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

by Lynn Sholes

  A uniformed SNN security officer blocked the doorway. Seeing the news director, he said, “In here, Mr. Casselman.”

  Ted slipped past the officer and entered the men’s room. In a far corner, a young man lay collapsed on the floor, the tile wall behind him smeared in red. An automatic pistol rested in his lifeless hand.

  Ted rushed to the body and felt the man’s neck for a pulse. The head wound was massive, and he was not surprised to find no sign of life.

  “Were the police called?” he said to the security officer.

  “Already done, sir. They’re on their way.”

  Ted backed away, leaning against the nearby row of sinks. He shook his head. “What’s going on?” he whispered to himself. Just that morning, his next-door neighbor had died of an apparent prescription-drug overdose. Driving to the train station, he had come upon two horrific traffic accidents, both of which appeared to involve single cars. One had rammed a light pole head-on, and the other a tree. Each had multiple fatalities. At the train station, a woman had thrown herself onto the tracks in front of an approaching commuter and was killed instantly. During his subway ride into Manhattan, there was an apparent murder-suicide two cars ahead of him. Now this—someone on the SNN staff.

  Ted stepped into the hallway outside the men’s room. A dozen people crowded around. Some were crying. Everyone looked totally distraught. He would have to get some crisis counseling scheduled right away. “Everyone, please go back to your desks. There’s been a tragic accident here, but there’s nothing any of us can do. We need to try to continue our normal routines as best we can.”

  “There’s news of suicides taking place throughout the city,” a young staff member said.

  “Yes,” Casselman said, “I’ve heard the same reports. I don’t know how much validity there is to the stories, but it certainly explains my ride in this morning. Why don’t you stay on top of it and get something to me for the noon news. In the meantime, let’s all try to get through this together.”

  Ted made his way to his office. He could hear the whispers of concern and sobs of sorrow as he passed each cubicle. What was all this about? Had the whole world gone nuts? He rubbed the center of his chest, where pressure built inside.

  Ted opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small container of aspirin. Popping one of the pills in his mouth, he washed it down with the cold coffee from a Dunkin’ Donuts cup. He was already on an aspirin a day, along with cholesterol-lowering medication. His doctor had advised taking an additional pill any time he felt the pressure in his chest.

  There was a commotion in the hall outside his office, and Ted saw SNN security leading the police and EMTs toward the men’s room. He thought about getting up and following them but knew that he could do nothing for the dead tech. Considering the way his chest felt, he thought he should avoid the additional stress.

  His assistant, a young journalism intern from New York University, walked into his office. “Mr. Casselman, one of the producers said you would want to see this.” She placed a newspaper on his desk before leaving, closing the door behind her.

  Ted stared at the front of the National Courier. A picture of Cotten Stone embracing John Tyler glared back at him. The caption read, “Cotten Stone, embattled reporter, gets religion from Archbishop John Tyler.” Farther down the page was a picture of Cotten sitting on the side of the road, her face in her hands as John consoled her. The caption under this photo read, “Stone and Tyler get into an accident while rushing to their hotel together.”

  Ted picked up the paper and scanned the article. “What a crock of shit,” he said. “Cotten is going to freak out when she sees this.”

  As he laid the paper back on his desk and picked up the phone to call Cotten, Ted saw more police officers move past his office. After a moment of waiting for the call to move through international routing, he heard her voice.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “I hate to call you with bad news, but—”

  Hit-And-Run

  “Sorry for sleeping all the way back,” Cotten said as she and John got off the Underground at the Warren Street Station, the last leg of their trip from Hanborough. “I just couldn’t keep my eyes open another minute.”

  “That’s what shoulders are made for,” John said.

  “I can’t believe Dorothy let us borrow the scrapbook and all the other stuff. We’ll be able to take a closer look at everything back at the hotel. I just wish I had a clue as to what Chauncey’s list was all about.”

  John waved for a taxi, but with no luck, they kept walking toward the Cadogan.

  Cotten’s cell phone rang. She took it from her bag and glimpsed at the caller ID. “It’s Ted.” She flipped open the phone as John stepped off the sidewalk to hail another cab.

  Just as he did, a black BMW pulled away from the curb half a block down on the opposite side of the street and sped toward them.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Ted said. “I hate to call you with bad news, but—”

  The approaching BMW swerved, crossed two lanes of traffic, and headed straight at John.

  He jumped back, but it was too late.

  The impact lifted John up and threw him toward Cotten. She heard the sickening thud and the gunning of the engine as the car sped away.

  “John!” Cotten screamed as he crashed to the sidewalk. She fell to her knees. He was face-down, eyes closed. Quickly she hit the end button on her cell phone and dialed 999 for police and an ambulance.

  “I don’t know,” she said after being asked her location. “Help us,” she said, thrusting the cell to a man leaning over John’s body. “Tell them where we are. Please.”

  The stranger took the phone and gave the location to the emergency operator.

  John didn’t move.

  Cotten stretched out on the pavement next to him, resting her cheek on the cement so she could see his face. A crowd had encircled them, their voices muffled. But bits of their conversations leaked through.

  “Is he dead?” someone asked.

  A child’s voice rang out. “Oh, look, Mum, there’s blood.”

  Cotten blocked out the onlookers’ voices, building a tight, safe cocoon around just the two of them, insulating them from the world. She stared at John’s face, willing his eyes to open so she could see them again—deep blue like no other eyes in the world. “John,” Cotten whispered, putting her hand on the back of his head, as though it might comfort him. “Come back to me.”

  * * *

  Ted heard Cotten scream John’s name, then the call ended abruptly. He sat stunned, staring at the receiver as if it were the first time he had ever seen a telephone. He started to press redial, but before he could, his office door opened again.

  “The cops want to talk to you,” the young intern said.

  “Be right there,” he said, hanging up the phone.

  Suddenly, Ted felt nervous and uneasy. He massaged the back of his neck and rolled his head from side to side. Something was wrong. His stomach soured, and the bitterness rose to his mouth. He felt unsteady, as if he might pass out. What is the damn thermostat set at? he wondered. He was freezing. Ted leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. This would pass in a minute or two. He’d just rest for a little bit, and then he’d be fine. He felt the pressure building in his chest.

  In a few minutes, Ted opened his eyes. He rose, went to the two windows looking out into the hall, and twisted the long plastic rods to close the miniblinds. Returning to his desk, he sat and slid open the bottom drawer. From a small space behind the files, he pulled out a handgun and held it in his lap.

  Night Visitor

  “In a stunning announcement today, the Vatican declared that the Catholic Church believes the widespread wave of suicides throughout the world is being caused by demonic possessions,” the SNN reporter said. Over the reporter’s shoulder, a picture appeared of the pope standing in front of a bank of microph
ones and reading a statement. The room he was in was crowded with reporters and dignitaries of the Church and various foreign governments.

  “The pope has called upon all Catholic priests to commence performing the ancient ritual of exorcism on anyone showing signs of possible possession and suicidal tendencies. As widespread panic takes hold of many communities and cities across the United States, Europe, and other parts of the world, thousands flock to churches, temples, mosques, and other houses of worship, hoping to find answers to the mind-numbing rash of self-induced killings.”

  * * *

  The pope slumped in the chair beside his bed. The commotion of the news coverage had finally died away. He was alone, unable to push from his mind the madness that seeped into every corner of the world around him.

  He felt old and weak. For the first time in his papacy, he wondered if he could go on. The weight was so heavy on his shoulders—and his mind. Everything around him was crumbling. The bleakness drifting over the world was becoming unbearable. What was he to do?

  “Perplexing, isn’t it?”

  The pope looked up to see who had spoken.

  The Old Man sat on the couch on the opposite side of the bedroom, his form partially hidden in the shadows.

  “What do you want?” the pope asked.

  “Things are turning dark. Perhaps now would be a good time to reconsider my offer and do as I have asked. After all, saving yourself should be your first priority.”

  “You have not won.”

  “Oh, but I am so very close.”

  “You will be defeated in the end. We will drive you out. I have over four hundred thousand priests throughout the world and have ordered them to immediately start performing exorcisms.”

  The Old Man laughed. “You are wasting your time. My hosts outnumber you a million to one. I like to think of it that way—being hosted. And who will minister to the Buddhists and Muslims, the Hindus and Jews? They’re all dying by their own hands as we speak. Dear old friend, this goes beyond you and your Church. My legions can get to thousands of souls at a time, of all denominations and beliefs, unlike your trivial priest army. You are but a mere speck upon the face of the earth.”

  The pope’s eyes narrowed, and there was hate in his heart, something he had never experienced before. “But we still have one weapon against you.” He glared at the Old Man. “Cotten Stone.”

  Yoo-Hoo

  Lester Ripple opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom. He had glued small, glow-in-the-dark plastic stars and planets across the ceiling, and in the darkness of the room, they always gave him the sensation of floating through the solar system. As he stared at the soft, cream-colored celestial bodies, he realized that of all his immersions onto the power grid, the one he had just experienced had been the most fulfilling and stimulating.

  It was not unusual for Lester to visualize the many threads leading to different paths. He had even crossed over to different ones now and again just to feel the surge of energy it brought. But tonight, the energy had been almost intoxicating. Excitement flowed through him as he realized that he was not the only person in the world who knew the secret to quantum threading. Someone had known before him, and inscribed it thousands of years ago upon the surface of the relic in Cotten Stone’s photographs.

  But what was hidden by the glare of the camera flash? What was it that she seemed so desperate to learn? And what did it have to do with the concept of stopping Armageddon?

  Suddenly, Lester had a thought. Each of the photos had been taken from a slightly different angle. A small portion of the inscription hidden by the glare was revealed in each. But together, the whole statement could not be read. Perhaps a bit of electronic enhancement could bring out enough to help him find the answer she needed.

  Lester got up and went into his kitchen. He flipped on the light and opened the refrigerator. Grabbing a can of Yoo-hoo, he shook it vigorously and then popped the top. Downing the chocolate drink in several long gulps, he moved to the card table and glared once again at the three photos. Time for a bit of magic, he thought.

  He picked up the pictures and went to his PC, which was set up on a desk beside his TV. Next to the PC was the flatbed scanner that he sometimes used to scan the covers of his favorite comics. He powered up the PC and blew his nose on a paper napkin while waiting for the computer to boot. After it was up and running, he launched Adobe PhotoShop. Placing the first photo on the scanner, he instructed PhotoShop to scan and import the image. Once completed, he repeated the same procedure for the remaining two photographs.

  Lester slid his chair closer to the monitor and studied the digital version of picture number one. He clicked on the enlarge command three times. One, two, three. Zooming into the area of the tablet that was obstructed by the glare, he tried to make out the hidden khipu. No luck.

  Next, he clicked on the image menu and used the mode command to convert the scan from color to grayscale. Suddenly, the portion of the image hidden by the glare revealed a tiny bit of the khipu previously obscured. The first piece of the line was not an equation, but language, of that he was sure. He scribbled what he could read on a yellow pad and then clicked on the levels control. Adjusting the light, dark and midtone curves, he was able to retrieve a few more pieces of the binary code. After making a note of what was revealed, he clicked on the second digital image and zoomed in on the glare portion.

  In this photo, the tablet was at a slightly different angle. Even without processing, he saw a tiny bit of the lines not clear in the first photo. Going through the same steps of conversion to grayscale and levels adjustment, he was able to make a few more notes.

  Lester blew his nose again before starting to work on the third photo. This one revealed the largest portion of the code. Performing the enhancement procedure once more, he was able to make out just a bit more of the message. He noted what it said, then picked up the yellow pad and photographs and went back to the card table. Dropping the photos onto its surface, he sat and pondered his notes. Being so used to thinking in terms of physics and quantum mechanics theories, he had to work hard at understanding the simple language revealed by the code.

  After rearranging the bits and pieces of his notes, the message materialized.

  Lester Ripple giggled, proud of himself that he could solve the puzzle. After all, he was a problem solver. He rose and again went to the refrigerator, drawing out the last can of Yoo-hoo.

  He raised it in a toast. “So you want to stop Armageddon?” he said. “Well, Ms. Stone, you’re in for a big surprise.”

  Gene Pool

  Eli Luddington sat in the wingback chair and dialed the cordless phone. Tempest Star answered.

  “I think we need a change in game plan,” he said, sipping a Rémy Martin Louis XIII.

  “Why? I got you the front-page picture of Stone hanging all over that priest. It’s at every shopping-market checkout counter. Do you know how many people read it? Even if they don’t buy it, they read the caption while they stand in line. Both Stone and Tyler are dead in the water.”

  “Well, one of them is out of commission.”

  Mariah came into the room wearing Eli’s robe. She sat at his feet, her back against his shins.

  Eli put the phone on speaker and placed it on the table beside him. He opened his knees so she could lean back while he played with her hair.

  “What do you mean?” Star asked.

  “It seems Archbishop Tyler was struck down by a hit-and-run in London.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “It might reel in a token of sympathy. And now I am thinking that is a good thing. I know that Cotten Stone is getting close to finding the tablet. We have hampered her, made extravagant efforts to discredit her—and your coverage was definitely brilliant—but in the end, we must face the fact that she will find the relic. We have done about all we can to delay that. If we keep a close watch o
n her, we may be able to steal it away, as we have the others. But I’m starting to wonder if we may want a change of tactics. This time, we need to be there when she finds it. As a matter of fact, we should let her find it.”

  Mariah gently arched her neck, laying her head between Eli’s legs. “Come on,” she whispered, turning around and kneeling. “I lit candles all around the spa.” She took one of his hands and pulled him forward.

  Eli resisted, and Mariah sighed. She slipped her hand inside the robe, teasingly caressing her own breast. Her other hand stroked her belly, and then moved inside her thigh.

  Eli’s voice sounded ragged as he watched Mariah and spoke to Star. “We have to give Stone her head, like you would a horse. Give her enough rope for her to climb to the top, so we can push her off the cliff. And we need to make sure the world is watching. We’ll show her up close and personal how much blood will be on her hands. The world will see her fail, and all that will be left to do is harvest their souls.”

  Mariah got to her feet, letting the robe fall open. She leaned over to whisper in his ear, “I’m going to have to start without you.” Then she headed out of the room.

  “Listen, Tempest, something has come up that requires my attention. I’ll get back to you later.”

  “I hope so, because I’m not sure I follow what you want me to do.”

  Eli hung up. He smiled to himself. Mariah Hapsburg thought she was manipulating him. What she didn’t understand was that her devious plan was all in his favor. She thought she could lure Richard home with a child. Of course, Richard would think the unborn was his. And there was another thing Mariah didn’t know. Her husband had already come to Eli, his tail between his legs. As always. And Eli had given Richard one more assignment—one last task, then he would be done with Rumjal. For Eli had already begun the process of filling Richard’s place in the ranks with someone much stronger. Someone who had Eli’s genes.