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

by Lynn Sholes

  Cotten stood by the window and opened her cell. She checked and found that she had a decent signal. After scrolling to Ripple’s number, she pushed the talk button. It was Saturday, so hopefully he was home and not at the university.

  “Ripple here,” he answered after the third ring.

  It sounded as though his mouth was full. “Hello, Lester. This is Cotten Stone. We met a few days ago—the photographs? Am I interrupting your dinner?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. No. I mean yes, I remember you, but no, I was just snacking. Oh my.”

  Cotten could picture him fumbling with a paper plate covered with something not necessarily in the government’s nutrition pyra­mid. “I need a favor. Can you explain again about your theory, your thread theory? But remember, I’m kind of a blank slate, so keep it as simple as you can.”

  Cotten heard Lester gulp down a drink and then snort.

  “It is very hard to understand, and almost impossible to explain. See, the rules change at the particle level. Particles don’t behave the same way as larger objects. That’s the first thing you have to accept. The laws that govern our everyday life don’t apply in the quantum world.” Ripple’s words came faster and faster as he spoke.

  “Okay, Lester, I think I follow you.”

  “Have you ever thrown a stone in a pond of water and seen the ripples spread out? Light travels like that—well, sort of—in ripples, in waves. Hmm. Hmm. Hmm. The easiest way for you to understand is to imagine throwing two rocks in the water at exactly the same time but in different places. The ripples spread out until they finally bump into each other. Then they either cancel or amplify each other. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Cotten said.

  “I’m skipping all the heavy science stuff, so you’ll have to trust me. I’m kind of taking some license so you can understand.”

  “All right.”

  “Pretend you have a machine gun and a wall in front of you with two holes, and then a second wall behind the first that will detect where every bullet hits. If you fired a few rounds through those holes, then checked the second wall, what kind of pattern do you think you would see? Where did most of the bullets hit?”

  “I guess they would be clustered in two spots lined up behind the holes they went through.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Lester said, sounding thrilled that she had come to the right conclusion.

  “But ripples or waves wouldn’t do that, would they? If light waves went through the holes, like ripples on the water, they would move forward, spread out, and interfere with each other. So if we could see where they would land on the second wall, we’d see a wave pattern, an interference pattern, not two clusters like the bullets. Right?”

  “I think I’m following so far.”

  Lester cleared his throat. “This is good. You are going to like what’s coming. Bye-bye, rules. So, you know that light travels in waves and what its pattern would look like if light passed through two holes, or slits, in a wall. But if we fired individual photons, one at a time, we wouldn’t expect to see the wave pattern, we’d expect to see the bullet pattern.”

  “That makes sense,” Cotten said, rubbing her forehead. But she still couldn’t tell where Lester Ripple was going with this.

  “Aha. We’d expect that a single photon would go through one hole or the other, just like a bullet. It couldn’t go through two holes at one time. But guess what? Whackety, whackety, whackety. If we check the detector wall after millions of photons have been fired individually, we don’t get two clusters like bullets, we get a wave or interference pattern. It’s like a single photon went through both holes at the same time. Each photon was in two places at once. Are you starting to see?”

  Cotten felt a hitch in her breath. Two places at once. She understood that for sure. Two Londons. Two beaches. “Yes,” Cotten said. “I think I do see.”

  “There’s more. What if we could arrange some kind of apparatus that would record which hole a photon went through? Guess what? When we do that, the photon behaves like bullets. They only go through one hole, never both at once, and their pattern on the detector wall is a cluster pattern. It’s like if they know you are watching, they do what you expect—only go through one hole. It won’t go through both holes if it’s being observed. Everyone is puzzled how that happens on the quantum level and not in our everyday, biggie-size world. But I’ve discovered how big things can behave like particles in the quantum. I can prove that large objects, like bowling balls, chairs, even people, can move to other threads, that you can move—you can choose which hole you want to go through, which world you wish to exist in. And I don’t mean just move your consciousness, I’m talking about you. All of you.”

  “Hang on, Lester.” Cotten was breathing hard as she leaned against the glass of the window. Ripple had the scientific explanation, and she had the spiritual one. So what is reality? Where does it exist? The only place it can—in your mind, where you create, observe, and participate in your own reality. The observation part Ripple was explaining was consciousness. It all comes down to free will, just like John said. When John awoke, she was going to have to tell him all this. This was the secret on the tablet, she was certain. That’s why part of the message on the tablet was in language and the other was equations. Physics equations. Ripple’s thread theory. An old biblical quote she’d heard in her early Sunday school days resonated in her head: The Kingdom of God is within you.

  “Ms. Stone, are you there?” Ripple asked.

  “Yes,” Cotten said faintly.

  “There is something else you should know.”

  “What is that, Lester?”

  “I figured out what was on the part of the tablet hidden by the glare.”

  Cotten held her breath.

  “You wanted it to say how to stop Armageddon. You got it wrong. It says Armageddon has to happen.”

  Cabinet Card

  On the day John was discharged—his arm still in a cast and sling—Cotten sat across from him at the oak table in her room at the Cadogan Hotel. Between them on the table were spread the items from Violet’s attic.

  “You sure you’re up to this?” she asked.

  “Never better,” he said with a weak smile. “And it’s not like we’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “If you get tired, just say so, okay?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Doctor Stone.”

  She picked up Chauncey’s note and read the last notation at the bottom: “The secret is protected by the word of God.” Looking up, she said, “Maybe it’s a clue to where he hid the tablet, or maybe the purpose of all these objects on the list. There doesn’t seem to be a connection between any of these things. Maybe he had some kind of fetish, and this was his to-do list of objects to add to his collection. We really need to see what was going on in London in 1878.”

  “But like you said, there’s no thread or theme to the list,” John said. “If it were all Bibles or briarwood pipes, it would make more sense.” He glanced at the list again before opening the moldy scrapbook. “This thing is about to crumble into a million pieces.”

  Cotten watched him gently pull back the cover. The old binding crackled as it opened for what was probably the first time in over a hundred years. She went and stood beside John, watching over his shoulder as he carefully turned one page, then the next. Notes, letters, newspaper clippings, and drawings covered the pages. Most of the sketches were in ink and depicted various parts of the anatomy, including internal organs. There were also illustrations of insects, flowers, and small animals.

  “Quite an artist,” she said.

  “Looks like his interests were wide—botany and medical,” John said. “But what was he up to in 1878? Why did he need all those things on his list?”

  “Here’s an article about Chauncey and his buddy Erasmus Wilson. Remember the other article we found in the attic?” It was folded in half, and Cotten
helped John spread the crumbling newsprint open to read the body of the text.

  John read aloud, “London dermatologist Dr. Erasmus Wilson and pulmonary specialist Dr. Chauncey Wyatt have developed a new medication they claim will reduce the symptoms of asthma, the debilitating disease that actually affects them both.”

  “So Chauncey was a doctor and a scientist,” Cotten said.

  “And a philanthropist. Remember the mystery project also mentioned in the other article? This must be what they were referring to. Says here that he and Wilson donated over twenty thousand pounds to bring an ancient Egyptian obelisk from Alexandria to London.”

  “Nice to have money,” Cotten said. She reached for a small metal box bound by a piece of twine and untied the knot. Opening it, she carefully removed a handful of cabinet cards—paper photographs mounted on heavy card stock. On the front of each card, the photographer had his professional information along with some decorative work in the margins. Each displayed a faded sepia image of a moment in time over 130 years ago.

  The first photo showed a distinguished gentleman with a long, dark beard and wire-rimmed glasses posing on the steps of a large building. Cotten turned it over. In a handwritten script similar to the list from the attic was written Westminster Hospital, 1875. “This must be Chauncey,” she said. After examining it, she passed it to John.

  The next showed the same man standing over what Cotten guessed were about a dozen bodies lying on the ground, each covered with a sheet. On the back was written Cholera Epidemic.

  The following card showed the man in front of another large building. At his side stood a Russian wolfhound. On the back was inscribed Christ’s Hospital, Newgate with Rex.

  The last of the photographs was a tintype showing the man standing in the middle of a large group of formally dressed men and women—top hats, tails, and long flowing dresses. A white horse took up one side of the picture. Sitting atop it was a woman Cotten recognized as Alexandrine Victoria, the queen of England.

  “Impressive,” Cotten said. It appeared to be some sort of ceremony. Behind the group was an enormous stone monument. “This must be the Egyptian obelisk Chauncey and Wilson financed,” Cotten said. “Looks like this is a picture of when they dedicated it. Must have been a big deal. Queen Victoria showed up.”

  Cotten was about to hand the picture to John when she realized she hadn’t yet examined the back for any notation. There was a note glued to the back. As her eyes focused on the now-familiar sweeping script, she gasped.

  John looked up from the album. “What is it?”

  She stared at him through wide eyes. “Remember what Chauncey’s note said? The one he left behind at the Vatican?”

  “Yes. ‘To enter the Kingdom of Heaven you must thread the needle.’ ”

  “John, this is a picture of Chauncey Wyatt at the dedication of Cleopatra’s Needle, 1878.”

  Lost Civilizations

  God has no religion.

  —MOHANDAS GANDHI

  “It’s in a time capsule,” Cotten said, scrolling down the webpage on the screen of her laptop. “Chauncey must have hidden the tablet in the capsule with the other items on his list.”

  She had performed a Google search for Cleopatra’s Needle and discovered that it was erected in 1878 on the bank of the River Thames. A time capsule had been sealed inside the monument’s base containing items collected by the project’s sponsors, London physicians Erasmus Wilson and Chauncey Wyatt.

  “The contents of the capsule match Chauncey’s list almost item for item,” John said, reading off the screen as he stood behind Cotten.

  “There’s no mention of the tablet,” Cotten said, “but then there wouldn’t be. Chauncey stole the tablet. His note said that to enter the Kingdom of Heaven you have to thread the needle. He left clear clues. That’s got to be where it is.”

  “I think we’ve nailed it,” John said.

  Cotten steepled her fingers at her lips. “Do you think we’ve been wrong all this time, thinking we were supposed to stop Armageddon? Is Lester Ripple right about what the tablet says, that Armageddon must happen? Is that part of the secret?”

  “I’ve thought a lot about that,” John answered. “I think Ripple is right. You can’t wipe out the Apocalypse. For God to save the world from Satan’s legions there must be one final battle, and He will win. When the disciples asked Jesus to teach them how to pray, He taught them the Lord’s Prayer. Part of it says, ‘Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.’ Before God’s heavenly kingdom can come to earth, first evil has to be eradicated. There is no evil in heaven.”

  “And what about the ability for each of us to create our world, or to exist in two places? Like my two Londons, there could be millions of Londons, but the one I want for my reality is the London at peace. For that to happen, I have to actually live the life of peace in God’s image for it to become my reality.”

  “Cotten, I believe that this is bigger than just one religion’s viewpoint. This concept of living the life you want is the basis of spirituality. Unfortunately, religions, including mine, tend to separate everyone into groups. But the concept of spirituality is a belief system and a way of life that anyone, anywhere can live.”

  Cotten nodded.

  “Scripture teaches us that there will be a final battle some call Armageddon. And just before that event, there will be what are referred to as trying times. God doesn’t want us to have to live through all the misery—the misery directly caused by Satan. And it doesn’t matter what you call God—Allah, Shang Ti, Krishna, Theos, the Light, Om, the Creator, or whatever. He wants us to know that He has provided so we can, by choice, by the free will He gave us, choose another path, another life. He told Noah how to escape the Flood. Why would He not tell us how to escape the End of Days?”

  “Then that explains what happened to the people who lived in the lost city in Peru, or the ones in the New Mexico ruins, and all those ancient civilizations that received a tablet and then seemed to vanish overnight. They interpreted the secret and moved on.”

  “Why not? What other explanation is there?”

  “Then when we find the tablet, it will say that we can do the same by believing it, willing it, existing in it. Reality is what we choose it to be. The same as Ripple’s quantum thread theory. This is what we have to share with the world. This is what Chauncey meant by it belonging to the whole world.”

  John took one of Cotten’s hands. “Yes, and led by the daughter of an angel.”

  * * *

  A crisp wind blew down the River Thames, bringing with it the distant sound of sirens echoing throughout the city as emergency vehicles responded to the ever-increasing suicides. Cotten tucked her hands into her overcoat as she stood next to John on the Victoria Embankment. They both stared up at the Egyptian obelisk known as Cleopatra’s Needle.

  The platform on which the monument rested was located along the riverbank between the Westminster and Waterloo bridges. It was late afternoon, and a handful of Londoners wandered along the Embankment sidewalks.

  “There are two obelisks, you know,” John said, holding open the Fodor’s London guidebook. “One here, and its twin in Central Park in New York. Let’s hope we’ve got the right one.”

  “This is the only one connected to Chauncey Wyatt—it has to be the one.”

  Cotten walked around the monument. Each of the four sides of its base was adorned with a large bronze plaque. The surface of the obelisk displayed carved hieroglyphics, and the bottom was wrapped in a collar of winged Egyptian gods. Cotten read each plaque; together they told the history of the monument from when it and its twin were first quarried by the pharaoh Thothmes III around 1500 BC. Both obelisks were moved two centuries later to stand in front of the Caesarium Temple in Alexandria. Cleopatra’s Needle was brought to London by Wilson and Wyatt and presented to the British nation in 1878 while the twin, spon
sored by another group, went to New York.

  Completing her journey around the base, back to her starting point, Cotten said, “Learn anything more in your travel guide?”

  “I think you’ll find this interesting,” John said. “One of the reasons this obelisk is preserved so well is that it stayed buried under the desert sand for over six hundred years after it was toppled by an earthquake. As a matter of fact, because of that, it was referred to as . . .”

  “As what?” Cotten said, staring at John.

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “I’m ready,” she said, half-expecting a goofy answer.

  “It was called ‘the fallen one.’ ”

  Taking that as an omen, Cotten circled the obelisk, dragging her fingers along the pedestal as she stared up at the needle. An expression of wonder came over her face. “This is it,” she said. Then, with a look of satisfaction, Cotten pulled the cell phone from her pocket, scrolled through the names, and pressed talk. A moment later, she said, “Ted, I think we’ve found it. Are you ready to do this?”

  The Broadcast

  “We haven’t gotten permission to open the time capsule yet,” Cotten said into her phone. “We need to hold off on the broadcast until we get our hands on the tablet. And the network isn’t going to approve what I have to say without it.”

  “All SNN needs to know is that you’re doing a report on the suicides.”

  Cotten sighed. “Ted, you could be out on your ear if you do this. Let’s just wait until we have the artifact.”

  “We can’t,” Ted said. “There’s not a second to waste. The rate of suicides is escalating constantly.”

  “The authorities only need another day or two to clear up the red tape for us to open the base of the monument and remove the capsule.”

  “People need some thin fiber to hold on to, Cotten. You can give them that. Tell them what is happening so they understand—and give them hope. We’ll cover the removal of the capsule when the time comes—a live remote, right on location at Cleopatra’s Needle.”