CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (6 page)

"Good, that almost guarantees higher ratings." He stood. "Come
on, I'll walk with you to your edit." He put his arm around her shoulders, leading her to the door. "You gave me many a sleepless night,
young lady. But you also showed spunk. A scrapper. I like that. Now, I
want to see what I got for my extra gray hairs."

"You won't be disappointed, Ted." Cotten liked Casselman and
respected him. She regretted making him worry so much about her.
And he was the one who could boost her up two rungs at a time on
the career ladder.

They entered Edit B. The room was dark except for the soft glow
from the wall of monitors and banks of electronic controls.

"I made copies of the script and my notes," she said, handing Casselman and the editor a file folder each. "We can record a scratch
track to edit to for now, and get a staff announcer in later." She smiled
at the assistant editor. "We're going to need some cuts from the stock
music library-lots of drama, dark, powerful stuff. Oh, and some
ethnic cuts. Middle Eastern." Then Cotten unloaded the carryall bag.
All the videocassettes were numbered, and she stacked them in order.

"Oh, shit," she said. She unstacked the tapes, reading every label
again.

"What's wrong?" Casselman looked up from the script.

"I've..."

He laid the papers down. "Cotten?"

"You're going to have to start without me," she said.

COTTEN THREW OPEN THE door to her apartment and ran to the
bedroom. She remembered sitting on her bed last night, unpacking
the carryall and taking out the box. That was the only time the missing videocassette could have fallen out. On her hands and knees she
lifted the dust ruffle and looked under the bed.

Not there.

She sat up and combed her fingers through her hair, scanning the
rest of the worn rug that covered most of her bedroom floor. She
hadn't opened the carryall during the bus ride across Turkey, and it
was checked from Ankara to London. And on the flight home she'd
have seen the tape if it had fallen to the floor of the jet's cramped
lavatory. That only left ...

The crypt.

But she had been certain she'd gathered all her things, all the
tapes, yet she had rushed to catch the truck ... and it was pitch black.

"Just great," Cotten said. Not only were the tapes labeled, she was
the principal reporter on every one. And how many times had she said her name and mentioned SNN? It wouldn't take a genius to connect the tape to her, and her to the box.

Maybe the Arab worked alone, just an antiquities thief. Maybe
with the chaos of the military activity in the region, no one went
looking for him or Archer. Maybe no one had found the tape because
the dig site was abandoned.

Maybe.

She sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands. If someone else
wanted that box, they'd go looking for Archer's excavation, realize the
artifact wasn't there-and know someone had taken it. Guess who?
The girl on the videotape. She might as well have spray painted her
name and address in big fat letters on the wall of the chamber.

The phone rang, and Cotten jumped. "Hello," she said. "Yes, that's
right. I was trying to get in touch with Dr. John Tyler."

She listened for a moment, then reached in the nightstand and
took out a pencil and pad. "I really appreciate you getting back to
me." She wrote St. Thomas College. White Plains, NY. "Thanks," she
said, and hung up.

White Plains was only about an hour north of the city. She'd find
Tyler and see what he knew about Archer and his latest excavation.

Cotten went to the kitchen and moved the kettle and frying pan
off the stove, lifted the range top, and stared at the box. Did it hold
the Cup from the Last Supper-the Holy Grail? And why had Archer
told her she was the only one who could stop the sun, the dawn?

Geh el crip. Geh el crip. You are the only one.

The words tolled inside her head as loud as any steeple bells. She
had to find out everything about this Gabriel Archer.

The classic Greek architecture of St. Thomas College nestled snugly
among oaks and sycamores. The day was cold and crisp, sunlight
glaring off swatches of snow on the brown ground. A handful of students moved across the bare winter campus.

Cotten climbed the worn marble steps to the large wooden double doors. A bronze plaque read Established, January 1922. Inside, the
room had narrow, paned windows that rose from six inches above the
floor to the high ceiling. The dark oak planks creaked as she
approached the receptionist.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked.

"I'm looking for Dr. John Tyler."

"I don't know if he's here today. It's Founders' Day, and there
aren't any classes."

"Would you mind checking?"

"Sure." The woman ran her finger down a laminated list before
picking up the phone. "I'll ring his office."

Cotten looked around. Shadows huddled in the corners of the
room. The place smelled old and musty. She rubbed her nose thinking she might sneeze. The cushions of the Queen Anne chairs sagged
from generations of student bodies. A picture of the pope hung over
a faded fabric couch. In the center of the room, behind the receptionist's desk, stood a statue of the Virgin Mary, the winter sun
streaming in from the eastern window highlighting her head. Dust
motes swirled in the beam as if they had life. Cotten wondered if the
statue had been placed there because of the light or if it was a coincidence. Whether by accident or not, the pale glow made the sculpture
ethereal.

"There's no answer," the woman said. "I'm sorry."

Cotten took a business card from her purse. "Could you-"

"Oh," the receptionist said, standing. "I completely forgot about
the student-faculty football game." She checked the time on her watch. "I believe Dr. Tyler is playing. If you hurry, you might catch
him."

She led Cotten outside and pointed in the direction of the athletic
field.

Cotten followed the receptionist's directions, crossing the Commons, passing the chapel, and finally winding down a path between
the dorms and the gym. She heard the shouts of a small crowd as she
approached the football field.

A bleacher, peppered with fifty or so people, bordered a section
on the south side of the field. The wooden uprights were old, in the
shape of an H instead of the squared-off Y.

Cotten climbed into the stands and sat next to a man with a
neatly cropped goatee and mustache. She hugged herself for warmth
and asked him, "Do you know which one is Dr. Tyler?"

Wrapped in a blanket, the man lifted his arm from underneath,
nodding toward the field. "That's John throwing the pass. You're just
in time for the last play." He rose to his feet and yelled, "Go! Go!"

The receiver caught the ball, but was quickly overrun, disappearing under a mound of players. The student team and their fans
whooped and hollered in celebration.

The man sighed. "Best team the faculty has put together in a long
time, even if we did lose." With the plaid blanket gathered around his
shoulders, he stood and crabbed down the bleachers, easing carefully
over each row of seats.

Tyler was the first of the faculty to congratulate the students. Cotten couldn't hear what they were saying, but there was a lot of laughter-camaraderie that men always seemed to share in their games.
Competition brought out the best in men, she thought ... and the
worst in women.

She climbed down from the stands and approached Tyler. He was
tall-perhaps six feet, crowned by thick black hair. There was a slight quirk to the corner of his mouth-as if he knew a secret he was not
about to reveal. His tanned skin was a result of exposure at many
archaeological digs, she assumed. Even through his sweats, she
detected a tautness to his body-a solid look of being in good shape.

"Dr. Tyler?" she said.

He looked up and dropped his hand from a player's shoulder.
"Yes?"

His eyes were the deepest blue she'd ever seen, nearly navy except
when they caught the sun-even more remarkable in person than on
the videotape in the archives.

"My name is Cotten Stone, and I work for SNN. If you have a
moment, I'd like to talk to you."

She extended her hand and found his grip polite but firm.

John turned to one of his teammates. "You guys go ahead. Order
me a Sam Adams."

"I don't want to interrupt your plans, Dr. Tyler," she said.

"It's fine. They'll be celebrating at O'Grady's all afternoon. More
than enough time for me to catch up."

A gust of wind blew Cotten's hair in her face. Her nose tingled
from the cold, and she knew it must be red.

"You look like you could use a cup of something hot-coffee
maybe?"

"That would be wonderful," she said.

In his office, John took her coat and hung it on a hook just inside the
door.

Cotten sat in an under-stuffed, wood-frame chair. "So, are you
always the quarterback?"

"Actually, since it's my first year here, I got thrown into the job.
That way, they can blame the new guy if the faculty loses. I'm sure I
won't hear the end of it. I warned everyone in advance that their
grades could be affected by the outcome, but it didn't seem to help.
Now let me get you that cup of coffee. I've only got instant though."

"That'll be fine," she said.

He flashed a smile and moved to a makeshift kitchenette that was
partially set off from the rest of the room by a bookcase.

John filled the cups with tap water, then stuck them in the microwave
and set the timer. As the microwave thrummed away, he wondered
about the pretty young woman sitting in his office. What would bring
her looking for him? Why wouldn't she have phoned instead of coming all the way up here?

After he'd fixed the coffee he placed a piping hot cup of Folgers in
front of Cotten, then handed her the sugar bowl.

John watched her heap in two heavy-laden spoonfuls, stir, then
add another half spoon. She looked nervous, like she was keeping a
tight hold on something-like she might explode at any moment.
Guarded was a good description.

She looked up and said, "I know, too much sugar. Sugar and
Dutch chocolate are my weaknesses."

"Just two vices?" John said. "If only I could be so fortunate." He
sat and sipped his coffee, giving her time to grow comfortable.

Cotten glanced around at the shelves that were chock-full of
books. "Quite a collection."

"Most belonged to my predecessor. But they do make for interesting reading.' He set his cup down and said, "So, Ms. Stone-"

"Please, just Cotten." She picked up one of his business cards.
"You even give out your cell phone number? That's pretty trusting and generous." She put the card in her wallet. "And should I call you,
Doctor, or Reverend, or Father?"

"How about John?" She appeared to be trying so hard to be
proper. Maybe conversing with a priest made her uneasy, he thought.
"I have enough students calling me doctor, and I'm currently on a
leave-of-absence from the priesthood. So Father is optional."