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

by Lynn Sholes

  _____

  Crow watched from behind the cover of the forest as the BMW left. Soon, all the cars had gone and the night was quiet, the wind calm, and the moon spread a pewter haze over the Maryland woods.

  But Crow was not calm and quiet. He had already shed the heavy trench coat as sweat soaked his body. “What the fuck?” he whispered.

  Standing on shaky legs, he stumbled down the sloping hillside toward the fire ring. He had to either confirm what he had seen or find reason to laugh at his misunderstanding. He prayed for the latter. Either way, he had to know.

  Smoke hung heavy in the air, almost like a cloudy sentry standing guard. Crow cautiously approached the rock circle. The fire had died away, only embers glowed faintly from the black mass of spent logs.

  Crow still couldn’t grasp in his mind what he had witnessed. And yet he knew it was something that went way beyond the role-playing he and Scar did with their make-believe spells and incantations. Scar was never going to believe this. No one would believe it.

  Crow looked at the stones and touched one with his foot. The heat burned through his shoe. The acrid smell of smoke stung in his nostrils, and he had no doubt that he had trespassed into an evil place. The air, laden with the odor of sulfur, had moments ago been inside the bodies of those vile creatures. Now it was in his lungs. That thought convinced him that he had experienced enough.

  Suddenly, the embers sprang alive with the brilliance of an exploding sun. A flame shot over Crow’s head, bringing with it a blast of heat. He backed away, fearing his feet would melt into the ground.

  Then he saw them.

  The Potomac Witches.

  They appeared before him just outside the stone ring, only a few feet away, their naked bodies consumed in fire.

  He turned to run, to get as far from this place as possible. But when he did, the witches suddenly materialized in front of him, blocking his way, forcing Crow back to the fire that now raged. He felt the intense heat bite his neck. His shirt and pants burst into flames. The air filled with howling as the witches rushed forward. Their wails were matched only by his shrieks of terror. As he fell into their embrace, the metal objects piercing his skin melted and ran down his face like silver tears.

  the code

  Ben awoke to the sound of someone whistling the national anthem. Lying on his side facing away from the other beds in the small dormitory, he turned to see who was there.

  “You are supposed to stand.” It was the boy, Devin Olsen, sitting on his bed at the other end of the room. He whistled another bar, then sat Indian style on the mattress.

  “What?” Ben said, slowly swinging his legs over the side. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  “Supposed to stand at attention when you hear ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’”

  “You’re right,” Ben said, glancing at his watch. It had been about five hours since Tor had taken Devin from the room. He must have been asleep when the boy returned for he had heard nothing. “But I see that you’re not standing.”

  “It’s over. You don’t have to stand when it’s over.” Devin held his arms outstretched as if to emphasize the obvious lack of any whistling.

  Ben glanced at the plastic tray holding a Styrofoam plate on the floor by his bed. There was a partially eaten ham and cheese sandwich and a can of ginger ale. Tor had brought Ben lunch a few moments after taking Devin away. Ben asked where he had taken the boy, but the guy had said nothing other than to enjoy the food.

  Ben was glad to see that Devin had returned and was okay. He walked over to a chair near Devin and sat. “Are you all right?”

  The kid didn’t look him in the eye. Instead his focus was just barely off to the left, not much, but noticeable. And the boy’s face showed little expression.

  Devin scratched his scalp, which was covered by a mass of unkempt blond hair. He continued staring off in space, shaking his hands near his head as if his fingers had gone numb and he was trying to bring the circulation back. Ben had seen him do that several times, like a nervous tic. The kid seemed brilliant in some areas and yet there appeared to be this odd, gaping deficit.

  “Devin?” Ben waited for the boy to stop shaking his hands and pay attention. Finally, he said, “Where did Tor take you?”

  “Games.” He stilled his hands but didn’t alter his focus.

  “Can you look at me?”

  The boy’s eyes wandered before landing on Ben’s.

  “What kind of games?” Ben asked. “Video games?”

  “They let me play Titan Quest, Warlords, Prey, and sometimes Ghost Recon.” He scratched his head again. “Tom Clancy’s game. Heard of Tom Clancy?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of him.” He got the feeling that the kid was, in some strange way, talking down to him. “Is that it? They let you play video games?” There had to be more to it than just entertaining the kid, he thought. What was going on here?

  “Then I type.” Devin held his hands out and mimicked typing on an air keyboard.

  “Type what?”

  “Code.”

  “You mean like Morse Code?”

  Devin gave Ben a look as if the question was stupid. “Destiny code.”

  “Okay, I give up. What is Destiny code?”

  “My dad’s computer. He calls it Destiny.”

  Ben leaned forward slightly realizing he was on the verge of getting some answers. “Who is your dad?”

  “Alan Olsen.”

  “What does he do?”

  Devin looked confused.

  Ben decided to rephrase. “What is his job?”

  Devin answered, still with a slack face. “Boss at CyberSys.”

  Now it was starting to make sense. Ben had watched the news reports covering the kidnapping of the Olsen kid. Dolphin Stadium. Autistic child. No ransom demands. No trace or clues. CyberSys was the quantum computer outfit. Ben even owned stock in the company a few years back. Made an 18 percent return, if he remembered correctly. Not too bad by his standards. Now they had everybody looking for this kid who was sitting in front of him. This was not good, Ben thought. Worse than he had thought. If the FBI managed to locate Devin, they would also find Ben Jackson, the retired banker from Atlanta, and they would start asking questions. Next thing you know, Ben Jackson becomes Ben Ray, the new federal prison inmate in cell block . . . Fuck.

  Ben stood. Maybe the kid wasn’t telling the truth about who he was or what he did when they took him away to play games. “How do you know the software code, Devin?”

  “Memorized it when I played games in Dad’s office.”

  Ben shook his head, incredulous. From the little he knew about computer codes, there was no way a kid, or anybody, could do such a thing. Ben grinned. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

  Devin glanced at Ben’s legs. “Why would I do that?”

  This was another discovery about Devin Olsen. He took everything literally.

  “I mean wouldn’t that be a lot to memorize?”

  “Not really. Hundred thousand lines of Destiny code, ten thousand of the classic PC code.”

  “Are you telling me you memorized a hundred and ten thousand lines of software code? That’s impossible.”

  “No, it’s easy. Like memorizing books.”

  “How many books have you memorized?” Ben wondered if the kid was just playing with his head.

  Devin shrugged. “Six thousand, four hundred, twenty-eight. Last one I read was The Language of God.”

  Ben had never heard of it. “Okay, if you’re telling me the truth, what’s the first line on page . . . thirty-three?”

  Without hesitation, Devin answered. “If you started this book as a skeptic . . .”

  Ben stared at the kid as if he had just revealed where Ben had hidden his Playboy magazines when he was a teen. He had no way of confirming that those were the first words
on page 33 of the book, but Devin’s amazing confidence convinced Ben that the answer was probably correct.

  “Let’s say I believe that you have memorized the code to your father’s Destiny computer. Wouldn’t it take a long, long time to type it all out? I mean, how fast can you type?”

  “I don’t know. World’s record is held by Barbara Blackburn in the town of Salem, the state capital of Oregon. Population three million, four hundred twenty-one thousand. Barbara Blackburn can maintain one hundred and fifty words per minute. That’s thirty-seven thousand, five hundred keystrokes. Her top speed was two hundred and twelve on a modified keyboard. It’s in the Guinness Book of World Records.”

  Ben’s head reeled. They had kidnapped this eight-year-old to steal memorized computer code. He was obviously some sort of genius or prodigy. The big question was what they intended to do with him once they had what they needed.

  Devin shook his hands again.

  “Devin, do you have any idea why Tor needs the code?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Ben was an impatient man, but for some reason he sympathized with the kid. What must it be like to be in Devin’s head? What was locked inside this eight-year-old? And these assholes had no conscience. He cringed at the thought of what they would do once they got all they needed from Devin. But still, it would take a while for him to type a hundred and ten thousand lines of code, even at Guinness speed. At least the lengthy process of typing the code would give Ben some time to figure out how to escape, and take the kid with him.

  There was the question of what they intended to do with Ben Jackson. He didn’t have anything to offer like Devin—no value. Ben’s destiny was bleak. It would help if he knew the timeline. How much code was left? And what if they only needed a portion?

  “Devin, do you have a lot of code left to type for Tor?”

  “Lots.”

  “How much is lots? How long will it take you?”

  Devin shrugged.

  Ben felt his gut tighten. “A couple of days?”

  Again, Devin shrugged.

  “Maybe less?”

  Devin stared blankly.

  Ben let out a long sigh. Once they had the Destiny code, they would most likely have no further need for Devin. And, Ben thought, there was no reason to delay his own demise. That could come at any minute. He was amazed they hadn’t done away with him already. Why were they keeping him alive? “Then I’d better think of something fast to save us both—the handwriting is on the wall.”

  Devin’s head jerked up and his gaze spun from one wall to another.

  “No, no, there is no writing on any wall. It’s just an expression.”

  Ben paced. “Devin, while I figure out how we can escape, we have to keep our plans a secret from those cutthroats. Understand?”

  “Yep,” Devin said, dragging his finger across his neck like a pirate slicing a captive’s throat.

  artifact

  “Secretary Mace, you have such a magnificent collection,” the woman said. In her elegant evening gown, she moved gracefully from one display case to the next in the grand study of Mace’s home. The low, indirect lighting contrasted with the soft glow of the displays, making them appear like jeweled islands in a sea of dark mahogany and Persian rugs. She stopped at a case containing Egyptian artifacts. Whispering to her husband standing beside her, she pointed to a bracelet arranged on scarlet velvet.

  “That one is a favorite of mine,” Mace said, watching her reaction. As other dinner guests joined him, he took a sip of champagne from his crystal flute and continued, “The ancient Egyptians adopted the scarab or dung beetle as a symbol of the sun god because they were used to seeing the insect rolling a ball of dung on the ground. The action suggested to them the invisible force that rolled the sun across the dome of the sky.”

  “It’s stunning,” the woman said. “Darling, buy it for me.” She elbowed her husband who pretended to go for his wallet.

  The group chuckled as Mace beamed, proud of the collection that had taken him so many years to amass. “The gold, by the way, is encrusted with lapis lazuli.”

  “And this one, Secretary Mace?” another female guest asked, pointing to a different case. “Tell us about it.”

  “Aztec.” The group followed him and gathered around the multicolored vase, radiant in the delicate wash of strategically aimed spotlights. “The face on the front is the god Tlaloc. Those are coiled serpents around his eyes. The vase symbolized the water that brought forth the bounty of their crops.”

  “It looks frightening,” the woman said, bending for a closer inspection.

  “In many ways, they were a brutal people, and their art reflects it.” Mace smiled with the knowledge that many of the Brotherhood of the Nephilim were once Aztec priests and warriors.

  “Secretary Mace?” A man in a tuxedo gestured to an elaborate crystal box about the size of a toaster oven in its own display case. “Your collection has so many amazing pieces, yet the most breathtaking display contains what looks like a small piece of black wood. What’s so special about this one?”

  Inside the crystal box, atop white satin, was an object the size of an eyebrow pencil. It was so black that there seemed to be no detail to it, nor did light reflect from its surface.

  “That is my prized possession,” Mace said.

  “A little piece of wood, Mr. Secretary?” the first woman said. “More than your five-thousand-year-old beetle bracelet?”

  Her remark brought a grin from Mace and laughs from his dinner guests. “I never thought of the Egyptians as Beatles fans. From now on, I’ll refer to that piece as Ringo’s bracelet.” This brought a bigger laugh.

  “So is this really wood?” a male guest asked.

  “You’re close. It started out as wood. What you see is actually crystallized sap. But the wood it originated from is what makes it so unique.”

  “You’re keeping us in suspense, Mr. Secretary,” a guest said. “Please tell everyone what it is.”

  Mace set his flute down on a side table and stood over the display. He withdrew a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the case. “The story is a captivating mixture of biblical history and legend. Let me ask you all, would everyone be impressed if I told you I owned a unicorn?”

  There were collective nods.

  “In many ways, what you’re looking at is just as rare as the mythical unicorn.” He opened the display case and touched the top of the crystal box with his fingertips, almost like he was caressing the skin of a lover. “For those familiar with the book of Genesis in the Bible, God instructed Noah to build a vessel in preparation for the coming Great Flood. Noah was to construct the vessel out of resin-wood and pitch. Down through the centuries, many men have searched for the final resting place of the Ark. A number of years ago, a group of explorers located what they believed was the remains of the Ark on the snow-covered slopes of Mount Ararat in Eastern Turkey. A few remnants of the crystallized sap from those resin-wood planks detailed in Genesis were found preserved. So what you see is a small piece of Noah’s Ark that survived the Great Flood over five thousand years ago.”

  Mace watched the always predictable expressions of surprise on his guest’s faces each time he revealed the identity of the tiny black object.

  “You’re serious?” the man said, staring at Mace. “The real Noah’s Ark?”

  “Yes.” Mace moved around to the opposite side of the display so he could face his friends. “This particular piece, along with a handful of others, once rested in the Baghdad Museum, brought there by the expedition that discovered the Ark. The Baghdad Museum was a remarkable depository of antiquity. You might recall that in April of two thousand and three, right after the collapse of Saddam Hussein’s regime, the museum was ransacked. It was a despicable act of looting comparable in scale to the sack of Constantinople and the burning of the library at Alexandria. Those like
me who treasure the antiquity of mankind were devastated. It was only shortly before the start of the Iraq War that I came into possession of this artifact.”

  “If it was part of the museum’s collection, how did you get it?” another guest asked.

  Mace had practiced this little spiel he was about to give in front of his bathroom mirror, testing facial expressions that would make his lie convincing. As rehearsed, his appearance became melancholic. “Despite the immense fortunes amassed by Saddam Hussein,” he said, “little of his money went to the preservation of the region’s heritage—not even his own country’s archaeological treasures. Most went to his personal palaces and extravagant lifestyle. So to raise funds for the museum, from time to time the curator would hold an auction. Actually it was more like a raffle. It would cost each patron a million dollars to buy a lottery ticket.” It was at this point he allowed his face to brighten. “This was the prize and I won.”

  Mace evaluated his audience. Not a single questioning raised eyebrow. He forced back a smile.

  “Were the other stolen pieces of the Ark recovered?” a male guest asked.

  “No,” Mace said. “In reality, the thieves may not have even realized what those pieces were. They could have easily been overlooked among the thousands of other more notable artwork, sculpture, and such that were taken. The ransacking was chaotic beyond belief. Sadly, this may be the only remaining piece from Noah’s Ark in existence.”

  “Amazing,” a male guest said. “You’re lucky that you got it before that terrible event.”

  “Mr. Secretary, you have an urgent call.”

  The group turned in unison as a young man in a black suit stood nearby holding a cordless phone in his outstretched hand.

  “If you all will excuse me for a moment,” Mace said. He closed the display case, locking the crystal box and artifact inside before taking the phone. Not until he was in the privacy of an adjacent hallway did he hold the phone to his ear and say, “Mace, here.”