by Lynn Sholes
"Forgive me, Ted," she said, putting on her best little-girl smile. "I had to make a quick trip to the archives."
"Oh? I thought you had all your research."
"Just a few loose ends."
"Sit and relax. We're almost done here." Casselman returned to his chair and opened one of the folders. He scanned the top sheet and said to Thornton, "What do you know about Robert Wingate?"
"Basic stuff," Thornton said. "Mostly from his press kit." He let his pencil bounce on its eraser. "He's a wealthy industrialist, new to the political scene, and gaining a sizable following. He's based his platform on family values and high moral character. So far, he seems to have no blemishes-the perfect candidate." Thornton flipped to another page of his ever-present comp book. "Devoted family man and generous with his wealth. One of his pet projects is a national organization that sponsors youth ranches for urban delinquent kids. And it's not only troubled kids he works with. Wingate's been instrumental in getting quite a few chapters of DeMolay going in different areas of the country, especially in Florida, his home state. He's outspoken against child abuse and-"
"Hold on;' Casselman interrupted. "What's DeMolay?"
Thornton looked up. "Kids' version of the Freemasons. It's an organization for boys between twelve and twenty-one."
"Anything else?" Casselman asked.
"Can't find a whole lot about him. Wingate popped up on the political scene from out of nowhere. Apparently, he has a substantial money machine behind him."
Ted Casselman scratched his chin. "Let's find out what makes Wingate so perfect. Put together a segment on him for Sunday night."
"I'll get my staff on it right away," Thornton said. He gathered his notes, stood, and came around the conference table to Cotten. "Stop by after your edit if you have a chance."
"I'll see," Cotten said, looking up at him.
"How's the footage look?" Casselman asked her as Thornton left the room.
"It's better than I ever expected. Believe me, Ted, international sanctions and embargos have taken a heavy toll on the Iraqi kids and elderly. It's going to be a gut-wrenching story. But it won't score too many points with the State Department now that they're about to start another war."
"Good, that almost guarantees higher ratings." He stood. "Come on, I'll walk with you to your edit." He put his arm around her shoulders, leading her to the door. "You gave me many a sleepless night, young lady. But you also showed spunk. A scrapper. I like that. Now, I want to see what I got for my extra gray hairs."
"You won't be disappointed, Ted." Cotten liked Casselman and respected him. She regretted making him worry so much about her. And he was the one who could boost her up two rungs at a time on the career ladder.
They entered Edit B. The room was dark except for the soft glow from the wall of monitors and banks of electronic controls.
"I made copies of the script and my notes," she said, handing Casselman and the editor a file folder each. "We can record a scratch track to edit to for now, and get a staff announcer in later." She smiled at the assistant editor. "We're going to need some cuts from the stock music library-lots of drama, dark, powerful stuff. Oh, and some ethnic cuts. Middle Eastern." Then Cotten unloaded the carryall bag. All the videocassettes were numbered, and she stacked them in order.
"Oh, shit," she said. She unstacked the tapes, reading every label again.
"What's wrong?" Casselman looked up from the script.
"I've..."
He laid the papers down. "Cotten?"
"You're going to have to start without me," she said.
TYLER
COTTEN THREW OPEN THE door to her apartment and ran to the bedroom. She remembered sitting on her bed last night, unpacking the carryall and taking out the box. That was the only time the missing videocassette could have fallen out. On her hands and knees she lifted the dust ruffle and looked under the bed.
Not there.
She sat up and combed her fingers through her hair, scanning the rest of the worn rug that covered most of her bedroom floor. She hadn't opened the carryall during the bus ride across Turkey, and it was checked from Ankara to London. And on the flight home she'd have seen the tape if it had fallen to the floor of the jet's cramped lavatory. That only left ...
The crypt.
But she had been certain she'd gathered all her things, all the tapes, yet she had rushed to catch the truck ... and it was pitch black.
"Just great," Cotten said. Not only were the tapes labeled, she was the principal reporter on every one. And how many times had she said her name and mentioned SNN? It wouldn't take a genius to connect the tape to her, and her to the box.
Maybe the Arab worked alone, just an antiquities thief. Maybe with the chaos of the military activity in the region, no one went looking for him or Archer. Maybe no one had found the tape because the dig site was abandoned.
Maybe.
She sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands. If someone else wanted that box, they'd go looking for Archer's excavation, realize the artifact wasn't there-and know someone had taken it. Guess who? The girl on the videotape. She might as well have spray painted her name and address in big fat letters on the wall of the chamber.
The phone rang, and Cotten jumped. "Hello," she said. "Yes, that's right. I was trying to get in touch with Dr. John Tyler."
She listened for a moment, then reached in the nightstand and took out a pencil and pad. "I really appreciate you getting back to me." She wrote St. Thomas College. White Plains, NY. "Thanks," she said, and hung up.
White Plains was only about an hour north of the city. She'd find Tyler and see what he knew about Archer and his latest excavation.
Cotten went to the kitchen and moved the kettle and frying pan off the stove, lifted the range top, and stared at the box. Did it hold the Cup from the Last Supper-the Holy Grail? And why had Archer told her she was the only one who could stop the sun, the dawn?
Geh el crip. Geh el crip. You are the only one.
The words tolled inside her head as loud as any steeple bells. She had to find out everything about this Gabriel Archer.
The classic Greek architecture of St. Thomas College nestled snugly among oaks and sycamores. The day was cold and crisp, sunlight glaring off swatches of snow on the brown ground. A handful of students moved across the bare winter campus.
Cotten climbed the worn marble steps to the large wooden double doors. A bronze plaque read Established, January 1922. Inside, the room had narrow, paned windows that rose from six inches above the floor to the high ceiling. The dark oak planks creaked as she approached the receptionist.
"Can I help you?" the woman asked.
"I'm looking for Dr. John Tyler."
"I don't know if he's here today. It's Founders' Day, and there aren't any classes."
"Would you mind checking?"
"Sure." The woman ran her finger down a laminated list before picking up the phone. "I'll ring his office."
Cotten looked around. Shadows huddled in the corners of the room. The place smelled old and musty. She rubbed her nose thinking she might sneeze. The cushions of the Queen Anne chairs sagged from generations of student bodies. A picture of the pope hung over a faded fabric couch. In the center of the room, behind the receptionist's desk, stood a statue of the Virgin Mary, the winter sun streaming in from the eastern window highlighting her head. Dust motes swirled in the beam as if they had life. Cotten wondered if the statue had been placed there because of the light or if it was a coincidence. Whether by accident or not, the pale glow made the sculpture ethereal.
"There's no answer," the woman said. "I'm sorry."
Cotten took a business card from her purse. "Could you-"
"Oh," the receptionist said, standing. "I completely forgot about the student-faculty football game." She checked the time on her watch. "I believe Dr. Tyler is playing. If you hurry, you might catch him."
She led Cotten outside and pointed in the direction of the athletic field.
&nb
sp; Cotten followed the receptionist's directions, crossing the Commons, passing the chapel, and finally winding down a path between the dorms and the gym. She heard the shouts of a small crowd as she approached the football field.
A bleacher, peppered with fifty or so people, bordered a section on the south side of the field. The wooden uprights were old, in the shape of an H instead of the squared-off Y.
Cotten climbed into the stands and sat next to a man with a neatly cropped goatee and mustache. She hugged herself for warmth and asked him, "Do you know which one is Dr. Tyler?"
Wrapped in a blanket, the man lifted his arm from underneath, nodding toward the field. "That's John throwing the pass. You're just in time for the last play." He rose to his feet and yelled, "Go! Go!"
The receiver caught the ball, but was quickly overrun, disappearing under a mound of players. The student team and their fans whooped and hollered in celebration.
The man sighed. "Best team the faculty has put together in a long time, even if we did lose." With the plaid blanket gathered around his shoulders, he stood and crabbed down the bleachers, easing carefully over each row of seats.
Tyler was the first of the faculty to congratulate the students. Cotten couldn't hear what they were saying, but there was a lot of laughter-camaraderie that men always seemed to share in their games. Competition brought out the best in men, she thought ... and the worst in women.
She climbed down from the stands and approached Tyler. He was tall-perhaps six feet, crowned by thick black hair. There was a slight quirk to the corner of his mouth-as if he knew a secret he was not about to reveal. His tanned skin was a result of exposure at many archaeological digs, she assumed. Even through his sweats, she detected a tautness to his body-a solid look of being in good shape.
"Dr. Tyler?" she said.
He looked up and dropped his hand from a player's shoulder. "Yes?"
His eyes were the deepest blue she'd ever seen, nearly navy except when they caught the sun-even more remarkable in person than on the videotape in the archives.
"My name is Cotten Stone, and I work for SNN. If you have a moment, I'd like to talk to you."
She extended her hand and found his grip polite but firm.
John turned to one of his teammates. "You guys go ahead. Order me a Sam Adams."
"I don't want to interrupt your plans, Dr. Tyler," she said.
"It's fine. They'll be celebrating at O'Grady's all afternoon. More than enough time for me to catch up."
A gust of wind blew Cotten's hair in her face. Her nose tingled from the cold, and she knew it must be red.
"You look like you could use a cup of something hot-coffee maybe?"
"That would be wonderful," she said.
In his office, John took her coat and hung it on a hook just inside the door.
Cotten sat in an under-stuffed, wood-frame chair. "So, are you always the quarterback?"
"Actually, since it's my first year here, I got thrown into the job. That way, they can blame the new guy if the faculty loses. I'm sure I won't hear the end of it. I warned everyone in advance that their grades could be affected by the outcome, but it didn't seem to help. Now let me get you that cup of coffee. I've only got instant though."
"That'll be fine," she said.
He flashed a smile and moved to a makeshift kitchenette that was partially set off from the rest of the room by a bookcase.
John filled the cups with tap water, then stuck them in the microwave and set the timer. As the microwave thrummed away, he wondered about the pretty young woman sitting in his office. What would bring her looking for him? Why wouldn't she have phoned instead of coming all the way up here?
After he'd fixed the coffee he placed a piping hot cup of Folgers in front of Cotten, then handed her the sugar bowl.
John watched her heap in two heavy-laden spoonfuls, stir, then add another half spoon. She looked nervous, like she was keeping a tight hold on something-like she might explode at any moment. Guarded was a good description.
She looked up and said, "I know, too much sugar. Sugar and Dutch chocolate are my weaknesses."
"Just two vices?" John said. "If only I could be so fortunate." He sat and sipped his coffee, giving her time to grow comfortable.
Cotten glanced around at the shelves that were chock-full of books. "Quite a collection."
"Most belonged to my predecessor. But they do make for interesting reading.' He set his cup down and said, "So, Ms. Stone-"
"Please, just Cotten." She picked up one of his business cards. "You even give out your cell phone number? That's pretty trusting and generous." She put the card in her wallet. "And should I call you, Doctor, or Reverend, or Father?"
"How about John?" She appeared to be trying so hard to be proper. Maybe conversing with a priest made her uneasy, he thought. "I have enough students calling me doctor, and I'm currently on a leave-of-absence from the priesthood. So Father is optional."
"I didn't know you could take a leave from your vows."
"Not the vows, just the duties. And, yes, under special circumstances, you can."
"All right ... John." She flipped her hair off her neck and rolled her eyes. "God, calling you by your first name feels disrespectful. Oh, I shouldn't have said it like that-the God thing. But calling you John is like calling my sixth grade teacher by his first name."
She was stumbling all over her words, and he wished he could help her relax. But he did find the blush in her cheeks and flushing rising up her neck was part of her charm. She had a way about her, a genuineness, if that was a word, that he found pleasing.
"Well, I'm not your sixth grade teacher," he said. "And besides, you'll make me feel like an old man if you don't call me John."
Cotten took a deep breath. "Okay, let me start again. John, I'm doing background for a news feature. The topic is religious legends, things like Noah's Ark, the Holy Grail, that sort of thing."
Her voice sounded less flustered-more professional.
"That's my field," he said. "Biblical history."
"I know. I ran across interviews in our archives that referred to Dr. Gabriel Archer and his expertise in those areas. One of the clips featured you. Since you were so close by, I wanted to talk to you in person. So..." Cotten turned palms up. "Here I am."
"I'm glad you came. I knew Archer pretty well at one time. He's quite a character."
"Do you know if he studied languages?"
That seemed an odd question, he thought. "Sure. Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic-a lot of ancient tongues, and of course Latin. Scholars in his field have to have extensive knowledge of those languages."
"Oh, sure," Cotten said. "Of course."
"He loves to get involved with religious myths and legends. And the man can quote scripture with the best of them."
"I saw some evidence of that in the tapes I watched." She cleared her throat and pushed back her hair. "Do you know if he had brothers or sisters? A twin, maybe?"
The conversation was getting even more peculiar, John thought. "I believe Archer was an only child. I never heard him mention brothers or sisters-as a matter of fact I don't recall him ever saying anything about family or his childhood."
Cotten's brows dipped.
"He is passionate about his work, though. His enthusiasm is ... commendable," John said.
"You sound like you're being kind when you use the word enthusiasm."
"I think his zeal has ended up damaging his credibility."
"How? Seems like that would be a good quality."
John took another sip of his coffee. "Is your background piece specifically on Archer?"
"No, but I thought he was interesting and maybe I could start with some of his quests and accomplishments."
"I see. And you're right. It would seem that his zeal should be an admirable quality."
"But?"
"It's sad, really, because he's a brilliant man. I studied under Archer and worked with him a couple of times in the field."
"Brilliant bu
t eccentric?"
"To the point some might call him an obsessed fanatic. When he discovered an ancient plate in Jerusalem while excavating the tomb of a Crusader, Archer became convinced it would lead him to the Holy Grail. But he wouldn't let anyone else look at it, wouldn't even allow others to authenticate it. I suppose after so much ridicule, he was paranoid that someone might steal his find and claim it, leaving him with nothing but a lifelong work to be scoffed at. It's hard for anyone to take him seriously. He claimed to have deciphered writing on the plate that gave the location of the Grail, but who knows? Most thought he was over the edge, and the plate probably had no value other than being an interesting artifact."
"You don't think he could have really gone on to find the Grail?"
"Hasn't made the headlines, yet," John said. "In my opinion, the Holy Grail is more religious folklore than fact. I like to think of it as a state of mind more than a real object-something in our lives we strive for but may never find."
Cotten frowned. "What is Archer's theory?"
"There are plenty of scenarios-Archer's being one of many. Tradition has it that the Cup from the Last Supper was also used the next day to collect Christ's blood at the Crucifixion. According to numerous stories, Joseph of Arimathea, who was present at the Crucifixion and supplied Christ's burial tomb, was the Cup's first owner. Most historians believe he eventually took the Cup to the Isles of Avalon in Britain-the basis of the Arthurian Legend which most of us are familiar with. But Archer proposes a different scheme. He says Joseph traveled with Saint Paul on the apostle's first mission to Antioch. He took along the Cup as a symbol for newly baptized Christians to venerate. After Paul moved on, Joseph stayed in Antioch. When he died, the Cup disappeared-presumably buried with him.
"From what I've read, Archer then says that the Cup resurfaced around the middle of the third century and was put on display by the Bishop of Antioch. Then it was lost again-in an earthquake, I think around A.D. 526. Then it was found again some fifty or so years later. All the stories of the Grail have that same element in common-it's found, it's lost, then found again. Adds to the mystery, I guess."