CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (9 page)

"I haven't talked with anyone in the family much since Mama
passed away," she said. "But this is a very pleasant surprise."

"It's a shame how younger family members drift apart as the
older generations pass on. Not just our family."

"I know. We really should keep in touch."

"And we will. Anything exciting in your life?"

Cotten thought of telling him about the box and Thornton, but
she was just too mentally exhausted to do it tonight. "Not really," she
said. "And you?"

"Business is booming. I think New Yorkers are becoming more
and more paranoid. Makes for the private eye business to go through
the ceiling. I've got more cases than I can handle."

"I'm so happy for you," she said. As Cotten talked, her eyes started
to wander from table to chair, TV to bookshelves and china cabinet,
realizing things were slightly out of place. Suddenly, fear, icier than
the Hudson River, coursed through her.

"Uncle Gus, I've got another call," she lied. "I'll talk to you soon."

She didn't wait to hear his goodbye as she gently placed the
receiver in its cradle. Taking a much slower, closer inspection of the
room, she saw that a small golden horse her mother had given her
faced the wrong way on the TV cabinet; the drawer of the end table was not pushed in all the way; the lid to the cedar chest wasn't closed
snugly; the books on the shelves rested at odd angles.

Quickly, she checked the other rooms. She didn't have much of
value-a few pieces of jewelry, a laptop, a cheap stereo. Nothing was
missing.

"Jesus," she said, running back to the kitchen. The box.

The frying pan and teapot sat just as she'd left them. She moved
them off the Hotpoint and gripped the stove lid. Pulling up, she
heard the clamps give way.

It was still there-the plain, black, featureless box. She eased the
stove lid back into place with a click.

Someone had been here, searched her apartment. If they were
looking for the box, they hadn't found it, which meant they would be
back.

Heart racing, Cotten hurried to her front door, checked the lock,
and put the guard chain in place. She leaned against the door and
looked around the living room.

In just a few short days they had found her.

Picking up the phone again, Cotten started to call the police. But
she hesitated, changing her mind. Let's consider this for a moment,
she thought. What exactly would she tell the cops? They'd ask questions, and she'd answer.

There was a break-in?

Yes.

Was the burglar still in the apartment when you arrived?

No.

Was anything stolen-missing?

No.

How do you know someone broke in?

Well, some of my things were messed up-out of place.

That's it?

Yes.

Are there signs of forced entry? Was the door jimmied, window
broken?

No.

So, if they didn't force their way in, they must have used a key.
Who else has a key?

My landlord.

Does he have permission to enter your apartment when you're
not at home?

Yes, he collects my mail while I'm away.

Do you trust him?

Yes.

Have you received any crank calls? Any threats?

No.

Can you think of anything in your possession that someone
would want to go to this much trouble to steal?

Well, there is the box.

What box?

The box I smuggled into the country illegally from Iraq. You
know, one of the Axis of Evil nations we're getting ready to bomb.

What's in the box?

I don't know; I can't open it.

Why?

It doesn't have a lid, hinges, or locks. It's sort of like a solid block
of wood.

But you think there's something of value in this featureless box
even though you can't open it?

Yes, I think it contains the most treasured relic in the entire Christian world-the single most sought-after item in the past two thousand years-nothing less than the famous, Holy fucking Grail.

Wow, that's impressive. Ms. Stone, are you under a doctor's care
or taking any kind of medication? Perhaps you're depressed? Lonely?
Having boyfriend problems?

Actually, I had a boyfriend problem just this very evening-

"Shit! Fuck!" Cotten slammed down the receiver. How utterly
ridiculous! The police wouldn't stop laughing for a week. She felt the
tears forming as she put her face in her hands. The frustration turned
to fear. She had to find out what the hell was going on. She had to do
something.

Leaning over, she slid her purse out from underneath her coat and
pulled the business card from her wallet. Cotten picked up the phone
and dialed.

AT 1:00 A.M. JOHN TYLER stood gazing out his kitchen window while
he waited for Cotten Stone. A full moon turned the frozen lake
beyond the apartment complex into a dull gray slab dotted with small
pearly patches of snow. The bare maple trees cast bony shadows across
the hard ground. It was a Currier and Ives picture. The view made him
reflect on how often he thought of himself as a blank canvas. The yetto-be-created painting was a metaphor for his life. There had to be
more, something that would fill this chasm inside. He'd already tried
his hand at so many ways to serve God, but none had brought him
peace with himself. What was it that God had planned for him? Years
of introspection and searching had not answered that question. If
God intended for him to live his life as it was now, he would feel satisfied, content, fulfilled.

But he didn't.

John watched the road for headlights. Cotten Stone should arrive
any minute if she left right after they had spoken on the phone. And
what a strange conversation that had been-her voice urgent as she
asked to see him right away, saying that it couldn't wait until morning. Her apartment had been broken into, but she didn't call the police.
She'd explain when she got there.

He stared at the brittle landscape, curious as to what could be so
important that she had to see him at this time of night. Something
about her behavior kept her on his mind after she'd left his office.
She'd seemed afraid-as if she hid something. Cotten had fidgeted,
crossed and uncrossed her legs as she spoke, and tripped over her
words. Odd behavior for a professional reporter.

A knock made him look away from the window.

For the hundredth time since she boarded the train, Cotten asked
herself if she should have waited until the morning. She could have
just left her apartment, gone to a hotel, and then called him in the
morning. But it was too late for that now. She stood on his doorstep
hugging a large leather bag.

"Come in," John said, answering the door.

She stepped past him into his living room.

"Let me take your coat."

She unwound the scarf from her neck. "I know you probably
think I'm crazy coming here in the middle of the night like this," she
said as John helped her slip out of the coat. She hung on to the bag
protectively as she moved about the room, slowly warming up.

"Impressive collection," Cotten said, gazing around.

His shelves were lined with artifacts: pottery shards, drawings,
maps, ancient tools, a few brown bones. More shelves filled with
books-some old and worn, some new-covered one wall. There were
numerous photos of him at archaeological digs; a few in the desert and
others in forested mountains. And in a silver frame on the desk was a
picture of John alongside other men of the cloth in the company of
the pope.

Cotten lifted the photo. "You met the pope?"

"I was in Rome helping a forensic team in relic authentication.
Cardinal Antonio Ianucci-he's the Vatican Curator and Director of
Art and Antiquities-stopped by to chat and check on our progress.
During a break, he gave us a tour of the three Vatican restoration
departments-tapestries, paintings, sculptures. As we entered one of
the halls, Ianucci said he had a surprise for us. About a half dozen
clergy were coming out of a door at the end of the hall. In the middle
of the group was the Holy Father. We were stunned. When they got
close, they stopped. He blessed us, a camera flashed, then lanucci ushered us back to our work area. If you consider that meeting him, then
I did."

"Still, it must have been exciting."

"It was."

Cotten went to the couch and sat silently, twirling a silver bracelet
around her wrist. "I guess you're waiting patiently for me to get to the
point so you'll know why I rushed here at this ungodly hour."

John pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. "You sounded rattled
on the phone. You mentioned a break-in."

"Well, sort of. They got in, but I don't know how. Still, I'm sure
somebody was there. I'd been out, and when I came home and looked
around, it occurred to me that lots of my things had been moved,
shifted, examined.

"Did you call the police?"

Cotten cleared her throat and tossed her hair. "No, I didn't report
it. Although I'm positive of what happened, there's no way I can prove
it-the police would never have believed me. Nothing was stolen."

John leaned forward and laced his fingers together between his
knees.

Before he could speak, Cotten said, "I think whoever broke in was
looking for this." She opened the leather bag and removed the box.
She held it for a moment, almost unwilling to let it go.

"May I?" he asked, reaching out.

"Sorry," she said, realizing she had not offered it to him.

After rolling it over and studying each side and surface, John asked,
"Where did you get it?"

It took several minutes for her to explain how it came into her possession, how she had smuggled it through Customs, how she couldn't
open it, and how she had hidden it in her kitchen stove.

"That's quite a story," John said. He rubbed his forehead as if deep
in thought. "And I'm sorry to hear Archer is dead. Despite his quirkiness, he was a brilliant man. I liked him."

"Do you have any idea what this thing is?" Cotten looked over at
the box in John's lap.

"I think so," he said, examining it again. "I believe it's a medieval
puzzle cube. They were very popular among rich Europeans during
the Middle Ages. I've only seen a few before-I think I have a book
here someplace that has a chapter explaining how to open them."

"What do you think is inside?"

He shook it gently. "Usually, they held a prize or a toy, maybe jewelry or game pieces. I've heard some contained additional puzzle
cubes-a box within a box. They were mostly to entertain aristocrats.
There were several designs and each type opened in a totally different
manner.

Her eyes widened. "Dr. Archer regarded it as something special.
He told me two things before he died. The first was a series of numbers and a name-twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, Matthew.
Then Archer said something about me being the only one who could
stop the sun, the dawn."

"That would be quite a trick, wouldn't it?" John smiled. "From
what you say, I suppose Archer wasn't thinking clearly. Scrambled
thoughts. Delusional."

Cotten balked. No, Archer hadn't been delusional. He knew precisely the words to get her attention. Geh el crip. You are the only one.
She didn't want to have to get into that or John might really think her
out of her mind.

"But the numbers," Cotten said. "I looked them up in the Bible.
It's from the Gospel of St. Matthew."

"And He took the Cup ..." John turned the cube in his hands.
"Those words are repeated around the world everyday at Mass.
They're the words Jesus used at the Last Supper when He established
the sacrament of the Eucharist."

"From what you've told me, Archer was convinced he knew the
location of the Cup from the Last Supper. Do you think that's what
could be in the box? I mean there must be something of value inside.
I don't think someone would be willing to murder for an empty box.
And then track me down..."

"Are you sure the two events are connected?"

"You think I'm delusional, too?"

"On the contrary." His voice rang sincere, not patronizing. "I
didn't mean to sound like I don't believe you. You've had a lot of traumatic things happen. Your reactions are perfectly understandable. By
linking the events you are trying to make sense of it."

There were a few moments of silence. John had been kind
enough, she thought, but he didn't seem to detect the same significance she did. And he certainly wasn't suspicious that anything as
valuable as the Holy Grail rested inside the box. Maybe the break-in
and the box weren't related at all. But there was the tape....

"There's one more thing. I think I accidentally left a videotape in
the crypt. My face is all over the footage, and the fact that I work for
SNN."

"Or you might just as easily have lost it somewhere else. You said
you had emptied one of your bags earlier while you were alone in the
desert."

"I hope you're right, but I have a sickening feeling I left it in the
chamber."