by Lynn Sholes
"You know how I like my sugar;" she said.
He set a Ziploc bag of sugar on the table.
"Actually, the fire kept me warm." Cotten watched him fill the two cups, thinking she'd love to snuggle up with him in front of that fire. She missed being held by a man. The thought reminded her of Thornton. He was dead. Vanessa was dead. The moment passed.
John placed a cup on the table and sat opposite her.
Cotten wrapped her hands around the mug.
"We're going to figure this thing out," he said. "I promise. First, we need to find out who they are."
Her headache pounded. No sleep, nothing to eat, and her nerves were taking a toll.
John glanced around the kitchen. "I should have stopped and bought some groceries on my way up, but I was anxious to see that you were safe."
"Jones said there's a store in town."
"We're better off going in to Asheville. We can get you some warmer clothes and anything else you want."
"I guess I should call Ted and tell him I'm okay."
"My cell doesn't get service here. If you need to make a call, we'll do it when we get into town.'
"I'm ready." Cotten stood and reached for the pistol.
"Plan on shooting your way out of the Piggly-Wiggly?"
"Hello?"
"Cheryl, it's Cotten Stone." She stood near the Wal-Mart entrance. The suburban shopping center was a few miles outside of Asheville. John leaned against the wall watching the customers come and go.
"With SNN," Cotten said, after a few seconds of silence.
"I know who you are," Thornton's wife answered.
Even with the noisy parking lot and people walking by, Cotten heard the coldness in Cheryl's voice. "I hope I'm not calling at a bad time;" Cotten said.
"I knew about you and Thornton-knew all along."
"Cheryl, I'm ... sorry. I realize there's nothing I can say to make up for the pain ..." Cotten squeezed her eyes closed. She really meant that. Never had she wanted to cause anyone any pain. She'd just fallen for Thornton so fast. She hadn't had time to think.
"You're right, there's nothing you can say," Cheryl said.
Cotten knew this was hard for Cheryl. It was hard for her, too. "If this weren't so important, I promise, I wouldn't be calling."
"What do you want?"
"Cheryl, it's vital that I know if any of Thornton's notes came back with his personal belongings."
"Why?"
"I ... I believe they might contain clues to who killed him."
"What are you talking about?"
"Cheryl, I can't go into detail now, but I have my reasons-"
"Reasons? I'm sure you do. Like demanding that he divorce me? Like wanting to get your hands on his wallet? Do you know how much Thornton is worth? I can just imagine your reasons."
There was a pause and Cotten heard muffled sobs.
"Thornton died of a brain hemorrhage, Ms. Stone." Cheryl punctuated the Ms. with disdain in her voice. "So let's just leave it at that." Her voice broke. "At least I didn't have to face the embarrassment of him dropping dead while he was fucking you."
Cotten held her hand over the receiver to hide her sigh. The woman had every right to attack her. Cheryl's crude remarks were aimed to hurt, to make Cotten feel cheap and guilty. It worked, and she knew she deserved it. But Cotten wasn't demanding anything of Thornton when he died. She had broken it off. She swallowed back the bitter taste in her mouth and took a deep breath.
"Cheryl, please. Thornton called me from Rome and told me he was on to something big and he was afraid for his life. It's just too much of a coincidence that he wound up dead. You know as well as I do that for Thornton to be afraid ..." Cotten didn't know what else to say. She had no proof of anything.
Another awkward pause. "I talked to my husband, too, the day before he ..." Her voice cracked. "He apologized for all the times he'd hurt me, for the times he'd made me cry. He told me I was a good wife and didn't deserve him. That wasn't like Thornton. I didn't understand why he was telling me all that." She cleared her throat as if regaining her composure. "He was like a drug to women. I know you weren't the first to become addicted. But you were the first one I think he really cared about."
Cotten heard Cheryl blow her nose. She waited.
"So, what do you want?" The widow's voice had become matterof-fact.
"His comp book. I need to know what was in his last series of notes." She heard a clunk and assumed Cheryl laid the phone down. A moment later there was the sound of footsteps and the rustling of paper.
"They didn't send it," Cheryl said.
"But he always had notes."
"The only thing I have is two sheets of paper that look like they might have been torn out of his comp book. They arrived the other day-Thornton mailed them to himself from Rome."
"Is there any reference to the Grail story?"
"No, just a list."
"Like a to-do list?" Cotten asked.
"Names."
"Can you read them to me?"
Cotten listened for a full thirty seconds before she said, "Wait. Stop. Let me get a pen and paper."
She motioned to John who dug into his coat and pulled out a ballpoint. He grabbed a garage sale notice from a public bulletin board nearby and handed it to Cotten. She turned it over and franti cally wrote on the back. "One more time, Cheryl. Just slowly read the names one more time." A moment later, she stopped scribbling and said, "Thank you. Thank you so very much."
Hanging up, she turned to John and whispered, "Holy shit!"
SAINT SUPERMARKET
THE RED JEEP CHEROKEE pulled into the parking lot of the South Asheville Oakley Library on Fairview Road, a half mile west of Interstate 240. Patches of snow partially covered the winter rye grass lawn, and the rusty iron-rich soil sprawled beneath.
"If you log into the SNN site and use their database, can't they track you and know where you are?" asked John as he and Cotten got out and climbed the library steps. "Can't we get background information on Thornton's list just by searching the Internet?"
"Yes, but the SNN archives are much more geared to research," Cotten said. "I'll log into SNN using my Anonimizer-dot-com account. It's a third-party browsing service that totally hides my identity and the IP address of the computer I'm using." Cotten waited as John held the door open. "I use it all the time so nobody can track me. If I'm doing some research, sometimes I don't want anyone to know that a reporter is snooping. People would be shocked to know how much of a trail they leave behind on the Internet."
They checked with the clerk at the circulation desk, and she pointed them to the computers.
There were five PCs lined up along the back wall-one being used by a young couple-the others empty. Cotten chose the one farthest from where the couple sat. Launching Netscape, she logged onto Anonimizer.com, entered her account info, then typed in the URL for the SNN research portal. When it asked, she entered her user name, newsbabe, and password, kentuckywoman. Navigating to the SNN biographies section, she typed in Hans Fritche, the first name scrawled on the back of the garage sale flier. Almost instantly, a list of links came up. She scrolled through them, then chose one and clicked. A picture of the Chancellor of Liechtenstein appeared with a short background summary. Cotten clicked on the print icon.
Ruedi Baumann was her next choice. The first link identified him as the International Bank of Zurich's CEO. She continued until she had printed the biographies for each name-all high-profile world leaders who wielded enormous political, military, and economic power.
"Any idea what those names have in common?" John asked.
"A very big iceberg," Cotten said as they walked toward the jeep.
"Maybe whoever stole the Cup is holding it for ransom," John said as he and Cotten sat in the parking lot of a Food Lion supermarket a few miles from the library.
"Or they're trying to sell it on the antiquities black market." Cotten leafed through the printouts, stopping on the French Supreme Court justice. "He c
ould be a potential buyer. Any one of them could." She stared at the bio of the Russian general. "Blackmail? Ransom? Black market art collectors? Was knowing their names so threatening to these men that Thornton had to die?"
John stared at the papers and shrugged. "It's an impressive list, but it could also be just a to-do list of future news contacts."
"You're right. We could be getting all excited about nothing. But Thornton did feel he needed to mail it to himself. Why? He wouldn't have gone to that kind of trouble for a simple list of future news interviews. Did he want to make sure someone would see the list if something happened to him?"
She watched a mother pushing a stroller through the parking lot. "And where are his notes? He was obsessive about keeping detailed records. He used to scold me, complain that I wasn't thorough enough. He made a point many times that reviewing his notes, seeing it on paper, brought clarity."
John leaned back. "Well, think of it this way-the missing notes could be confirmation that he was murdered because of the story-because of the Grail theft. The killer must have taken Thornton's notebook."
"So we're back to the list."
"What do you want to do now?"
"I'm going to call my Uncle Gus. Let him take a shot at tying these names together. If anyone can do it, he can. I need to check in with him anyway on the Wingate thing."
"While you do that, I'll go into the market and get some supplies." John looked at the scribbled list in Cotten's hand. "There's one more thing you wrote here that you haven't mentioned." He pointed to her notes. "S-T, S-I-N."
"Yeah, I have no idea about that one. Cheryl said Thornton had circled something at the bottom of the page. She said he'd circled it so many times that the pen lines ran over it and made it impossible to read the whole thing. All she could make out was the beginning. S-T period. Like in the abbreviation for Saint. Saint Christopher. Saint Louis. Might as well be Saint Supermarket." She motioned to the Food Lion and shrugged. "Then beneath it again he wrote S-T but followed it with a slash and the word SIN and something else. Cheryl tried to describe what it looked like and said she couldn't really make sense of it.
John stared at the notation. "I have no idea." He shook his head and looked at her. "Go make your call and meet me back here in twenty minutes."
"Deal." He started to get out, but she touched his sleeve. "There was one other thing Cheryl said, but I didn't write it down."
"What?"
"I thought she said grandmother at first, but I had her repeat it. She said Thornton had written Grand Master."
John's mouth dropped open. "Cotten, the Knights Templar referred to themselves as the Guardians of the Grail. Their leader was always called the Grand Master."
13 DROPS
"Do YOU THINK THE Knights Templar are still around today?" Cotten asked from the kitchen as she stirred the pot of spaghetti sauce on the old gas stove.
"There are a number of organizations that have their roots in the Templars. The Freemasons are a good example."
"Oh, yeah, like the DeMolay boys' club. I just heard about that one the other day."
John stoked the fire. Heavy snow clouds had returned in the afternoon and the temperature took a dive. "Many historians trace the Mason's beginnings to the Templars. Now that I think of it, the head of each Masonic Lodge is called a Grand Master." He stood as the fire roared to life, and the heat poured into the room. "By the way, that sure smells good."
"Thanks. This was one of my father's favorites."
"I can understand why if it tastes as great as it smells." John came into the kitchen and looked over her shoulder at the thick red sauce.
Cotten scooped a small amount onto the tip of her wooden spoon and offered it to him.
"Excellent," he said, sampling.
"How about fixing us a glass of Chianti while we let this simmer."
John found the corkscrew and opened the bottle of Italian red wine. He pulled two mugs from the shelf. "Sorry about no wine glasses. We rough it up here."
"It won't be the first time I drank wine from a coffee cup." She placed the lid on the pot of sauce. "What would the Masons want with the Grail?"
"I don't think they would. Even though they're somewhat of a secret organization, they're into supporting charities, not murdering news reporters. Tons of notable people have been Masons-George Washington and Winston Churchill for example, and famous celebrities like Clark Gable and Red Skelton. The list is a mile long." John handed Cotten a mug of wine. "Cheers," he said, raising his.
Their cups clinked. Cotten took a sip. "Let's go out on the deck."
"And freeze to death?"
"Just for a minute." She took a long drink of wine, then grinned and nodded toward his cup. "It'll warm you up."
"That's why drunks freeze to death. They think they're warm."
"Be right back," Cotten said, heading for the hallway. A moment later she returned with a heavy woolen blanket. "Come on." As she opened the back door, a rush of frigid air struck her face.
John followed onto the deck and closed the door behind them.
"It's beautiful," she said, looking out over the mountains. "Twilight is magical, don't you think?"
He agreed, briskly rubbing his upper arms.
"Come here," she said, wrapping the blanket around herself and holding one side open in invitation.
He stood close beside her and pulled the blanket around his shoulders.
"Better?" she asked.
"Much."
Taking another mouthful of wine, she hooked her arm in his. The land behind the cabin dropped off sharply-rocks jutting out in ledges and ridges, the winter-barren terrain exposing the raw earth.
"There's a creek at the bottom," John said. "Not very big, but when you're a young boy, it's an incredible playground every day during the summer. I used to spend sunup to sundown roaming these mountains. I knew every rock, cave, and hollow tree for miles around. I'd make my father let me out of the car way below. By the time he and mom would drive up to the cabin, I'd be standing on the porch with my arms crossed and a victory smile on my face. There was no better place for a kid-a million adventures."
Cotten looked at him, seeing the innocence of a boy and the wisdom of a man. She found that disparity charming.
"Where did you live your adventures as a young girl?" he asked.
Cotten laughed. "Feeding the chickens."
"Come on. Every kid makes up adventures. Didn't you have a fort or a secret hiding place?"
Cotten wondered for a moment. "A tree. A huge oak in the middle of the back pasture. I nailed foot-long two-by-fours on it to make a ladder and wedged a few boards between the limbs for a platform. I was always running away to my tree house. Got my first kiss in that tree. I must have been about twelve. Robbie White. We were sitting up there hiding from Tommy Hipperling when all of a sudden Robbie just leaned over and gave me the biggest smooch, right here." She tapped her lips. "When it was done, neither one of us said anything for a long time. I think it might have been his first kiss, too. We never discussed what happened, but we found ourselves up in that tree quite a few times that spring-practicing. Then he moved away, and I never saw him again. I don't think I got another kiss until I was six teen, and that one couldn't compare to the memory of Robbie White's."
"So while I was scaling these mountains and chasing pollywogs in the creek, you were getting kissed by Robbie White."
"I was a tomboy, except for when it came to kissing. Then I felt real girlie. I loved to kiss as much as I loved climbing trees with the boys."
John drew in a breath and opened his mouth as if to speak, but apparently decided against it.
Suddenly, they were hurrying for the door as the wind drove them inside.
"This is delicious," John said, after his first mouthful of spaghetti.
"Thanks." Cotten's mind wasn't on dinner, it was back on the Cup. "If the Templars consider themselves the Guardians of the Grail, then maybe they would steal it to protect it, not to sell it."
<
br /> "Maybe."
"The Cup could already be stowed away in some bank vault or part of a private collection by now, and we may never see it again."
John pointed his fork toward her. "That doesn't explain killing Thornton and trying to murder you. Someone is very scared of you-scared you know their secret."
With a tentative smile, she said, "More wine?"
"Sure." He held out his mug, and she poured the last of the Chianti.
"Know what I read one time?" Cotten said. "It was in a book about keeping a writer's notebook. The author, Fletcher was his name, said he had overheard a waitress tell a story about how much wine was left in an empty bottle. The waitress said there were always thirteen drops left. Fletcher jotted that down in his notebook because he thought it was a wonderful metaphor for when a person feels like there's nothing left-like they're totally empty and drained, but still they always have thirteen drops in reserve." She sat the bottle down and looked at John. "I hope if I ever need it, I have my thirteen drops left."
Both glanced at the dark window as a gust of wind made the cabin shudder.
"I can't believe how fast night falls up here," Cotten said.
"Just the opposite from the summer. On a cool summer night, the twilight seems to go on forever. My grandfather and I would sit on the front porch for hours counting fireflies until they faded into the stars."
"When you were growing up, did you ever fall in love?"
"Actually, I did. Jones has a granddaughter that used to come up here and visit us. I was madly in love with her for the whole month of July."
"What happened?"
"Not much. We were only kids."
Cotten lifted both eyebrows in a playful expression. "Did you kiss her?"
"Did Robbie White like sittin' in trees?"
They laughed, then Cotten said, "Ever hear from her?"
"No. She became a firefly and faded away."
"What about since you grew up-falling in love, I mean?"
John leaned back in his chair, sipped the wine, and stared across the table at her.