by Lynn Sholes
"God and Satan are at war; they battle every moment of every hour. We can't possibly understand it all. We are only His instruments. God moved you through your life in ways that brought you to that crypt in Iraq on that given day, and at that hour. When Gabriel Archer handed you the box, he passed on the task of defeating Satan for the second-"
"Stop! I don't want to hear anymore. Stop it!" Cotten collapsed into John's arms, sobbing. "No," she whimpered. "I can't do this. I can't. There's been a mistake."
John held her close. "God wouldn't have chosen you if He didn't believe in you. And if it were a mistake, why would they be doing everything possible to stop you?"
She breathed into his chest. "But why haven't they stopped me? Why Vanessa and Thornton? Why not me?"
John lifted her face in his palms. "Because He has something for you to do. You are His-chosen, Cotten."
"I don't know what to do."
"So far it looks like you've done everything He's asked." John cleared the hair from her eyes. "You told me once that your father said you were meant for greatness. I think he was right. I believe you're special. Now you have to start believing it, too."
Cotten's voice was weak. "I'm just Cotten Stone, a simple Kentucky farm girl, daughter of Furmiel and Martha Stone-simple farm folks. I'm definitely no one special. You'd be a better choice. That would make sense. Why weren't you given the job of stopping this thing-whatever it is?"
"Maybe He knows I can't. He didn't choose me, but He let me decide to help you. Maybe He knows neither of us can do it alone."
"You're the one with all the faith. Shit, you talk to Him on a regular basis." She touched his crucifix with the tip of her finger. "I haven't prayed since I was a kid."
"Praying isn't something you whisper on your knees in church. Praying is simply communicating with God. I'd say He's found a way to open up a pretty good line of communication, wouldn't you?" John's words came in a low voice. "He can see all the flaws in my faith. There's never been anything I wanted more than to serve God, but I've floundered, never wholly giving up my life to Him. No matter how profoundly I've thought I wanted to live my life for God, I haven't managed to find a way, so I've wandered from one endeavor to another. I've even buried doubts when they've arisen. But we can't hide from God."
"Stop it. John, I've seen your strength, your solid faith. But me, I've never believed in anything, not even myself. I've always wanted the things I couldn't have. Look at you, look at all the ways you've proven your devotion to doing God's work. I've done nothing!"
She felt her stomach turn sour. Had she destroyed his faith? It wouldn't be fair; he was a good man. If the two of them had never met, if she'd never dragged him into her screwed-up life ... Everything she touched ...
"I have to trust in Him, trust that He has brought me to this moment, brought me to you." John's eyes searched hers as if he hoped he could read her thoughts. "Cotten, there's one more thing . . ." He drew away.
Cool air replaced the warmth of his closeness.
"John? What is it? Don't keep anything from me, now. There is nothing else you can tell me that could be worse than what you've already said."
It was the middle of the night, but light sleep plagued Charles Sinclair. He had dozed for twenty or thirty minutes, then eyes flashed open, his mind clear and alert. This was not a time for the passive state. His brain and body were fed a continuous charge of energy knowing what was taking place only a few steps from where he slept.
Sinclair slipped from the bed, rearranging the covers, putting a down pillow against his wife's back so she wouldn't notice his absence. There was no need to disturb her. He wandered down from the family quarters to the lab to satisfy himself that all was well-that the process was safe and proceeding on schedule.
Sinclair pressed his finger in the DNA analyzer before entering the code. In a moment he heard the familiar heavy metallic thump as the magnetic locks released, and the door to the lab unlocked. He pushed on the stainless steel door and entered.
The molecular biology lab was dark-only a few security lights and the glow from a handful of computer monitors lit the room. Sinclair smiled as his gaze fell on his prized possession. Walking past a centrifuge and a few incubators, he approached a long counter-on top sat an acrylic case containing the Cup-beside it the silver titanium travel case.
In the state-of-the-art surroundings of gleaming chrome, stainless, brass, and glass, the Grail looked out of place-an anachronism. The ancient beeswax, meticulously removed from the Cup, lay in a separate sealed container. In its place, a thin, specially created polymer, clear as cellophane, adhered to and conserved both the inside and outside of the Cup.
Sinclair moved to a second polycarbonate container a few feet away. But this one was extraordinary, developed and produced for this purpose alone. The container was mounted to a microscope so its precious contents would not be disturbed during observationstubes and hoses attached to its sides provided a controlled environment of air, humidity, and temperature. Inside, within a small glass petri dish rested the miracle. But unlike all the previous clonings by other scientists, there would be no human surrogate mother. Instead -and perhaps this was his most exquisite invention, he thoughtthe virgin to carry this Christ-child would be a synthetic womb. He'd experimented for years with women who, for a price, offered to be surrogate mothers. And then later he'd experimented with donated uterine organs, but the failure rate with both was unacceptable. Embryos often divided properly at first, then stopped. Those he managed to encourage to divide appropriately, most often failed to implant. And those that did, terminated in miscarriage.
It was during this time of haunting frustration that the old man had come into Sinclair's life. Within months, he guided the geneticist in a creation that rivaled that of nature's-a perfect synthetic uterus. And, he had solved the mystery of primate cloning-why there was chromosomal chaos during the last stages, and better yet, how to remedy it with a key protein-rich chemical soup. The thought brought a satisfied expression to his face.
The hum of computer cooling fans and mini-pumps filled the room as Sinclair looked into the microscope and adjusted the focus. "The world is about to change forever," he whispered. "The Son of God belongs to the Son of the Dawn."
Behold, I come as a thief, and thou shalt not know at what hour! (Revelations 3:3)
THE RED HEIFER
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, there's more?" Cotten said. Her hands trembled in anticipation.
John moved from the window. "Like I said, while you slept, I reread the book of Revelation. It seemed so clear that we are dealing with evil in its purest form. But then I read more passages-the words of Ezekiel, Matthew, and others, all describing the Second Coming.
"You have to realize when these men described the event, they thought it would happen soon, perhaps even in their lifetime. Their writing related to customs, beliefs, traditions, and ways of life they were familiar with-they used the terminology of their time. They had no idea what was to come hundreds, even thousands of years later. If you had described the concept of cloning to any of them, they would have considered you insane-perhaps even a heretic for thinking you had the power of God to create a human. When I reread their words describing how Christ would return to Earth, I could clearly see that maybe, just maybe, this is how it is supposed to be."
"What do you mean?" Cotten said.
"This might really be the Second Coming."
"You've lost me."
"The book of Revelation-the Apocalypse-is filled with the visions of John the Apostle, a man who had no knowledge of the science we know today. He predicted the events as best he could, relying on the depth of his information at the time. Tonight, I used his words to convince you that this whole thing is an attempt by Lucifer to get revenge on God-that we are about to see the creation of the Antichrist. But consider for a moment that there's something even deeper here. What if using the DNA from the Grail and the cloning of Jesus Christ is in fact the Second Coming? The time is right. The si
gns are present. What if we pursue this and though we think we are stopping something evil we really become responsible for stopping the true Second Coming?"
John looked up at the ceiling, then back at her. "Okay, I'm going to reach out to the farm girl in you. We're going to talk cows."
Cotten offered up a confused laugh.
"One of the last signs in the Bible that the end is near, that it is time for Jesus to return, is the rebuilding of the Temple in Jerusalem. But first, those who would rebuild the Temple must undergo purification. According to the book of Numbers, a perfect red heifer-no defects, and on which a yoke has never been placed-has to be slaughtered and burned, its ashes made into a paste to be used in the purification ceremony."
"That should be easy enough."
"Except that no flawless red heifer has been born since Herod's Temple was destroyed in A.D. 70-about 2,000 years ago. That is, until last April. They thought one was born in 1997, but white hairs popped out on the tip of her tail, so she was ruled unacceptable for sacrifice. But the calf born in April looks like she might just be the one. So you see, if the purification can take place according to the directions given Moses, the Jews will certainly take over the Temple Mount and begin rebuilding. The red heifer means the time is at hand."
Cotten's eyebrows furrowed as she strained to put it all together. "What you are saying is it could go either way-the cloning might be the work of Satan, or it might be that the Second Coming is supposed to be happening right now, and it might be happening by way of cloning?"
"What if Satan's real mission is to use you and me to interrupt God's plan?"
Cotten sat on the bed. "I'm so confused, I can't think straight. You just finished convincing me someone is going to create the Antichrist, and now you're turning it completely around."
He held her by the shoulders. "I'm relying on my gut feeling, here. I could be wrong. But I think we are on the brink of coming face to face with those who stole the Grail and are attempting to clone Jesus. We are going to find out who they are and try to stop them. But what if I've got it all wrong?"
Cotten took his hands from her shoulders and held them, shaking her head. "No. God wouldn't let that happen to you. He wouldn't. You're too good. There isn't the tiniest cell in your body that could be made to do anything evil." She looked deep into John's eyes-the intensity, the turbulence, the dark blue of the sea during a stormand prayed she was right.
THE KREWE OF ORPHEUS
AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT and only a few hours of sleep, the next morning Cotten and John took a cab to MGM Costume Rentals. They had first tried stores that sold costumes, but found the prices too steep. Renting would be much more reasonable.
John started with a realistic Henry the Eighth, but because of his slim build the costume draped in folds where it should have billowed, hung loose where it should have clung. He didn't look kingly, Cotten told him. When he appeared as King Tut, she bent over with laughter, sending him back to the changing room. But when she saw him reappear as Elvis singing "Blue Suede Shoes," her laughter pealed through the store.
She tried Marie Antoinette, Peter Pan ... and an angel. Standing in front of John as the angel, white feathered wings, silver threads woven through the gossamer white robe, she heard him suck in a breath.
Cotten raised her brows. "Thought I should a least give this one a try."
"You look so ... beautiful;' he said.
It sounded more as if he were thinking aloud than meaning to speak, so she didn't respond. Looking at herself in a full-length mirror, she thought of Motnees and wondered if angels really had wings. The costume was lovely, but she needed something less cumbersome considering she might end up having to make a quick exit if she were walking into a trap.
Like a sudden slap, the reality of their predicament jerked the fun out of the moment.
John eventually chose a Phantom of the Opera black cloak with a mask made of a translucent plastic, while Cotten selected an Alice in Wonderland dress and the same kind of translucent mask devoid of color except for the dark rose lips.
"Great choices," the clerk said. "As you can imagine, our selection has been picked over, but I think you both looked terrific." She handwrote the bill. "That'll be one hundred four dollars."
John handed her two fifties and a five, and the clerk gave him change.
"I'll need a credit card for the security deposit," she said.
"But we paid cash," Cotten said.
"I know. But sometimes our customers don't return the costumes. Store policy. We don't charge your card unless the costume doesn't come back after forty-eight hours."
John put his arm around Cotten's waist, pulled her close to his side, and put on a wide grin. "Jan and I are making a clean start," he said.
Jan? Cotten repeated the name in her head, holding back the urge to elbow him.
John went on. "When we were first married, we got into some financial difficulty. When we finally got out of debt, we cut up all our cards. If we can't pay for something in cash, then we don't buy. It's our rule. Right, honey?" he said, smiling at Cotten.
"Right," she said.
"How about we leave you another hundred dollars for the deposit?" He joggled Cotten's waist, rocking her against his side, making her lean into him, then pecked her on the cheek. "We've made a promise," he said. "We aren't ever going to find ourselves in debt again."
The clerk watched as John slid a one hundred dollar bill across the counter. "The store manager isn't here to decide," she said, looking around. "Oh, I don't know if-"
"We're honest people," John said. "And this is our first Mardi Gras. We've saved all year. We're really stretching our budget just to be here."
"Please," Cotten said. "Buddy and I have looked forward to this for so long." As soon as she spoke, she couldn't help but glance at John. Jan and Buddy.
The girl sighed. "All right, but swear you'll bring them back tomorrow."
"Absolutely," John said. "Thanks."
"Honey? Jan?" Cotten said when they were on the street. "You're a con-artist. A silver-tongued-" She stopped herself.
"Devil?" he said.
Cotten looked down, wishing she had thought before she spoke. "I could use a little sugar on my foot to make it taste better."
"That reminds me, I'm hungry, too," John said. "But I think I'd prefer a beignet or some pralines."
Carrying their costumes, they walked a few blocks, stopping at Mulates Cajun restaurant for a sandwich before hailing a taxi and heading back to the Blue Bayou.
"The Krewe of Orpheus parade starts about three o'clock;" John said as he read the Mardi Gras brochure in their room. "But you aren't supposed to meet this guy until six thirty?"
"I guess he wants it to be dark. The parade goes on for five-and-ahalf hours."
"Cotten, I'm only going to be a few feet behind you, so-"
"You know I don't want you to go. If anything happens to you because of me..."
At five o'clock they got dressed, then studied the street map.
"He'll be wearing a pirate costume. That's all we know," Cotten said. "There will probably be a dozen pirates on the corner of St. Charles and Jackson at six thirty."
"Go first," John said. "I'll give you enough time to get to the end of the first block before I come out. This guy already might know where we are and follow from the start. At the third intersection, wait on the corner long enough for me to catch up. Fiddle with your costume or something to buy me a few minutes. Don't look back or you'll give me away. Are you ready?"
"No," she said. "But I'm going anyway."
John stood behind the door, and Cotten walked out. A few moments later he followed.
Throngs of people jammed the streets as they got closer to the parade route.
At the third corner, Cotten stopped, adjusting the lay of the flimsy white organdy pinafore over the blue Alice dress. She retied the sash, using the opportunity to sneak a glance behind. The crowd was too thick for her to see how close John trailed.
&
nbsp; Suddenly, she was swept up by the current of people, whisked along like a leaf on a river. The closeness, the constant jostling and bumping, had her heartbeat pulsing even in her fingertips. She thought of the street festival in Miami, and her stomach tightened. The man on her answering machine who told her to come to New Orleans, the one who disguised his voice, the one who might be hell bent on killing her, could be standing next to her, even brushing against her.
A burst of fireworks popped nearby. Cotten jumped, and her mouth dried as if someone had sprinkled alum inside. Beneath the mask her skin turned damp, and a bead of sweat rolled down her spine.
She continued on, weaving through the multitude. A giant float decorated with gargoyles crawled by-glittering strands of braided beads, fake gold doubloons, and garland necklaces rained down. Hundreds of parade-goers' hands scrapped and clutched at the souvenirs. A spatter of cold liquid splashed her back. Cotten spun around.
"Sorry," the grinning man behind her slurred, lifting his plastic cup of beer above the crowd.
Cotten sidestepped and crabbed another several yards, slowly fighting her way to the rendezvous point. She wanted to look back for John, but she resisted. Cotten prayed that he'd been able to keep her in sight. Funny, she thought, she'd prayed in one fashion or another more times in the last few days than she had in the last ten years.
Finally she stood at the corner of St. Charles and Jackson. The crowd became oppressive-smothering. Not everyone wore a costume-some only masks, others just in street clothes with gobs of Mardi Gras beads dangling around their necks. And there were the quirky-like the man who stumbled past her with the seat of his jeans cut out to flaunt his naked rear end, or the girls who were topless-except for their beads. Everyone wore beads.
Cotten removed her mask and slowly turned in a circle, searching the faces around her, letting her face be seen.
She first noticed the eye patch, then purple pants, white shirt, beard, mustache, buccaneer hat-and somewhat out of place, a pair of thick work gloves. Her heart broke its rhythm as the pirate pushed his way to her and grabbed her arm.