by Lynn Sholes
“But what if the tablet is not there?”
“You know it will be. It has to be.”
“Ted, you’re the one who’s been warning me all along the way to—”
“It’s different now. The creation fossil was a setup to ruin you. This is different. God has led you to it. You’re the one, kiddo. The only one.”
* * *
Cotten waited for her cue from the floor manager. In a moment, she would be live on SNN. Ted had managed to pull it all together in just two days. Cotten looked around the studio, watching the dozens of crew members working out the last-minute glitches before going to air. John sat in a chair in the shadows beyond the cameras, two Venatori agents at his side. He gave her a thumbs-up.
The floor manager held up five fingers, then counted down and pointed to Cotten.
“Welcome to a special report on the increasing rate of suicides throughout the world. I’m Cotten Stone, reporting for the Satellite News Network.”
“Cue graphics,” the UK director said in the control room overlooking the sound stage. Beside him, the technical director punched up the graphics feed on the on-air digital video switcher.
Over Cotten’s shoulder on the monitor, the words “Global Crisis: Suicides” appeared in a red font that looked a lot like blood.
“We’re broadcasting from the SNN studios in London, where just today the wife of the prime minister took her own life with an overdose of painkillers.”
“Ready PM’s wife,” the director said. “Go.” He pointed to the number three preview monitor.
A recent picture of the prime minister’s wife waving to onlookers at a school-dedication ceremony appeared behind Cotten, dissolving to a grainy still shot of a hearse parked in front of Number 10 Downing Street.
“Tonight, we’re going to bring you an in-depth report on the unprecedented escalation in suicides occurring throughout the UK, the United States, and virtually every other nation on the globe.”
“Chyron, ready stats?” The director snapped his fingers. “Go.” The operator of the chyron character generator started the playback of a series of electronic charts representing the rise in global suicide rates.
“Despite a denial from the International Psychiatric Foundation and other medical organizations that there is any correlation between the increase in suicide rates and a possible link to demonic possession, we are faced with the fact that the numbers don’t lie.” Cotten paused while a series of statistics broken down by countries scrolled on the screen.
“The Vatican announced that it has empowered all its priests throughout the world to begin the difficult task of performing exorcisms on persons displaying suicidal tendencies. The announcement came from the pontiff himself in a news conference from the Vatican State Palace, where there is grave concern that we, as a civilization, are in dire peril from the influence of evil throughout the world.”
“B roll, ready?” With a snap of his fingers, the director pointed at the on-air monitor. “Go.”
A collage of footage showing emergency personnel attending the victims in various foreign countries appeared, replacing Cotten.
“It seems,” she said, “that this alarming phenomenon does not show prejudice or discrimination. The victims of the widespread suicides vary from the ultra rich and famous, like the queen and her immediate family here in the UK, to homeless persons living in the shadows of our great cities.”
“Cue C roll—homeless in Moscow.” The director motioned to the bank of preview monitors, and the technical director readied his finger over the button. “Now.”
In a room a few doors down from the control room, an electronic relay clicked, and the images played back live to air.
“Something evil is moving across our land, our cities, our world. It is taking our loved ones and friends away from us. Stealing their lives and their souls.” Cotten paused.
“I’ve come here tonight to tell you about what I believe is a message from our Creator, a message written by the hand of Almighty God. And I hope that I will be able to give you cause for optimism that the dark days we are living in will soon change.”
“What the fuck?” the director said. “What is she doing?”
Across the Atlantic in the New York SNN master control center, the VP of broadcasting said, “Casselman, what the shit is going on?”
Ted Casselman watched the massive bank of monitors as he felt the pressure building in his chest. If this didn’t ignite a full-scale heart attack, nothing would. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll get back on script.” He wished he had the nitro pills that he’d left back in his briefcase.
Cotten continued. “I’ve chosen this moment to tell all watching that there may be an answer to what is occurring around us. I believe that secretly hidden away somewhere in this city is the last of twelve crystal tablets. Each was given to great spiritual leaders of the world many thousands of years ago.”
“Mother of God,” the technical director whispered into the intercom system.
“What in the hell is she talking about?” the New York VP said, staring at the TelePrompTer feed.
Cotten looked directly into the camera lens. “The purpose of each tablet was to deliver a message from the Creator that not only predicted the first universal cleansing of the earth in the time of Noah, but also contained an additional message meant for a world far into the future. The future is here. And so is the End of Days. Armageddon is upon us. We can’t stop it, for if we do, then they will win. The evil that is sweeping across our world must be wiped away by the hand of God. The last battle has to take place for good to triumph over evil. It is the evil ones who want to stop Armageddon, because that is the only way they will triumph. And I believe that written on the last tablet is the secret to surviving the final battle, the second cleansing, just like Noah survived the Flood.”
“That’s it,” the UK director said. “Get ready to cut away. Cue commercial block number one.”
“Get the fucking bitch off!” the New York VP yelled. “Go to a commercial!”
“Wait!” Ted Casselman stared at the wall of monitors.
“What do you mean, wait?” the VP said. “She’s in la-la land with this Armageddon bullshit. I told you that putting her back on the air would be a major mistake. Now do you believe me?”
Cotten hurried. She knew they were about to cut her off and she had to finish before they did. “Each tablet revealed a means, a secret, to see and choose a path in life that will take us to a better world. A choice that precedes a cleansing just like the one our ancestors experienced, the Flood that swept away the evil of their world. I believe that we, too, can escape the last cleansing, escape the horrors of the final days that will rid the world of evil. The crystal tablet will tell us how to do that.”
“Look!” Casselman said, pointing to the network feeds.
The VP followed Ted’s eyes and glanced at the rows of monitors displaying other international programming. “My God, what’s happening?”
CNN, BBC, NBC, ABC, CBS, and Fox, along with networks in China, Brazil, India, South Africa, and a dozen others were systematically switching over to the live SNN broadcast. Even Al-Jazeera was displaying Cotten Stone with closed-captioning in Arabic along the bottom of the screen.
“They’re all taking our feed,” Ted said.
“The message was understood by the mighty civilizations of Atlantis, the Druids who built Stonehenge, the people who built the moais of Easter Island, the southern Maya civilization, the Mali of western Africa, the Anasazi—all vanished overnight without a trace. They vanished because they heeded the message on their tablets and chose a path to a new life. One that we can choose as well. All we need to do is believe. It doesn’t matter if you are Hindu, Jewish, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim. We can no longer box ourselves into cells of organized religious groups that turn their focus on the messenger ra
ther than the message. We are all connected to each other and every living thing. We are one and must stand up to the evil around us.”
The New York VP slumped in his chair as he watched the international news organizations switch to his network. He whispered, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
The London director said into his headphone mic, “The whole world is watching us. Don’t anybody touch a fucking thing or I’ll personally rip your heart out.”
Two Embankments
The Kingdom of God is within you.
—LUKE 17:21
The response to the SNN broadcast had been phenomenal, and with the news that there would be a live broadcast at the obelisk, thousands had flocked to London.
To avoid traffic jams, and for added security, Cotten would arrive by boat: a small riverboat used for tour groups had been rented and secretly hidden away until the last moment. As darkness fell, a car driven by a Venatori agent arrived at the back entrance of the Cadogan Hotel and whisked Cotten and John through side streets to a dock a half mile from the monument. When the SNN crew radioed that they were in place, Cotten and John boarded the boat for the short ride to the monument.
As they rounded the bend in the River Thames and passed under the Waterloo Bridge, Cotten gasped. There before her was the obelisk, ablaze from a wall of media floodlights. It reminded her of a space shuttle illuminated just before a night launch. Cleopatra’s Needle was pointing like an arrow straight to the heavens. That was more than appropriate, she thought.
But what caused Cotten to catch her breath were the masses of people gathered along the Victoria Embankment. John had warned that once the word got out, she could expect a crowd of curiosity seekers. But before her, in a wall of faces and bodies that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions, were thousands of people. Savoy Place, Strand, Fleet Street, Whitehall—all a sea of bodies packed tightly together. As she looked over her shoulder at the Waterloo, she realized that traffic had been replaced with people leaning over the bridge’s railings to catch a glimpse of her. Even farther down the river, the Westminster Bridge was packed, bringing city traffic to a halt. Across the water from the Needle, the Jubilee Gardens and the banks of the Thames in both directions were covered by throngs of observers, as were the rooftops and windows of the buildings lining the streets beyond the Embankment—all awaiting Cotten Stone.
As the boat approached the steps that led from the river up the embankment to Cleopatra’s Needle, a bank of camera lights swung toward Cotten, and a deafening roar filled the air.
Police constables had kept the concrete steps at the water’s edge clear for her and had roped off a small area surrounding the obelisk. With John grasping her arm to help her balance, Cotten climbed the damp steps to the landing at the base of the Needle.
A flash from above made Cotten look up. Tempest Star and Bennie had crossed the ropes to get a close shot of her. A constable responded, ushering them away.
Stepping on the landing, a reporter thrust a microphone in her hand. She was pleased to see that it displayed a Satellite News Network logo around its neck.
Cotten held the mic close to her lips and said, “Hello.”
What happened next sent a shudder through her. Her voice filled the air from every direction, echoing along the river and across the city. It appeared that almost everyone present had a portable radio or cell phone that was receiving the media simulcast of the event.
Cotten sucked in her breath in amazement as she heard the sound come back at her from thousands of tiny speakers lining the streets, sidewalks, and pathways of the London riverfront.
As the cheers of the crowd died down, Cotten said, “I can’t believe there are so many of you.” This caused the crowd to again swell up in applause. But she knew it was not applause of joy, but more of apprehension. Most were here out of desperation. The weight of responsibility upon her was immense as she heard scattered pleas for help and prayers for mercy.
“I understand why you came here tonight, and why so many more are listening and watching in other places. I hope that tonight we can end the pain, the darkness, the evil that moves among us.”
The cheers rose again as Cotten’s voice reverberated along the parks and paths of the Embankment.
A flutter of panic shot electricity down her arms. What if the tablet wasn’t inside the time capsule? What would happen to all these people?
* * *
Eli Luddington watched the SNN broadcast on the large plasma display in his library office. Beside him, Mariah stood with her hand on his shoulder. She felt so fulfilled, so complete. Eli had informed her that she would soon see the signs of new life within her. She had been chosen by him to continue his legacy with a child who would follow in his footsteps. Even now, it grew inside her. She was privileged and blessed, he said. Few received the honor of being the vessel for the next generation of the great Nephilim. For her, it no longer mattered if Richard returned or not. She had changed her mind. Her plan was eclipsed by Eli’s great vision. She touched her abdomen. This was Eli’s child, and with that came the windfall of miraculous benefits.
“This will be so fitting an end to the thorn in our side,” Eli said as the cameras zoomed in for a close-up of Cotten Stone greeting the crowd with the priest at her side. “She will watch as the one who matters the most to her falls even as she goes down in disgrace. The blood of millions will be on her tonight, but the blood of John Tyler will stain her hands forever.”
He smiled at Mariah. “Revenge has the sweetest taste.”
* * *
The thunder of applause shook the foundation of the platform beneath Cleopatra’s Needle. As it died away, Cotten nodded to the pair of London city engineers who had come with them on the riverboat. The men proceeded up the steep tier of steps and stood in front of one of the four large plaques mounted on the base of the obelisk. Using large wrenches, they loosened the bronze bolts holding the four corners of the plaque and slid it away.
The removal of the plaque exposed a square cavity. A dozen video news reporters moved in. With great care, the two engineers removed a wooden chest.
* * *
Richard Hapsburg maneuvered his way through the crowd until he was a few yards from the Needle. He saw Cotten Stone standing beside John Tyler and watching the engineers remove the time capsule. A twinge of shame chilled him. He had gone back to Eli, asking for another chance. Though he wanted to, he couldn’t muster the same kind of courage that Cotten’s father, Furmiel, had. Richard felt the weight of the SIG-Sauer in his jacket pocket. He avoided the perimeter of the floodlights, slipping forward until he was by the river’s edge and there was nothing between him and John Tyler.
* * *
Cotten watched the engineers gingerly hold the chest between them as they made their way down the steps. She wondered what Chauncey Wyatt would think if he were present to witness the completion of his secret task. Tonight, in this spot along the River Thames, the mission of the Shadows of Ghosts would finally end. Chauncey could rest in peace, she thought.
They set the chest at her feet, and Cotten waited while John made the sign of the cross and blessed it. Cotten felt her heart flow over with excitement as she realized she was fulfilling her destiny this night on the banks of the historic river. She glanced around, trying to take in the magical event. As her eyes fell on the distant bend in the river, all her excitement vanished, replaced with dread and fear. In the distance, a mist appeared over the water, moving toward the Needle.
“Oh my God,” she said, before realizing the microphone was still at her lips.
John turned to her. “What?”
Cotten looked in the opposite direction along the Embankment and saw the mist rolling across the water. It came from both directions toward them.
* * *
Richard reached inside his jacket and gripped the pistol. It felt cold and heavy. He remembered how awk
ward it was in his hand when he had fired from the car in D.C. This should be easier tonight. He’d finally conceded and accepted his life as it was. Oh, he’d been weak over the last several days, thinking he might beg God’s forgiveness. Like Furmiel. Richard had come just short of getting on his knees before coming to his senses. After all, why would he be shown mercy?
* * *
“Open the chest!” Cotten screamed.
“What is it, Cotten?” John said.
“They’re coming.” She pointed toward the river. “We have no time.”
John glanced down the river.
“It’s only river fog,” one of the engineers said. “Nothing to be concerned with, missy. Happens all the time.”
“Just open the chest!” she cried, her voice breaking.
One of the engineers broke the latch, and with a rusty squeak, the man raised the lid.
Cotten crouched and rummaged through the contents. Papers, maps, books, documents, tobacco pipes, pictures. “Dear God, where is it?” It’s not here, she thought. What if I was wrong and the world is watching?
Cotten glanced back at the river, hoping the mist would have dissipated. But it had grown fiercer, blocking out the sight of the bridges. She could no longer see the opposite bank of the river. Looking in each direction along the Embankment, she watched the crowds of onlookers vanish into the thickening mist. She would not be able to save anyone. Even if she found the tablet and it confirmed everything she believed it would, there would be no time. How could she teach all these people about the liquid light in a matter of seconds?
* * *
Lester Ripple lay on his bed, staring up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars. He closed his eyes and thought of Cotten Stone, wondering what she was doing tonight. Did she really understand what he had tried to teach her? In her own way, she seemed to be more in touch with the power grid than even he was. There was something about her. Something different. Maybe someday they could meet again at Starbucks and have a latte. She seemed to be intrigued by all the science. She had a problem, and he helped solve it. The least she could do was have a latte with him, even if he didn’t drink coffee. After all, he was a problem solver. Solve, solve, solve.