by Lynn Sholes
"I can't," John said. "I can't play God."
A chorus of voices echoed in Cotten's head. "Geh el crip." She took his hand. "We aren't playing God. He chose us-brought us together and led us to this place." She choked. "Thornton. Vanessa. I can't believe they were sacrificed for no reason. John, you made me see reality. Why did I wander onto that dig site in Iraq at just the right moment? Why did my twin die at birth only to talk to me in a language you said is the language of heaven? Why have you searched for the way God wants you to serve? John, this is it."
Her mind cleared. She was the only one who could stop the Son of the Dawn. John's very faith gave him doubts-and God knew that would happen. That was why she was chosen. She was part of the contract her father had made with God.
Geh el crip.
John gripped her arm and took a step back, pulling her away.
"I'm sorry," she said, pushing him aside. "But I have to do this." She ripped the hoses and wires from the incubator, then picked up the entire apparatus and smashed it on the floor.
As if in slow motion, the box split open on impact sending jagged transparent shards across the tile. The microscope tore loose and spun on the floor at her feet. But the petri dish miraculously landed upright and intact.
Cotten glared at it for an instant, and then stomped down, crushing it under her heel.
The dish shattered.
"It's over," she said. "It's done."
Suddenly, the lab filled with the blare of alarm horns. Cotten covered her ears. Red and white strobes flashed.
"Come on," John yelled, the noise appearing to startle him back to life.
"Wait," Cotten said, spotting a row of oxygen canisters along the wall. Her eyes searched the room. Near the door was a workstation with pipes leading to it. "Gas lines." She recognized the Bunsen burner on the counter.
She rushed to the canisters, yanked the hoses from their attachments, and opened their valves. Oxygen hissed into the room.
The Bunsen burner had a hose running from its base to a gas outlet on one of the pipes. She flipped the control handle, turning on the gas flow. She rotated the knurled knob at the base of the burner, funneling the gas up through the barrel.
"Light, light, light," she yelled over the screaming alarm. "Find a match!"
John grabbed a Duraflame lighter gun from a nearby shelf.
She took it and ignited the burner. It flickered pale and weak. Quickly she adjusted the Bunsen's air vents, and at last the luminous flame turned orange and yellow. She wasn't after the kind of flame the burner was most often adjusted to produce-not the controlled compact flame with a pale violet-blue halo around a dark core.
She wanted fire-the fires of hell.
Quickly she retrieved the silver case that contained the Grail. "Let's get out of here," she said, grasping John's arm.
They turned toward the door. It was already opening.
Then the beast was captured, and with him the False Prophet who worked signs in his presence, by which he deceived those who received the mark of the beast and those who worshiped his image. These two were cast alive into the lake of fire burning with brimstone. (Revelation 19:20)
FACE TO FACE
COTTEN CLUTCHED THE TITANIUM case, and was set to run, every fiber in her body, every strip of sinew and thread of muscle on the ready. But then she caught sight of the man standing just outside the open door.
A flash of heat blew in, and the air sizzled. Cotten shuddered.
An old gentleman gazed at her, his eyes piercing.
John stared at the man in the doorway. "The missing tenth horn," he said.
A debilitating pain just above Cotten's eye sockets wracked hersimilar to the pain that follows eating ice cream too quickly. But this was more intense, like glowing hot spikes driving through her skull, the muscles to her eyes-her very brain-cramping, burning. Cotten pressed the heel of her left hand to her forehead and cried out. "John, get us out. I can't see."
She heard a snap, and then John took her hand and put an object between her thumb and forefinger. His crucifix from the chain around his neck.
He lifted her hand by the wrist. "We've got to do this together," he said.
John spoke while moving her forward.
"In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
"Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in our battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high place."
The pain slackened for an instant, and Cotten fluttered her eyes briefly to see John. Sweat beaded above his lip and on his brow. But there was confidence in his face and his voice. His eyes bore down on the old man who was now more a mirage, a quavering image like heat rising from pavement. The pain in her eyes made her close them.
"Cotten."
The voice shot nerve impulses through her, and the room flooded with the distinct aromas of fresh cut hay, shucked corn, Kentucky soil.
"You haven't forgotten me, have you?" the voice said.
"Daddy?" Cotten said, a wave of emotion washing over her.
"It's not your father, Cotten," John said. "He's a liar." John inched forward and continued the liturgy. ". . . take hold of the dragon, the old serpent, which is the devil and Satan, bind him and cast him into the bottomless pit that he may no longer seduce the nations."
Again the voice-this time in the language only she could understand. "Cri sprok inhime. Sprak then e vigo. Listen to me. You are my little girl."
She felt John use their joined hands to make the sign of the cross.
Three steps forward.
"In the Name of Jesus Christ, our Lord."
"Gril te." It was Vanessa. "Put your trust in me, Cotten. I'm your best friend. I died for you. Step away from the priest. He is the one who lies."
"Stop!" Cotten shouted, pressing a hand to her ear. "Nessi, forgive me.
"Don't listen to the voices, Cotten," John shouted. "It's a trick. He's trying to weaken you."
"No!" Cotten screamed.
The old man's voice thundered. The glass beakers trembled. "Tunka tee rosfal ee Nephilim. You belong to the Fallen. You are one of us."
John gripped Cotten's wrist even more tightly. "Don't listen!"
A hiss, like steam escaping a boiler, sounded, and her flesh seared with the heat of the old man's breath.
"Behold the Cross of the Lord, flee bands of enemies," John said. "May Thy mercy, Lord, descend upon us."
Sign of the cross.
Hot wind blasted her-a gale spun out of hell.
"We drive you from us," John said, "whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions."
The pain in her head grew with a fury. Cotten balked and stumbled. She feared she was going to vomit and felt herself heave.
John edged her onward. "God the Father commands you."
Sign of the cross.
The floor seemed to vibrate. The hot wind, the quivering, her body shaking to its core-she was losing touch. Again she stumbled, one leg collapsing beneath her.
"God the Son commands you."
Sign of the cross.
"God the Holy Spirit commands you."
Sign of the cross.
John reached around her, pulling her to her feet.
The air pressure in the lab throbbed-pounding, crushing.
"This is not where it ends." The voice was harsh like stones scraping. "You are weak like your father."
The heat boiled Cotten's strength from her. Another stab of pain made her rip her hand from John's.
"By the God who so loved the world that He gave up His only Son, that every soul believing in Him might not perish but have everlasting life." John grabbed her hand again.
The heat was so intense now, Cotten felt her skin blister.
John's voice echoed above the wind that nearly shattered her eardrums. "Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord, the God of
Hosts. Oh Lord, hear my prayer. God of heaven, God of earth, God of Angels, God of Archangels-"
The crescendo of the wind.
The blast of hair-singeing air.
The boom of John's powerful voice.
The stabbing pain.
Cotten heard crashing sounds as tables overturned, the shattering of glass, the clanging of steel on steel. She wanted to give up, to fall on her knees, to beg for mercy, but John held her to him, more carrying her now than leading her. She hadn't the strength or the will to continue on herself. For an instant she tried to break from him and flee, but he held her firm.
"Oh Lord, hear my prayer. And let my cry come unto Thee."
Cotten twisted away. "I can't. I can't."
John yanked her back and enfolded her.
"We beseech Thee through Jesus Christ Our Lord. Amen. From the snares of the devil, deliver us oh Lord."
Sign of the cross.
"In the Name of the Father-"
Sign of the cross
"And of the Son-"
Sign of the cross.
"And of the Holy Spirit."
Sign of the cross.
Suddenly the wind died to a trickle, and the heat in it cooled. The unbearable pain in her head seeped away. She opened her eyes in time to see a flare of light and a whirl of dust where the old man had stood.
John and Cotten passed through the door. She leaned on him, drained, her throat scorched raw.
He held her to him as he slammed the push button panel, making the door close.
Before it shut, Cotten caught a last glimpse inside the lab-she could see a slight swirling of smoky air, papers drifting down, the flicker of the flame from the Bunsen burner.
John cradled her face between his palms. "It's going to blow any minute. We've got to get out of here."
They ran, John pulling her as her strength slowly returned. Behind them, the door to the lab sealed in the deadly combination of pure oxygen and an open flame.
Cotten tried to focus, but everything still blurred-her vision-her awareness. A thick mist clung inside her skull, her thoughts jumbled, foggy, and disconnected. John pulled her down the hall leading from the lab, and she could hear their footfalls, echoing their way into her ears.
The alarm horns shrieked like prehistoric creatures in mortal combat. The fire-like sensation on her skin faded, but she feared it left blisters behind. The unusual smell of sulfur filled her nostrils while she ran, hugging the travel case.
Panicky voices rang throughout the house as she and John burst into the foyer at the base of the huge staircase. Servants, caterers, and guests ran past them toward the front entrance.
"Come on," John yelled, guiding her into the rush of bodies.
Suddenly, she sensed fresh, damp night air, and stumbled down the porch steps and across the drive-her shoes sinking into the soft earth. Cotten choked back a cry. A breeze off the river swept over her, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
In the next instant, the ground and the air convulsed-a shockwave. The blast struck from behind.
The lab had blown.
The explosion pushed her and John a half dozen yards through the air and landed them in a flower garden. John hit first, face down in the soft loam. But Cotten smacked her head on one of the decorative stones. She lay still for a moment, dazed.
Finally, she lifted her head and looked back at the classic antebellum architecture of the estate house. Smoke billowed from the roof of the east wing-flames shooting from broken windows, lapping at the eaves. The sound of a nearby fountain merged with the crackle of fire.
The earth shook again with smaller explosions.
The noise in her head, like the buzzing of swarming locusts, a violent vibration, grew louder, deafening.
"John?" She saw his distorted face, as if looking up through the water from the bottom of a pool.
Cotten felt herself fading into darkness. Her fingers loosened their grip on the silver case, and a moment later her hand fell away.
"He who endures to the end shall be saved." (Matthew 24:13)
RECOVERY
"I THOUGHT I WOULD never see you again," Cotten said as she looked up into the face of her sister, Motnees, who was framed in a brilliant light.
"I'm always here."
"Is it really over?" Cotten asked.
"For now," Motnees said, stroking her sister's forehead. "Our father is proud of you."
"So he is at peace?"
"Yes," Motnees said.
Her image faded, and the light paled. "Never forget."
"What?" Cotten said, reaching.
"Geh el Grip." The radiance barely illuminated Motnees and her smile. Then she was gone.
Ted Casselman's voice transcended the mist and lifted Cotten up to consciousness. Suddenly, she felt like a diver returning from the depths.
"I think she's waking up," Casselman said.
Cotten blinked.
John took her hand. "Welcome back."
The room was bleak, sterile, and smelled of disinfectant. She lifted her arm and stared at the attached IV. The memory of their escape flooded back.
She wanted to speak, but her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her lips felt glued together. She looked at the plastic pitcher and cup next to her bed.
"Are you thirsty?" John asked.
Cotten nodded.
He poured her a glass and held it for her.
The water cooled her mouth and freed her tongue and lips. The light streaming in through the hospital window made her squint. "What time is it?"
"Four thirty," John said. "You've been in and out over the last couple of days. You look more alert, like you are going to stay with us this time. The doctor says you're going to be fine. Only a bad concussion."
Cotten's stare locked on John. "Where is it?" she whispered.
"FBI," John said.
She closed her eyes. It all seemed so unreal, more like a dream she had gladly awakened from, even though some of the vestiges of the nightmare held fast. Her body hurt, and her skin felt sunburned. No, it had all been real-from the tomb and Gabriel Archer to the cloning lab and Charles Sinclair, to-she shuddered, recalling Gus's revelations and then the old man blocking their escape from the lab. She tried focusing on her boss. "What are you doing here, Ted?"
"You're both all over the news. As soon as the first reports hit the wire, the production crew and I were on a plane to New Orleans. You know the old saying about someone having a nose for news? Well, honey, you've outdone yourself."
Cotten wanted to laugh, but she didn't have the energy. It was more like the story had chased her until it finally ran her over.
"Uncle Gus?"
"No sign," John said.
"No, there wouldn't be."
"It's all over, Cotten," he said.
"Thank God."
"Yes, you should do that."
The nurse came in and checked Cotten's vitals, rendering the room silent for a few minutes. When the nurse finished, Cotten directed her gaze back at John. "By the way, that was quite a tackle you threw on Uncle Gus," she said.
"I was saving it for the next student-faculty game, but it seemed like the right time to give it a shot."
"I ever tell you those eyes are wasted on a priest?" Cotten said.
Casselman thumped the bed rail with his knuckles. "What's up? Anything I should know about you two?"
"We're just good friends," Cotten said.
"This is one special lady," John said, speaking to Casselman, but his eyes on Cotten.
"That she is," Casselman agreed.
Cotten's expression turned somber. "What happened to Sinclair?" she asked.
Casselman pulled a chair to her bedside but didn't sit. "He didn't make it. There were about a dozen people injured, and four dead, so far. Sinclair was one of them. The whole deal is outrageous-what Sinclair was up to, stealing the Grail, the cloning. Then to top it off, they found that cardinal you interviewed at the Vatican-Ianucci- murdered right here in New Orl
eans. They're saying he's the one who switched the relic." He glanced at both of them. "Either of you know anything about that?" When they didn't respond, he went on. "That and the Sinclair story are on the front page of every paper in the country. And, my dear Ms. Stone, you are going to be the darling of every news broadcast and talk show. The world isn't going to be able to get enough of that beautiful face." He reached out and tweaked her chin almost like a relative would pinch a youngster's cheek. "I smell a Pulitzer on the horizon, Cotten, once you write the whole story."
She was only half listening to Casselman. "Are you all right?" she asked John.
"A few cuts and bruises," he said, shrugging. "You're the one who took the brunt of it."
"And the old man?"
"What old man?" Casselman asked.
John shook his head, casting his eyes to the floor.
"Who are you talking about?" Casselman asked.
"Someone we ran into on the way out," John said.
"Oh. Well, I'm sure we'll be getting a complete list of all those injured or killed. What was his name?"
"Son of the Dawn," she whispered, turning away.
"What?" Casselman said.
"It doesn't matter," Cotten answered. "Robert Wingate is involved in this, too," she said.
Casselman seemed to reel back on his heels. "No shit," he said. "Well then, listen to this. This has been a hell of a week. Monday morning Wingate was found dead in his car in the garage. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Looks like suicide. Guess the guy couldn't handle the scandal. Same day that he announced he was back in the presidential race, some kid came forward and accused him of child molestation. After that initial allegation, four other boys came forward. Seems Wingate had a fetish for young boys. That accounts for the boys' ranch. Always turns out to be little league coaches and scout leaders or priests-excuse me, John. No offense."
"None taken," John replied.