by Lynn Sholes
"I haven't talked to you in a while," he said.
"I haven't talked with anyone in the family much since Mama passed away," she said. "But this is a very pleasant surprise."
"It's a shame how younger family members drift apart as the older generations pass on. Not just our family."
"I know. We really should keep in touch."
"And we will. Anything exciting in your life?"
Cotten thought of telling him about the box and Thornton, but she was just too mentally exhausted to do it tonight. "Not really," she said. "And you?"
"Business is booming. I think New Yorkers are becoming more and more paranoid. Makes for the private eye business to go through the ceiling. I've got more cases than I can handle."
"I'm so happy for you," she said. As Cotten talked, her eyes started to wander from table to chair, TV to bookshelves and china cabinet, realizing things were slightly out of place. Suddenly, fear, icier than the Hudson River, coursed through her.
"Uncle Gus, I've got another call," she lied. "I'll talk to you soon."
She didn't wait to hear his goodbye as she gently placed the receiver in its cradle. Taking a much slower, closer inspection of the room, she saw that a small golden horse her mother had given her faced the wrong way on the TV cabinet; the drawer of the end table was not pushed in all the way; the lid to the cedar chest wasn't closed snugly; the books on the shelves rested at odd angles.
Quickly, she checked the other rooms. She didn't have much of value-a few pieces of jewelry, a laptop, a cheap stereo. Nothing was missing.
"Jesus," she said, running back to the kitchen. The box.
The frying pan and teapot sat just as she'd left them. She moved them off the Hotpoint and gripped the stove lid. Pulling up, she heard the clamps give way.
It was still there-the plain, black, featureless box. She eased the stove lid back into place with a click.
Someone had been here, searched her apartment. If they were looking for the box, they hadn't found it, which meant they would be back.
Heart racing, Cotten hurried to her front door, checked the lock, and put the guard chain in place. She leaned against the door and looked around the living room.
In just a few short days they had found her.
Picking up the phone again, Cotten started to call the police. But she hesitated, changing her mind. Let's consider this for a moment, she thought. What exactly would she tell the cops? They'd ask questions, and she'd answer.
There was a break-in?
Yes.
Was the burglar still in the apartment when you arrived?
No.
Was anything stolen-missing?
No.
How do you know someone broke in?
Well, some of my things were messed up-out of place.
That's it?
Yes.
Are there signs of forced entry? Was the door jimmied, window broken?
No.
So, if they didn't force their way in, they must have used a key. Who else has a key?
My landlord.
Does he have permission to enter your apartment when you're not at home?
Yes, he collects my mail while I'm away.
Do you trust him?
Yes.
Have you received any crank calls? Any threats?
No.
Can you think of anything in your possession that someone would want to go to this much trouble to steal?
Well, there is the box.
What box?
The box I smuggled into the country illegally from Iraq. You know, one of the Axis of Evil nations we're getting ready to bomb.
What's in the box?
I don't know; I can't open it.
Why?
It doesn't have a lid, hinges, or locks. It's sort of like a solid block of wood.
But you think there's something of value in this featureless box even though you can't open it?
Yes, I think it contains the most treasured relic in the entire Christian world-the single most sought-after item in the past two thousand years-nothing less than the famous, Holy fucking Grail.
Wow, that's impressive. Ms. Stone, are you under a doctor's care or taking any kind of medication? Perhaps you're depressed? Lonely? Having boyfriend problems?
Actually, I had a boyfriend problem just this very evening-
"Shit! Fuck!" Cotten slammed down the receiver. How utterly ridiculous! The police wouldn't stop laughing for a week. She felt the tears forming as she put her face in her hands. The frustration turned to fear. She had to find out what the hell was going on. She had to do something.
Leaning over, she slid her purse out from underneath her coat and pulled the business card from her wallet. Cotten picked up the phone and dialed.
PUZZLE CUBE
AT 1:00 A.M. JOHN TYLER stood gazing out his kitchen window while he waited for Cotten Stone. A full moon turned the frozen lake beyond the apartment complex into a dull gray slab dotted with small pearly patches of snow. The bare maple trees cast bony shadows across the hard ground. It was a Currier and Ives picture. The view made him reflect on how often he thought of himself as a blank canvas. The yetto-be-created painting was a metaphor for his life. There had to be more, something that would fill this chasm inside. He'd already tried his hand at so many ways to serve God, but none had brought him peace with himself. What was it that God had planned for him? Years of introspection and searching had not answered that question. If God intended for him to live his life as it was now, he would feel satisfied, content, fulfilled.
But he didn't.
John watched the road for headlights. Cotten Stone should arrive any minute if she left right after they had spoken on the phone. And what a strange conversation that had been-her voice urgent as she asked to see him right away, saying that it couldn't wait until morning. Her apartment had been broken into, but she didn't call the police. She'd explain when she got there.
He stared at the brittle landscape, curious as to what could be so important that she had to see him at this time of night. Something about her behavior kept her on his mind after she'd left his office. She'd seemed afraid-as if she hid something. Cotten had fidgeted, crossed and uncrossed her legs as she spoke, and tripped over her words. Odd behavior for a professional reporter.
A knock made him look away from the window.
For the hundredth time since she boarded the train, Cotten asked herself if she should have waited until the morning. She could have just left her apartment, gone to a hotel, and then called him in the morning. But it was too late for that now. She stood on his doorstep hugging a large leather bag.
"Come in," John said, answering the door.
She stepped past him into his living room.
"Let me take your coat."
She unwound the scarf from her neck. "I know you probably think I'm crazy coming here in the middle of the night like this," she said as John helped her slip out of the coat. She hung on to the bag protectively as she moved about the room, slowly warming up.
"Impressive collection," Cotten said, gazing around.
His shelves were lined with artifacts: pottery shards, drawings, maps, ancient tools, a few brown bones. More shelves filled with books-some old and worn, some new-covered one wall. There were numerous photos of him at archaeological digs; a few in the desert and others in forested mountains. And in a silver frame on the desk was a picture of John alongside other men of the cloth in the company of the pope.
Cotten lifted the photo. "You met the pope?"
"I was in Rome helping a forensic team in relic authentication. Cardinal Antonio Ianucci-he's the Vatican Curator and Director of Art and Antiquities-stopped by to chat and check on our progress. During a break, he gave us a tour of the three Vatican restoration departments-tapestries, paintings, sculptures. As we entered one of the halls, Ianucci said he had a surprise for us. About a half dozen clergy were coming out of a door at the end of the hall. In the middle of the group was the Holy Fathe
r. We were stunned. When they got close, they stopped. He blessed us, a camera flashed, then lanucci ushered us back to our work area. If you consider that meeting him, then I did."
"Still, it must have been exciting."
"It was."
Cotten went to the couch and sat silently, twirling a silver bracelet around her wrist. "I guess you're waiting patiently for me to get to the point so you'll know why I rushed here at this ungodly hour."
John pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. "You sounded rattled on the phone. You mentioned a break-in."
"Well, sort of. They got in, but I don't know how. Still, I'm sure somebody was there. I'd been out, and when I came home and looked around, it occurred to me that lots of my things had been moved, shifted, examined.
"Did you call the police?"
Cotten cleared her throat and tossed her hair. "No, I didn't report it. Although I'm positive of what happened, there's no way I can prove it-the police would never have believed me. Nothing was stolen."
John leaned forward and laced his fingers together between his knees.
Before he could speak, Cotten said, "I think whoever broke in was looking for this." She opened the leather bag and removed the box. She held it for a moment, almost unwilling to let it go.
"May I?" he asked, reaching out.
"Sorry," she said, realizing she had not offered it to him.
After rolling it over and studying each side and surface, John asked, "Where did you get it?"
It took several minutes for her to explain how it came into her possession, how she had smuggled it through Customs, how she couldn't open it, and how she had hidden it in her kitchen stove.
"That's quite a story," John said. He rubbed his forehead as if deep in thought. "And I'm sorry to hear Archer is dead. Despite his quirkiness, he was a brilliant man. I liked him."
"Do you have any idea what this thing is?" Cotten looked over at the box in John's lap.
"I think so," he said, examining it again. "I believe it's a medieval puzzle cube. They were very popular among rich Europeans during the Middle Ages. I've only seen a few before-I think I have a book here someplace that has a chapter explaining how to open them."
"What do you think is inside?"
He shook it gently. "Usually, they held a prize or a toy, maybe jewelry or game pieces. I've heard some contained additional puzzle cubes-a box within a box. They were mostly to entertain aristocrats. There were several designs and each type opened in a totally different manner.
Her eyes widened. "Dr. Archer regarded it as something special. He told me two things before he died. The first was a series of numbers and a name-twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, Matthew. Then Archer said something about me being the only one who could stop the sun, the dawn."
"That would be quite a trick, wouldn't it?" John smiled. "From what you say, I suppose Archer wasn't thinking clearly. Scrambled thoughts. Delusional."
Cotten balked. No, Archer hadn't been delusional. He knew precisely the words to get her attention. Geh el crip. You are the only one. She didn't want to have to get into that or John might really think her out of her mind.
"But the numbers," Cotten said. "I looked them up in the Bible. It's from the Gospel of St. Matthew."
"And He took the Cup ..." John turned the cube in his hands. "Those words are repeated around the world everyday at Mass. They're the words Jesus used at the Last Supper when He established the sacrament of the Eucharist."
"From what you've told me, Archer was convinced he knew the location of the Cup from the Last Supper. Do you think that's what could be in the box? I mean there must be something of value inside. I don't think someone would be willing to murder for an empty box. And then track me down..."
"Are you sure the two events are connected?"
"You think I'm delusional, too?"
"On the contrary." His voice rang sincere, not patronizing. "I didn't mean to sound like I don't believe you. You've had a lot of traumatic things happen. Your reactions are perfectly understandable. By linking the events you are trying to make sense of it."
There were a few moments of silence. John had been kind enough, she thought, but he didn't seem to detect the same significance she did. And he certainly wasn't suspicious that anything as valuable as the Holy Grail rested inside the box. Maybe the break-in and the box weren't related at all. But there was the tape....
"There's one more thing. I think I accidentally left a videotape in the crypt. My face is all over the footage, and the fact that I work for SNN."
"Or you might just as easily have lost it somewhere else. You said you had emptied one of your bags earlier while you were alone in the desert."
"I hope you're right, but I have a sickening feeling I left it in the chamber."
"So someone could have gotten the tape, realized you had been there, and found out where you live."
"Yes." She felt better. He understood she had probable cause for her anxiety. If John could open the box. . . "You mentioned a reference book?"
"It's here somewhere." He rose and went to the bookcases. His eyes moved up one shelf and down the other, finally coming to rest on a tattered cloth-bound book. "This should have something." He pulled down the volume, placed it on the coffee table, and sat beside her.
Cotten saw Myths and Magic of the Middle Ages on the cover.
The pages crackled as John leafed through it.
"`Puzzle Cubes and Prize Boxes,"' Cotten said, reading the chapter title. Beneath was a page of text, and as John flipped through the next several pages, she saw drawings and diagrams showing the workings of different box styles.
He studied the diagrams, going back through them repeatedly. Finally, he said, "This one looks right." He took the box and rotated it. Gripping the top and bottom, he pulled in opposite directions. Nothing.
"What do you think?" Cotten asked.
John looked at the diagram again. "I need to figure out which surface is actually the top. Once I do that, it says here that it should open easily."
He shifted the cube a quarter turn and pulled again. Still nothing. It took six rotations and additional reading before a faint click sounded. The top separated, exposing a fine, thin seam.
"I think we've done it," John said.
At the end of the first crusade Jerusalem had been retaken by the Christians. The Prieure de Sion, a group of monks whose objective was to return the thrones of Europe to the descendants of the Merovingian bloodline, a bloodline they believed was established through a union between Jesus and Mary Magdalene, created a military arm of warrior monks to protect Jerusalem and those who traveled there.
From a simple quest, the new organization grew, made up of the elite and powerful of Europe having positions of authority in politics, religion, and economics. Free from taxes and accountable only to the pope, over the centuries, it became one of the world's wealthiest and most influential organizations. It was called the Knights of the Temple of Jerusalem or the Knights Templar.
CROIX PATEE
JOHN SET THE BOX on the table before carefully sliding the top sideways. It opened and swung down revealing a tiny set of hinges on the inside that kept the top attached.
Cotten saw that the inside was filled with a white linen-like cloth wrapped around an object. "Look at that," she said, pointing at the corner of the material's top fold. Woven into one corner was a cross and a five-petal rose, and on the opposite corner were embroidered two knights riding the same horse-the words Sigillvm Militvm Xpisti stitched in a circle around them. Although slightly faded with age, the cross was still red, the rose pink, and the words golden.
"One second," John said. From a drawer in a rolltop desk he withdrew a pair of white cotton gloves. Slipping them on, he cautiously removed the contents of the box and unwrapped the cloth.
Cotten bit on her bottom lip when the material fell away revealing a chalice. It was about six inches tall and four inches in diameter at the rim of the bowl. The surface was a dull gray metal. A si
mple line of tiny pewter-colored beads ran around the base, while a necklace of miniature grapevines curled around the throat.
"It's in remarkable shape," he said, "if it's really two thousand years old." His gloved finger rubbed a small imperfection on the back side of the Cup. "Other than this little nick, I'd guess it has been well cared for." John turned the chalice around. "IHS," he said as he touched the engraving on the side.
"Is it the Grail?" she asked.
"I don't know." He gently pressed into a thick, dark substance coating the inside. "Probably beeswax."
"It's so ... plain," she said. "I guess I expected something a little flashier."
"You've seen too many Indiana Jones movies."
"You're awfully calm to be holding what could be the Holy Grail."
"I've been burned in the past by a few clever fakes of other artifacts."
"Well, this is my first, so bear with me while I get excited." She grinned, and he returned a smile. Cotten pointed at the engraving. "What's IHS?"
"It's the emblem-like a monogram-for Jesus' name. The early Christians used the three letters during Roman times to identify each other. It's also the first three letters of His name in Greek. And in Latin, some say it stands for In Hoc Signo Vinces, or In This Sign You Shall Conquer. My guess is the engraving was added much later, perhaps while it was in Antioch."
"So you believe Archer was right?"
John held the relic up so the light shone on it from different angles. "I wish I could say for sure. I'll admit that Archer's theory seems to ring true." He ran his fingers over the needlework on the cloth.
"Are the words significant? And the cross, the rose-the knights? What do they mean?"
The red cross had four equal arms that flared at the ends. "Croix Patee," he said. Then he touched the golden threads forming the words Sigillvm Militvm Xpisti. "Seal of the Army of Christ. The dog rose was their symbol-rosa carina. It stood for the virgin and the virgin birth, chosen because the dog rose doesn't need to be crosspollinated to produce its fruit, the rose hip."