CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy

by Lynn Sholes

Jones thought a minute. "How 'bout I tell 'em I got an anonymous call. They'll ask me why this anonymous fella didn't call them direct, and I'll say I was wondering the same thing. Thought it kinda funny myself, is what I'll say. That'll get 'em thinking something's fishy, too. They'll start looking for who did it, and maybe get them bad folks off your tail.'

  "But they could think you started the fire," Cotten said. "We don't want to cause any problems for you. Heaven knows I've already-"

  "Shoot, we all know each other up here. This isn't the big city. Most of us grew up together. Everybody knows everybody and everybody's business. Sometimes that's bad. Most of the time that's good." Jones used a forward rock of the chair to boost himself to his feet. "Give me a minute and I'll get some clothes for you, little lady." He studied Cotten for a second. "You're on the skinny side. Lilly was a tad heftier. She didn't like that word. Nope, she preferred fluffy." He took two steps then stopped. "Isn't that a silly expression? But she liked it." He nodded. "I'll give you one of her belts to cinch up the waist. Height's 'bout right, though. But I don't know how the shoes will do.' He continued the conversation more to himself than John and Cotten as he left the room.

  "They're going to find us, you know," Cotten said. "We'll have to use our real names and ID to buy airline tickets. It doesn't matter where we go. They'll trace us. And then they'll kill us, John. Both of us.

  COME NOVEMBER

  CHARLES SINCLAIR WAS PATIENT, letting Robert Wingate fume. He watched Wingate, knowing the man was about to come undone. As Grand Master, Sinclair's decisions were final. It didn't matter what Wingate said now.

  The camera tracked Wingate as he paced the floor of the videoconference room in Sinclair's plantation estate, shaking his head, wringing his hands-moving in panicked animation. From the wall of monitors, every Guardian's face glared at their presidential candidate.

  "But I've explained to you," Wingate said, "there is nothing to the accusation. Yes, the kid went to one of my youth camps, but I never touched him, or any other child for that matter. Never even met him. The father is a scam artist and sees a fast way to make a buck. Anybody in the public eye is subject to this kind of thing by the low-life out there. The world is filled with their type-vultures. It happens all the time." He panned the room, looking first at Sinclair and then the monitors. "Come on. This is nothing new to men of your stature. Just pick up any supermarket tabloid and look at the cover." Except for the tapping of the soles of his shoes on the marble floor as he paced and his heavy breathing, the only response was silence. Obviously frustrated, Wingate thrust up his arms. "What else do you want from me?"

  Sinclair spoke in a calm, quiet tone. "Your statement will be that you've decided to drop out of the race for health reasons. You've recently learned that you have a serious kidney condition with resulting debilitating anemia, compounded by high blood pressure. We'll arrange for medical confirmation. You and your family made the decision together that you would not continue to pursue the presidency. You love your wife and family and want to spend more time with them. You appreciate all the support you've received. Public sympathy will pour in. The people will embrace you and then tearfully send you off to live a stress-free life somewhere out of the limelight. No questions. The press will also handle you compassionately. After all, you're such a young man to be so ill. And in the fickle American way, they'll forget about you in a couple of months and move on to our next choice."

  Wingate stood with a stunned expression. "Charles, you can't ask me to drop out. I've made a good run so far. Everything is working and-"

  "No, that's the thing, Robert-it isn't working. The blackmail issue will always be an albatross, a millstone that gets heavier and heavier."

  "But I didn't do-"

  "I told you, when dealing with an allegation of child molestation, it doesn't matter whether the accusation is factual or not-once it's made public, it becomes embedded in the subconscious-a blemish that can't be removed."

  "Nobody knows about the blackmail except that Stone woman. You said you know where she's hiding and you're going to take care of her. That means there's not going to be any-"

  "She's no longer your concern. You were told not to take any action-not to do something rash. But you did. And it's created a mess we have to clean up. We can't risk the bomb being linked to you.

  "But I made sure it couldn't be connected to-"

  "You're an amateur, Robert. You should have left these matters to us. It's taken valuable resources to cover your sloppy trail. Besides, there are things about the Stone woman you don't know." Sinclair started to explain further but realized it would make no difference. "I want you out of the public eye where there's less of a chance anyone will dig deep enough to unearth your ties to that ... fiasco. As of now, your political career is officially over. You've become a liability."

  "But you need me," Wingate said. "Have you seen the latest polls? I'm way out in front. And it's not just your political machinations that have done that. I've fucking charmed and captivated the American public. Even the press."

  Sinclair's eyes performed a long, exaggerated blink. "Charisma, like talk, is cheap. Do you know how many charismatic men are out there who would jump at the chance to run for the presidency of the United States with the unlimited backing we could give them? And of course from your own personal experience, you do know how easy it is to launch a political career from out of nowhere-with the proper support."

  "Please, Charles. I'm one of you. My family has a long history."

  "Then you know we sacrifice for the Order."

  "But there is no need for sacrifice. Please, Charles."

  The man was begging now, and it made Sinclair's stomach roil. "Most unbecoming, Robert. Sit down and collect yourself."

  Wingate stood behind a high back chair, his hands squeezing the stainless steel frame at the top.

  "Relax, Robert. Your future won't be so awful."

  Wingate remained behind the chair.

  "You've been loyal, and we do value that quality. Tell me where you want to go. Belize? Barbados? Fiji? We'll see to it you're taken care of."

  Wingate tugged at his collar and straightened, like the last rally of a terminally ill man. "I can pull this off ... even without you."

  "But you won't."

  "I don't need any more campaign money. The press loves me, so I'll get all the coverage I want. Americans believe in me, they trust me, and they'll take that straight into the voting booths next year in November."

  Sinclair forced a smile. "Are you sure you don't want to sit?" His jaw muscles tightened, and his teeth clenched.

  "What the fuck is with you, Charles? You know I can finish the race and win. Come November, you'll see. I'll be President Elect Robert Wingate. There's nothing you can do to stop me."

  Sinclair folded his hands, his patience exhausted. "What about the spray of roses?"

  Wingate stared at Sinclair. "What roses?"

  "The ones wilted on your grave, come November."

  TIMESTAMP

  THE SUN HAD NOT yet stolen above the horizon as the '66 Chevy pickup sped along U.S. 25 out of the mountains toward Greenville, South Carolina. Cotten watched the bleak landscape rolling by. In the headlights, the glare of snow patches shone like white islands in the fallow brown fields and skeleton forests. Bare, bony tree branches reached up and picked at the thick sky.

  She felt a trickle of warm air on her legs, but not warm enough to remove her coat. She wore one of Lilly Jones's long work dresses and her herringbone wool jacket. The shoes fit better than the clothes, she thought, as she glanced down at the simple brown lace-ups. Even the dim light of the dash couldn't hide that they were sturdy work shoes, but certainly more comfortable and practical than the heels she wore everyday at SNN.

  A semi-tractor trailer rig moved past, throwing up a shower of grime. The pickup's worn-out wipers only smeared it across the windshield.

  "I know," John said, glancing quickly in Cotten's direction. "Needs a new set of blades." />
  "That's not what I was thinking."

  "Then what?"

  "I was thinking how lucky I am.'

  "To be sporting around in this fancy retro truck or donning that Blue Ridge designer outfit?"

  "Lucky I have you. Despite everything that's happened, you're still here."

  Another huge truck swept by, spraying more slush. John leaned forward as if a few inches would improve visibility. "Nobody can say you don't look on the bright side. Have I told you I'm a sucker for adventure?"

  "You'd have to be." He was trying to lighten up the situation, and she appreciated his effort. "How we doing on gas?"

  He checked the gauge. "We'll fill up in Hendersonville. There's a Skyway Truck Stop there."

  "Good. Then I can check my answering machine and call Uncle Gus."

  "It's Saturday." John looked at his watch in the headlights of a passing truck. "And five thirty in the morning."

  "Gus is a workaholic. He's up and at it before the dawn-Saturdays included. If he's not in the office, my call will be routed to his house. We need to know if he's put together some connection with those names on Thornton's list."

  "Cotten, what if I get you out of the country? Maybe fly to someplace like Costa Rica."

  "It's not just me anymore. They want you, too," Cotten said. "Whatever they think I know, they must believe I have told you. We'll never be safe, never have any peace until we unravel this whole mess."

  They rode in silence for a while before John said, "There's the Skyway."

  As the endless parade of 18-wheelers swept by, John steered the pickup into the truck stop's parking lot and pulled beside the first available gas pump. "I'll fill up while you make your calls." He took his wallet out and gave her a ten dollar bill.

  Cotten slipped out of the truck and after getting change made her way past shelves of junk food and soda cases to a line of public phones. She called Gus.

  Waiting for him to answer, Cotten dumped the rest of the money in her pocket and looked back in the direction of the cashier. She could see John beyond the front window in the glare of the service center lights pumping gas.

  A sleepy voice came on the line-a man, but not her uncle. "Hello."

  "Hi, this is Cotten Stone. Can I speak to Gus, please?"

  The line was quiet for a moment. She already knew something was wrong.

  "Ms. Stone, my name is Michael Billings. I'm the operations manager for Ruby Investigations. I've had the calls forwarded to my home."

  "I've never heard my uncle mention your name."

  "I just recently joined the agency."

  "I need to speak to Gus right away." She hoped Gus was out of town on business or taking a few days vacation.

  Billings sniffed, obviously still trying to wake up. "Ms. Stone, I hate to be the one to give you bad news, but I'm afraid your uncle was in an accident last night."

  Cotten sensed the all-too-familiar chill sweep through her body. "Accident?"

  "Driving home, his car ran off the road."

  "Is he ... all right?"

  Billings' long sigh sounded like air escaping from a punctured tire. "It's pretty bad. What we know so far is that Gus suffered a severe head injury, his liver is lacerated, and there's internal bleeding. He's got some broken bones, but that's the least of it. Doctors won't speculate on his recovery, or if he recovers what kind of brain damage there might be."

  She wanted to scream. Everything she touched ... Yes, she had a touch all right. Not a Midas touch, but the touch of a mortician. Everyone she loved wound up dead. God, please don't let him die, too, she thought. Raw rage built inside her. "How did it happen?"

  "The road was icy. Apparently he lost control and ran off the highway into the river. Because of the weather, there weren't many people on the road, so the accident didn't get reported right away. He's lucky he's even alive."

  "He just ran off the road?"

  "Apparently."

  Cotten looked around the service center. It wasn't yet daylight, and only a handful of truckers moved about, mostly filling large Styrofoam cups from the self-serve counter or shoving an egg `n' bacon sandwich into the microwave. Her thoughts came like splinters that brought needles of pain. Her life was coming unstitched, and all the things that were good were spilling out and dying. How could these people in the truck stop just go about their business slugging down black coffee and eating Krispy Kremes while she was unraveling? Their lives went on like long, flowing rivers while hers was tumbling over cliffs-out of control.

  "Ms. Stone? Are you still there? If there's anything-"

  "No." Cotten hung up. "Gus had no fucking accident," she mumbled, gritting her teeth.

  She braced herself, palms flat against the wall, her forehead resting on the phone, her body shaking. Pretty soon there would be no one left. They were getting to everyone around her and eliminating them all, one by one.

  She looked back toward the cashier and caught a glimpse of John cleaning the pickup's windshield. He was all she had left. How long before she lost him, too?

  Digging into her pocket she pulled out quarters and dimes, picked up the phone again, and dialed her apartment. In response to the automated system's message, she successfully fed the phone a quarter, but the second coin clanked in the return slot. She punched in another quarter and hit the phone with the heel of her hand. The telephone accepted the rest of her money, and in a moment she heard her answering machine pick up.

  "Hi, this is Cotten-"

  After entering her retrieval code, she heard a synthetic voice say, "You have two messages."

  Beep.

  "Cotten, this is Ted. It's imperative that you call me immediately. Day or night. The authorities want to talk to you right away."

  The synthetic voice announced the digital timestamp, "Thursday, 9:10 AM." Two days ago.

  Beep.

  "Ms. Stone?"

  The voice was odd and muffled, disguised as if spoken through an electronic distortion device. Cotten strained to hear, to understand.

  "Please listen to me. I can save your life, yours and the priest's if you do exactly what I tell you. I'm willing to give you the whole story on the theft of the Grail and more ... much more. This is bigger than you can possibly imagine. Follow my instructions and meet me where I say. Here's what you must do."

  Cotten pressed the phone harder to her ear and listened to the remainder of the message. Then she heard the timestamp, "Saturday, 2:20 AM." Today.

  Beep.

  "End of messages. Press one to save or two to erase."

  Cotten pushed the number two button on the phone then hung up. She looked around suspiciously as she hurried to the front of the store. Was anyone watching her? She threw open the doors and sprinted across the parking lot. John had just climbed into the truck when Cotten jerked open the passenger door.

  "What's the matter?" he said. "Is everything all right?"

  "They got to Gus. Get us out of here!"

  "Where are we going?"

  "New Orleans."

  REVELATION

  "THAT NAILS IT," JOHN said, withdrawing his card from the ATM. It was midmorning as he and Cotten stood in the Greenville- Spartanburg International Airport.

  "They've canceled your accounts, too," Cotten said, shaking her head. "That means you're as much of a target as I am.' Her voice trailed off. "John, I never intended-"

  He pressed his fingertips to her lips. "I'm here because I want to be."

  "They're shutting us down."

  "Not completely. I still have a trick or two." He motioned to a bank of pay phones along a wall. "I've got an old friend who can help."

  "Archbishop Montiagro?"

  "No, someone harder to connect to me. My rabbi friend I told you about-Syd Bernstein. He can purchase the tickets at his end and wire us some money. I've still got a little cash, but not enough to get us very far. And with no credit cards, we'll have to pay cash. So don't expect the Marriott when we get to New Orleans. It'll be more like the No-Tell Motel-pay
by the hour in advance."

  This brought a smile to Cotten's face. "And how would you know about such things?"

  He rolled his eyes. "I'm a priest. The confessional-remember? People tell me everything."

  She grinned but then turned serious. "Can you trust your friend?"

  "Completely.

  "That's how Vanessa was for me."

  There was a moment of awkward silence as John dug for pocket change. He dropped quarters and dimes into the slot and dialed.

  How wonderful it must be to have such a fertile life, she thought. Hers seemed shallow and sterile in comparison. He was the only other person besides Vanessa who added richness to the threadbare tapestry of her life. Not even Thornton had done that.

  She remembered a close friend from high school and how they kept in touch for a couple of years after Cotten left home. But their lives took on such different dimensions-Cotten in college studying journalism, and her friend at home raising three children-that they soon found little in common. Gradually their friendship came down to a few scribbles on the inside of Christmas cards. John and his friend managed to maintain a strong bond even though they lived in different worlds. Cotten hadn't thought about it before, but she regretted purging so much from her life. She could hardly complain about winding up being so isolated when she was the one who had let it happen. Self-inflicted wounds were the most painful.

  "Right," John was saying into the phone. "Try the two-twenty flight on US Air. If there aren't any tickets for us at the counter in an hour, I'll call you back. And Syd, thanks. Shalom."

  US Air flight 319 touched down in New Orleans at 4:51 PM. Cotten and John caught a shuttle to the French Quarter, then a taxi to Checkmate Services on Canal Street where they picked up the money Syd had wired. An hour later they checked into the ten-room Blue Bayou Motel a few blocks from the Quarter. They paid cash in advance for two days.

  "I thought we had a choice of a smoking or non-smoking room," Cotten said, wrinkling her nose at the heavy smell of cigarette smoke that seemed embedded in everything.