation diverted to thoughts of the pictures. All Ripple could think about was taking another look. He remembered that a portion of what appeared to be etchings on something like a block of glass was covered with glyphs or pictographs, but the bottom portion was what flabbergasted him.

  Was it truly what it appeared to be?

  At the end of the day, he bumbled his way down the halls and out of the university building with the three photographs snugly stashed in his briefcase. Now, safe in his apartment, he could take his time examining them.

  Ripple leaned over the first photo and held the magnifying glass above it. He peered through the lens, running his finger along the rows of lines and dots. He felt the trigger in his brain fire, and then the rapid succession of thoughts.

  Numbers. Mathematical expressions. Numbers, symbols, and words? Expressions and equations. Pieces. Fragments. Yes, numbers, and symbols, and words. All running together, his brain processing them like a supercomputer.

  Suddenly, Ripple sat back and turned off the magnifier. He was out of breath, as if he had run up several flights of stairs.

  The Hulk. That was it. He would sketch the Incredible Hulk in green marker and wait for everything to catch up in his brain.

  Lester Ripple grabbed the latest edition of The International Journal of Theoretical Physics off the end of the sofa, then took a fine-line permanent green marker from a 7-Eleven cup on the counter and returned to the card table. It had taken a whole year to save for the subscription, costing him over $1,800. But it did serve dual purposes. He read the journal, and he doodled and drew in it.

  Lester picked a page in the journal that didn’t have any of his previous sketchings and began to draw. In the margin, the Hulk took form, his face a grimace, as if he strained to lift an impossible weight.

  Quickly, Lester felt better, the clutter in his brain organizing, sorting, and methodically storing the information in a meaningful structure. He hummed “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’. ” Tom Cruise and his flyboy buddies singing it in Top Gun was one of his all-time favorite scenes. Maybe he would watch the movie again tonight. It was one of the most played in his DVD collection.

  Ripple only drew the Hulk’s head, face, and left side of his body, but that was enough. If need be, he’d stop again and draw the right side.

  He returned to the examination of the photographs and then began jotting notes on a piece of scrap paper that had fallen to the floor when he cleared the table. Soon he found there wasn’t enough room on the paper for all of his postulations and calculations.

  Ripple trekked to the kitchen. A stack of yellow legal pads filled the cabinet beneath the silverware drawer. He used a lot of yellow pads.

  There was also a plastic bin of sharpened number 2 Ticonderoga pencils and his Batman pencil sharpener. He took three pads and three pencils along with his sharpener back to the table.

  Three hours after beginning his study, Lester Ripple stood and paced around the table.

  Who could have written this? Who had duplicated his thread theory? Yes, it was more expanded than his, written in a combination of encoded words and quantum mechanics equations. Some parts appeared as direct sentences, but then mixed in were complex equations all written in a three-dimensional binary code. The hardest part of deciphering it was to know when the code was language and when it was mathematical equations. The parts blotted out by the glare left questions, and he so wanted to decode the last lines, but it was impossible, as the flash had obliterated them. But he was sure whatever was written there further corroborated his theory.

  And so here was his thread theory, scribed on a mysterious block of glass, proving that there were many worlds, parallel worlds all generated by the energy of thought, all existing at the same time. The thread theory held that every thought is mirrored in the world in which we live—and, for that matter, throughout the entire universe. All possibilities have already been created. All outcomes already exist. In these photographs, someone besides Ripple had professed the connectedness or threading together of all matter, energy, soul, and spirit. Identical to his theory, it explained the bridge between the rules of the quantum world with its wave-particle duality and the rules of classical physics. He had answered the question, “If electrons can be in two places at once, why can’t you?” The answer was simple when the mind was allowed to view the concept of reality with different eyes.

  Ripple sat again, taking another look at the photographs and his notes. Then he turned over the first photograph and read again the name and phone number written on the back.

  In a strong, bold voice, he said, “Ms. Cotten Stone, this is Dr. Lester Ripple from the University of Illinois at Chicago, Department of Anthropology.” He practiced the introduction two more times as he walked to the kitchen wall phone.

  * * *

  “Evans wouldn’t even look at them, Ted,” Cotten said on her cell phone as she inserted the keycard into the lock of her Crowne Plaza room. “I left the pictures with him, but I don’t think he’s going to give them another second of his time. I’m sorry for costing you more money.”

  “Hey, dead ends happen,” Ted Casselman said. “You know that’s the nature of our business. Who else did you and Wyatt have on your list of experts?”

  “Evans was the most promising.” Cotten put the empty portfolio down on the foot of the bed. “It’s probably a waste of time and money for me to fly all over the country trying to get somebody else to examine the photos.” Cotten plopped down on the bedspread. “Besides, I want to go to Thomas’s funeral. I feel the need to be there.”

  “It won’t change anything.”

  “I know, but it’s the right thing to do. We had really started to get to know each other. I’m sure he would have come to say a last goodbye to me if it were the other way around. As soon as that is over, then I’ll be back and on the story again. But for now, I have to put this behind me.”

  “Do you need help making arrangements? Hotels?”

  “Ted, you’re worse than a real father. I’m a big girl. I know how to get around.”

  “Just looking out for you, kiddo.”

  “Talk to you soon,” she said before shutting the cell phone.

  What a waste of time, coming here, she thought as she kicked off her shoes and lay back. No doubt she would g
et the same reaction from the other khipu experts. What she needed now was a huge break.

  Her cell phone rang. Cotten flipped it open and looked at the caller ID, expecting it to be Ted calling her back. But it was from area code 312—Chicago.

  Christopher Colombus

  Cotten searched the patrons in Starbucks for someone wearing a baseball cap with Wile E. Coyote embroidered on it. Lester Ripple had said that would be how she could recognize him. That should make for an easy ID, she thought. But as she scanned the room, no Wile E. Coyote hats stood out.

  A heavy tap on her shoulder made her turn.

  “Ms. Stone? I’m Lester Ripple from the University of Illinois at Chicago, Department of Anthropology, Andean Studies Program.” It sounded rehearsed. Lester snorted, wrinkling up his nose, then offered his hand. He was short and chunky with blond hair sprouting beneath the cartoon cap, probably thirty years old, and had watering eyes. He held a battered briefcase at his side.

  “Nice to meet you, Lester,” Cotten said, shaking his hand. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t quite follow what you were telling me on the phone.”

  Lester’s head bobbed in a series of nods. “I—I have a spot over there.” Ripple turned and led the way. “Excuse me,” he said, bumping into virtually everyone along the way. “Excuse me, excuse me.”

  He personified the cliché of the bull in a china shop, she thought as she followed. Even his shirttail hung out on one side, and he had missed a couple of belt loops in the back of his trousers. A classic nerd.

  “Here,” he said, pulling out a chair for her.

  A sheet of paper that had been on the seat floated to the ground. Cotten saw the word saved written on it, underlined three times. Another paper, also with the word saved, lay in the middle of the circular table with a cup of untouched coffee holding it down.

  “I’ve been here for a while,” Lester said. “I didn’t want anyone to get our table while I used the restroom.” He picked up the paper from the floor. Sitting across from Cotten, he said, “Okay, you’ve heard about Christopher Columbus, right?” He rolled his eyes. “Sure, everybody knows about Columbus. But did you know the mind can only see what it believes is possible?”

  Ripple stared at her, obviously waiting for a response.

  Cotten shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I’m not following.”

  Ripple pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I know, I know. I’m having a problem.”

  Maybe she shouldn’t have agreed to meet with this guy. He was more than weird—definitely messed up.

  “Okay, here I go,” he said. “I study quantum physics, which means I study the world on the quantum level—smaller than the atom. Down there, in that world, all the rules of this world don’t apply. And vice versa. In the quantum world, we find something called quantum superposition, which means that it’s possible for particles to be in two or more places and states at the same time. Because, for instance, atoms are not things, only tendencies. Quantum physics only calculates possibilities, and all possibilities exist. It’s not until consciousness chooses one possibility that it becomes reality.” He started to scribble on a napkin. “Look.”

  Cotten looked at what Ripple was writing. It appeared to be math equations—brackets, numbers, symbols—but it could have just as easily been the doodling of a nutcase. “Mr. Ripple, you’re—”

  “Lester. Call me Lester.”

  “Lester, you’re going to have to talk to me in plain English if you want me to understand.”

  “Do you want coffee, latte, mocha something?” Ripple asked.

  “No thanks. Maybe later.”

  “I don’t drink it either, but I bought some so I could save our table. It’s decaf just in case I have to take a sip.” Ripple wadded up the napkin, removed his cap, then vigorously rubbed the top of his head, making clumps of his hair stand out at odd angles.

  He was beyond peculiar, Cotten thought. But there was some essence of sincerity and brilliance nearly eclipsed by his bizarreness.

  He dragged another napkin in front of him and tediously drew the outline of a cube, then pushed it in front of her. “Stare at it. Tell me what your point of view is when looking at it. Are you looking from the top down or from the bottom up, or from the side?”

  “From the top,” she said, glancing at Ripple.

  “No, no, no. Don’t look at me, look at the cube,” he said, sounding short of breath.

  Although her patience was wearing thin, Cotten stared at the drawing. Then, without warning, her perspective changed. She looked up and smiled. “Now I see it from the side,” she said.

  “There you go.”

  “It’s just an optical illusion,” Cotten said.

  “Yes!” Ripple clapped his palms on the table. “I didn’t do anything to change the drawing—all the possibilities already existed. It was your consciousness that defined the reality of the perspective—of what you saw. That’s what the world really is. Possibilities, or as you said, illusion. Reality is illusion. Illusion is reality, but only when you perceive it and become a participant.”

  Cotten sat back in the chair. She had a small inkling of what he meant, even if it was foggy.

  “I know this is hard for you to embrace and believe. So, back to Columbus. The story goes that when Columbus’s ships approached the islands in the Caribbean, the natives who lived there could not see them. Why? Because they could not imagine them, had no conception of a hundred-ton, three-masted ship. Their shaman looked at the sea and saw the ripples produced by the bow of the ships, so he knew there was something there. But his mind could not see the ships. After much practice of looking at the horizon, the ships finally took form. He could see them. And once the shaman described them to the others and they concentrated, they too could see.”

  “That’s not a true story,” Cotten said.

  Ripple shrugged. “All quantum physicists understand these principles, but there is a small hole in what they can explain. I told you that in the quantum world atoms can exist in more than one place at once. And there is plenty of documentation. That’s not a Columbus story. But there is the breakdown between the quantum world and what we see with the naked eye. Why can’t this table be in two or three or a thousand places at once, like particles are able to in the quantum world?”

  Ripple wiped his head again.

  “I have no idea,” Cotten said, becoming more fascinated by the moment.

  “I have discovered the answer. It’s part of my thread theory.” Ripple took a brown envelope from his briefcase. He opened the clasp and removed the three photographs. “And that is what is written on the object in these pictures you claim you took. All my equations and explanations are here in this code.” He pointed at one of the pictures. “You said they came from an archaeological dig in Peru. How could that be?”

  “I don’t know how it could be, but that’s where the tablet was found. I was there when they excavated it.” Cotten paused, then folded her hands in her lap. “All that you’ve told me sounds very interesting, Lester, but I’m not sure I believe that is what is on the tablet. I have reason to believe the inscription is much more than some kind of New Age physics.”

  Ripple’s face scrunched up, and his right eye teared profusely. “But that is what is written on it. It’s written in a three-dimensional binary code. Very sophisticated. Some of it is equations and some of it is language.”

  “Then tell me what the language part says.”

  “Sure,” Ripple answered. “It says that all possibilities already exist and stuff like that.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Mostly. I can’t see the last couple of lines because of the glare from the camera flash.”

  Another waste of time, Cotten thought. “I’m sure you’ll get someone in the scientific community to hear you out,” she said.

  Ripple wiped a hand over the top of his hea
d. “Can I keep the pictures?” he asked.

  “Sure. I have copies. Thanks for your time, Lester. I’m going to have to run. I’ve got to check out of my hotel and grab a flight to Washington.”

  “Oh, government work, I suppose,” he said, a frown of disappointment gripping every inch of his face.

  “A funeral,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Cotten stood to leave.

  “What is it that you want the writing to say?” Ripple asked.

  “I wanted it to tell me how to stop Armageddon.”

  Sig-Sauer

  Richard Hapsburg steered the rented Buick LaCrosse along Massachusetts Avenue, approaching Observatory Circle. He was three cars behind his target—the passenger in the rear seat of a gray Volvo S80. Richard was already aggravated because he had missed an earlier opportunity to take a shot—hesitating and then losing the few seconds his target was exposed. If he screwed this up, Eli would have his testicles in a vise.

  The SIG-Sauer P226 sat on the passenger seat beside him. Richard was no sharpshooter, but he had been given the task against his will. He had suggested to Eli that an assassin be hired, but the idea was rejected. Clearly, Eli wanted no outsiders, no possible leaks. And Richard was certain that Eli was testing him yet again.

  Richard continued following the Volvo on 14th Street and US-1. He couldn’t pull up next to the S80 and fire while they were moving. How could he drive, and aim, and shoot with any accuracy?

  Richard wasn’t worried about someone getting the license plate number and then tracking the rental back to him. He had presented false identification when he got the car, and he had rigged a dummy license plate over the official one. Getting caught wasn’t going to be a problem, but getting in a good kill shot was.

  All the way along I-395 and George Washington Parkway, Richard thought through his plan. There was one more opportunity—Reagan Airport.

  He sped up, passing two cars until he was right behind the Volvo. He could see the target’s head through the back window. Only a few feet separated the two vehicles.