CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy

by Lynn Sholes

  Casselman stared directly at her with an I'm so sorry, Cotten expression in his eyes. "He was rushed to a local hospital but was pronounced dead in the emergency room. A brain hemorrhage."

  Cotten ran through the front door of her apartment and came to a halt in front of her answering machine. Thornton had left a message. She hadn't been able to make herself delete it as she had said she would. Nor had she listened to it. The message was still on the machine-the red button flashing. What had she thought-that maybe one evening when she was feeling particularly self-destructive, she'd want to test herself and play the message to assess her emotional response?

  She sat next to the phone and stared at the blinking light. "It's just like you, Thornton," she said. "You go and die on me just when I'm beginning to feel emotionally healthy, not drowning in your backwash." She wiped tears from her cheeks. "Shit."

  Finally she pushed the play-message button.

  "Cotten, it's me. You need to pick up. Are you there?"

  There was a moment of silence before he spoke again.

  "I hope ... hear me. My cell isn't ... a good signal.

  "Cotten, there's something wrong. Have ... following this Grail theft story. I stumbled across . . . someone with contacts deep inside .. . There's more to this than ... As a matter of fact, I think ... the tip ... iceberg."

  His voice, digitized and at times metallic sounding, faded in and out, making it difficult to follow his stream of thought.

  "I'm ... danger ... fear for my life. I'm flying... I should ... Monday morning."

  Even through the bad connection, Cotten thought she noticed an uncertainty in his voice-one she'd never heard before. "Oh, God," she whispered.

  "I think I've found ... international connections. If something happens ... still love you."

  There was a final bit of static before the call went dead.

  In the seas off northern Australia lives an almost invisible killer, the Irukandji jellyfish, Carukia barnesi. Both the body and the tentacles are armed with stinging cells that inject poison into prey or an unlucky swimmer.

  The initial sting is not usually very painful. However, within five to forty-five minutes, the victim experiences excruciating pain.

  In January 2002, a tourist was stung by what was believed to be an Irukandji jellyfish. His preexisting conditions made the sting rapidly fatal. He had recently had a heart valve replacement and was taking warfarin to thin his blood. After being stung, his blood pressure spiked, causing a brain hemorrhage and death.

  The poison is not classified, and there is no test available to detect its presence.

  GRAVESIDE

  IT WAS COLD AND snowing as Cotten Stone and Ted Casselman walked with about three hundred other mourners from their cars to the freshly dug grave. She had not slept well since hearing the news of Thornton's death, and she knew her eyes showed fatigue and distress. Had there been anything she could have done to save his life? she asked herself repeatedly. Even if she'd taken Thornton's call that night, nothing would have changed. But maybe he would have told her what he had found out-what it was that had him so alarmed.

  The Italian medical examiner's report showed brain hemorrhage as cause of death. Possibly brought on by a combination of things including hypertension and his medication, it was explained. She just couldn't buy it. He was too young to die of natural causes. And as far as the medication, he'd just had his Coumadin levels checked. But mostly what troubled her was his last phone call and the message he'd left on her answering machine.

  The pallbearers brought the casket to the grave. Cheryl Graham, Thornton's wife of fifteen years, followed, flanked by her relatives and Thornton's parents.

  Cotten watched as the widow took her place graveside. She wondered if Cheryl had been content to be childless, or if that was Thornton's preference. Cotten studied the widow who was dressed in black with a wide-brimmed hat and dark overcoat-large sunglasses hiding her eyes. Cheryl dabbed her nose with a handkerchief.

  Cotten's knees weakened at the sight of the coffin. It was hard to un-love someone, she thought.

  She had met Cheryl Graham briefly before at SNN when the news department threw Thornton a surprise birthday luncheon. It was a few weeks after their affair had started, and Cotten made it a point to avoid Cheryl, only saying hello as they were introduced.

  Now she watched the grieving widow and wondered how much she knew of her husband's womanizing. His extramarital affairs were no secret at the network, but did Cheryl know about them ... about her? She watched Thornton's wife and felt sick inside. It wasn't fair what Thornton had put either one of them through.

  Cotten hadn't told anyone about Thornton's last phone call, yet. Even though the medical report was straightforward and conclusive, it seemed too coincidental that Thornton would say he was in danger and then wind up dead. She knew Thornton was fanatical about keeping notes in his comp book, documenting every detail of his investigations. Perhaps he left something behind in his notebook that could either confirm his suspicions or indicate that he was in no real danger. As much as she wanted to avoid contact with Cheryl, she really needed to ask if his notes were included with the belongings returned from Rome. If so, and she could take a look at them, she could pursue it with Ted or dismiss her concerns. Despite the unpleasantness it might cause, she had to speak to Thornton's wife.

  After the service ended, some of the network executives and managers gathered to offer their condolences to Cheryl Graham. Cotten stood back and waited patiently in the biting cold wind and light snow until she saw Cheryl being escorted to the funeral home's limousine. Quickly, Cotten composed herself and rushed to catch up.

  "I'm so sorry for your loss," Cotten said, reaching out and lightly touching Cheryl's arm.

  "Thank you," Cheryl said, her expression blank, pulling her arm away from Cotten's touch.

  Thornton's father took Cheryl by the elbow and began again to lead her to the car.

  "Wait," Cotten said, stepping in front of them. "Could I possibly call you sometime? It's important."

  Cheryl glared at her before turning and walking away.

  "What was that all about?" Ted Casselman asked, coming to Cotten's side.

  "I'm hoping they sent Thornton's comp book back with him. I'd like to take a look if Cheryl has it."

  "What do you expect to find?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Come on, Cotten. I know you better than that."

  "It's cold," she said. "Let's get to the car."

  They walked quietly to the Lincoln Town Car the network had provided and climbed in the back. The driver steered it out of the cemetery and back toward Manhattan.

  "Talk to me," Casselman said.

  Cotten hesitated, knowing she could be completely wrong. "Thornton called me a couple of days ago. I didn't pick up. He'd phoned before, trying to get us back together. I didn't want to go through that again. But he left a message. I didn't listen to it until the day you told us he was dead."

  "What did he say?"

  "He was on his cell and didn't have a good signal, but what I could make out was a little upsetting."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Thornton said he'd stumbled across something and it scared him."

  "You're kidding. Nothing scared Thornton Graham. I've seen him confront terrorists and the Mafia head-on."

  "There was something about his voice-something different. He said he was in contact with someone deep inside."

  "Inside what?"

  "That's a good question. I assume it had something to do with the Vatican because of the stories he was covering."

  "But he didn't say for sure?"

  "No. It sounded like he didn't want to say too much on the phone."

  "What else?"

  "He said he feared for his life, and I think he said something like `the tip of the iceberg' and something about international connections."

  "What do you really think?"

  "Either it was some kind of pity-me head game he was pla
ying to get my attention, or he was really in danger." Cotten brushed the hair from her face. "Now with his death, I'm thinking-"

  "But it was a brain hemorrhage. Nothing suspicious."

  "I know, I know. But it just doesn't sit right. There must be some drug or poison that could cause it."

  "You're right, and he was on it-warfarin ... Coumadin. Maybe he had an aneurysm blow-he got excited over the project, his blood pressure went up, the blood thinner kicked in, and there you have it. You're not just feeling guilty about the breakup, are you?"

  Cotten huffed out a frustrated breath. "Either way, I need to look at his notes."

  "Give Cheryl time-don't push her."

  She frowned. "I'm not insensitive, Ted."

  "I know you're not," he apologized. "Did Thornton say anything else?"

  "He said if something happens, he still loves me."

  THE RIVER

  COTTEN WAS RELIEVED TO see John waiting for her in front of the restaurant as her taxi pulled to the curb.

  He took her hand and helped her out of the cab. Her icy fingers welcomed his warm palm.

  "You look a little ragged," he said. "Are you all right?"

  Cotten straightened her skirt and fiddled with the collar of her jacket. "I'm a mess. I can't get focused, can't sleep, can't work." She looked at him as he opened the door to the restaurant. "To answer your question, no, I guess I'm not all right."

  They slipped into a booth in the back. "I know we've talked about this for hours," Cotten said, "but I still don't think Thornton's death was from natural causes." She pulled a scrunchy from her purse and bound her hair at the base of her neck. A hank of hair didn't get caught in the elastic, and it spilled down the right side of her face. "Shit," she said, yanking the scrunchy free and starting over.

  John watched as she collected herself. "Relax," he said.

  Cotten forced a smile. "I should have picked up the phone when he called. I keep thinking I might have been able to do something, help him ... something. I don't know."

  "He was a long way away, Cotten."

  "It just doesn't make sense," she said. "Thornton was excellent at what he did-probably the best investigative reporter in the business. I've been thinking about the stories he was working on. Since there was nothing unusual about how the pope died, whatever Thornton stumbled upon had to be related to the theft of the Cup. It scared the hell out of him. What if Thornton discovered who stole the Grail, and the thieves were on to him-and he had reason to believe they would kill him. The only thing that gnaws at my theory is who would want the Cup that badly? Who would murder for it?"

  John took one of her hands in both of his. "You aren't being rational. We've already discussed this. There's no evidence that Thornton died of anything other than a brain hemorrhage. And you told me he might have been overly dramatic in that phone message just to spark your sympathy. He couldn't accept the fact that you weren't in love with him anymore. You're torturing yourself with guilt."

  "I'm not doing that, John. It was over, but I still cared about him. You don't just uncare about someone who's been a part of your life like that." She pulled her hand away. "I'm stable." I'm so frigging stable I've been sitting here holding a goddamn priest's hand, and then I pulled it away like a pouting lover. Jesus, Cotten, he's just trying to console you and you act like an ungrateful ass.

  "I don't doubt you;" John said. "I'm trying to help you work through things, make sure you see them as they really are."

  He withdrew his hands from the table, and she realized she was sorry she had pulled hers away. For an instant she considered offering hers, open as his had been, in the center of the table-but she didn't. Instead she fumbled with the scrunchy, again. "I'm telling you, I knew him well enough to know there was something wrong."

  John leaned back, his face serious and thoughtful. "All right, then, let's try to make some sense of it. Who would want the Grail? Antiquities collectors. Black market dealers."

  "But they couldn't sell it. It's not like they could auction it off on eBay."

  "Wouldn't have to. They'd already have a buyer lined up before they did the job. No relic switching on speculation. Most likely the thief would be paid a portion of his fee up front and would get the rest on delivery. There are private collectors who'd think owning the Holy Grail the ultimate prize. To them, money would be no object. There are even those who will go to extensive means to fake an artifact, like the recent Ossuary of James hoax."

  "But those kinds of people aren't murderers. They get off by owning a great work of art or in this case, a profoundly religious relic. It doesn't fit."

  "So who do you think fits the profile?" John asked. "Who would kill to own the Grail?"

  Charles Sinclair stared out the picture window. He was going to take his time to make his point, he thought, looking past the gazebo and the formal gardens, all the way to the river. "Sit down," he said to Robert Wingate. He heard the soft leather of the chair give way as Wingate sat. "The river never fails to hold me in awe-its sheer power." Sinclair turned to face the man he had summoned.

  Wingate shifted in the chair.

  Hitching his chin toward the window, Sinclair said, "Ever think about its power?" He stared at Wingate and thought perhaps he detected a nervous tick in the man's left eyelid. Sinclair moved behind the large mahogany desk. "The river has one purpose, one goal. For two thousand three hundred miles it courses, sometimes thundering, sometimes only meandering, but always it flows-driven to carry out its destiny. The current steadily washes over and drowns all obstacles. When it reaches its destination, it empties itself, becoming one with an even greater, more ominous power, the Gulf of Mexico. Oh, men have sometimes thought they could harness it with locks and dams. They've bridged it, they've navigated it, but it's never been controlled. Dams burst, bridges wash out, ships sink, the land floods. All at the river's whim."

  Sinclair sat and leaned back in his chair. "The Guardians are like the river, Robert. We have a destiny, a goal we have worked toward for centuries. Nothing will be allowed to stop us. You understand that, don't you?"

  Wingate's eye twitched, and he rubbed it. "Of course."

  "We've invested our financial resources in you and your counterparts in Europe and other parts of the world. Each of you plays an important role in establishing our new world-the world as prophesied. There's a tremendous amount of money backing you, and more importantly, our mission has been entrusted to you. We can't let anything get in our way. We are like the great river, Robert-we drown all obstacles." Sinclair paused, drumming his thumb on the edge of the desk.

  "Absolutely," Wingate said.

  "We've got a problem, Robert. And we can't afford problems, can't tolerate them."

  Wingate shook his head. "What problem?" His eyelid quivered, and a small muscle beneath his eye seized. He drew his hand over his face, bearing down on eye and cheek.

  "This blackmail issue. It's attracted the attention of Cotten Stone. She's not letting go-"

  "She doesn't know anything. She's probing, looking for a weak spot. Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

  "She's digging up your skeletons, Robert. And she's done it in no time at all. She's as good if not better than her dead boyfriend, don't you think?"

  "I told you, she doesn't know anything. I can handle it."

  Sinclair took a pencil from a leather canister and twirled it on the desk top. "And the skeleton she dug up, the blackmail matter-it's like a pesky mosquito. You can't swat it away. You have to slap it ... dead. And you know what? I don't think you've told me everything. You've danced around the details several times, now."

  "Because it's not important. I'm innocent. It's just some jerk out there trying to cash in. His kid was in one of my youth camps a couple of years ago. Now the father claims I molested the boy and wants money to keep quiet. He knows it's not true, but he figures I'm running for president and I'll pay to shut him up.'

  11 Robert, Robert," Sinclair said, his voice oozing with southern charm-patronizi
ng. "It doesn't matter whether you are innocent or guilty. The accusation will ruin you. You must be beyond reproach. Stone's not going to let this tidbit slip past her. Before you know, it'll be the lead story on the nightly news."

  Wingate leaned forward, his hands rubbing his knees through the wool trousers. "Just let me take care of it. It's not something the Guardians need to worry about."

  "It's our job to worry." Sinclair studied Wingate, wondering if they had bet on the wrong horse. "Give Stone her interview and tell her there's been a terrible misunderstanding-that there is no blackmail. Apologize for your previous rudeness and move on to the elec tion issues. In the meantime, we'll pay a generous sum to the boy's father to make him go away."

  "What if Stone doesn't believe me? Charles, I have friends who could take care of her once and for all."

  Sinclair felt the heat rising in his face. "Out of the question. Don't do anything rash, Robert. Don't even think about it."

  The phone rang as Cotten came through the door of her apartment. She slung her purse onto the couch and picked up the receiver, shrugging her left arm out of her coat. "Hello."

  "Ms. Stone?"

  Cotten froze, her coat dangling off the back of one shoulder. "Mr. Wingate, what a surprise."

  FRIENDS

  ROBERT WINGATE'S CHANGE OF heart piqued Cotten's curiosity. He'd agreed to the exclusive, so immediately after hanging up with him, Cotten booked a flight to Miami for the following day.

  When she arrived at MIA, she picked up her rental car and headed to Vanessa's for a late dinner. They stayed up until the wee hours sipping wine and talking. The morning had come much too early.

  Cotten stood at the kitchen counter still perspiring from a morning jog along the beach. She savored a blueberry muffin and cup of coffee while watching Vanessa scurry around the kitchen.

  "God, I'm going to be late," Vanessa Perez said. She took a bite of muffin then gulped orange juice from the carton. "Want some?" She held out the carton.