CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (18 page)

"Do you consider yourself a first-rate reporter?"

"Yes."

"Well, I think we both are. The way I see it, we can help each
other."

"I'll tell you what I don't want. If this story breaks big and I'm on
it, I don't want to see you in the wings with that I'm a martyr expression plastered on your face. The one that says what a magnificent sacrifice the big guy made for the poor little upstart female reporter."

"That's not my intent, Cotten. Look, I'm telling you I'm overburdened, and you're already on top of this. But if you're going to be so
goddamn stubborn, then I'll ask Ted to give it to somebody else."

Cotten folded her arms. "Are you sure that's all there is to it? No
strings?"

Thornton plowed his fingers through his hair. "Jesus, why do you
always overanalyze? Sometimes you just need to jump on the horse
and enjoy the ride. For God's sake, can't you let me do something nice
for you without kicking me in the balls?" He leaned in close. "No
strings-cross my heart. So do you want it or not?"

"I want it," she said, trying hard to believe him.

Cotten sat in her apartment staring at the evening news on TVThornton looked good, as always, as he reported the latest developments from the multilateral military buildup in the Middle East. She
needed to call Gus and let him know she was the lead reporter on the
Wingate investigation now. As she reached for the phone, it rang,
startling her.

"Hello."

"Cotten, it's John. I'm just back from Rome."

She settled into the corner of the couch and pulled a throw pillow
onto her lap. "It's good to hear your voice. How was your flight?"

"I'm trying to adjust to the time difference."

The small talk made her uneasy. She wanted to say she missed
him, but reconsidered. "It usually takes a couple of days to get over
the jetlag," she said.

"Cotten ..."

"Yes?"

"I was thinking maybe we could get together-catch up on
things."

"I'd love that. I have some interesting things to tell you." She
closed her eyes and was suddenly back in Little Havana, the old
woman whispering in her ear.

"Really? What?"

"I'd rather not talk about it on the phone." She wished John were
here now.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"John, I know the Cup is thousands of miles away and out of my
life, but something happened a few days ago-I'm still a little
shaken."

"How about lunch tomorrow? I could come into the city and
meet you."

"Yes-wait." She thought for a moment. "I can't. I have a working
lunch scheduled with my news director."

There was a pause. "Well then, first chance we get...'

"Yes, first chance."

"So ... you take care."

"You, too."

She started to hang up but squeezed her eyes shut hoping he hadn't put the phone down yet. "Still there?" she asked.

"Yes."

"What about tonight? I mean, I know it's short notice, but-"

"Tonight would be great. I'll catch the train and be there in a few
hours."

Neither said anything for a moment. Cotten leaned her head back
on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter. You pick the place."

"Give me your address."

She told him the directions.

"I'll be there soon," he said before hanging up.

Cotten flung herself lengthwise on the sofa and pulled the throw
pillow over her face. She was afraid she was falling in love with a
priest.

"Want to come in first and have a drink?" Cotten asked. "Priests do
drink?"

"Very funny," John said, smiling as she let him in.

"That won't make it too much like a date, will it-if we have a
drink before going to dinner?"

"A drink would be perfect," he said, taking off his overcoat.

Cotten headed for the kitchen. "Sit, relax, and I'll tell you your
choices." She reached in the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Mike's
Hard Lemonade, a half-empty fifth of Captain Morgan's Rum, and a
rectangular bottle of Ballantine scotch-calling out each as she placed
them on the counter. "And I've got some Absolut;" she said opening
the freezer. "What would you like?"

"The Ballantine is fine-with water and ice."

"My dad liked scotch on holidays." She poured the whiskey into a
heavy tumbler and added some bottled water. "Most of the time he
just drank beer, but special occasions brought out the scotch."

She poured herself an Absolut over ice.

"There you go," she said, handing him the drink. Sitting in the
chair opposite the couch, she leaned forward and pushed a coaster
across the coffee table toward him. It was nice seeing him in street
clothes-a beige button-down shirt and a silk tie-its background
was shiny champagne with small earth-colored geometric designs. A
brown sport jacket matched his trousers. He could have stepped right
out of GQ and into her apartment.

He sipped his drink. "You look great."

"I was just thinking the same about you. Rome must agree with
you.

"I made a reservation at the Tavern on the Green," he said.

"Perfect. This is Dutch Treat."

"No, no. Not this time. I'm taking you to dinner."

"Then the next one is on me."

"We'll see." He took another sip. "You said on the phone that you
were still apprehensive about the Grail. Why?"

Cotten lifted the glass of vodka to her lips. She loved it right out
of the freezer-it turned from icy to warm and velvety on the way
down. "I was in Miami on a working vacation. My girlfriend and I
went out one night to a Cuban street festival. It's a bit of a long story,
but somehow I wound up alone in a weird religious ceremony or ritual-Voodoo, Santeria-something of that sort. Before I could leave,
this old woman, the priestess conducting the ritual, said the same
words to me that Archer did in the tomb in Iraq." Just thinking about
it made the hair at the nape of her neck prickle.

He leaned back as if in thought. "That is bizarre."

"How could either of them ... what does it mean?"

John shook his head. "I really don't know. Other than an amazing
coincidence, it doesn't make a lot of sense." He tugged an earlobe.

"This whole thing started when Archer gave me the Grail and said
I was the only one to stop the dawn, and now some freakin' black
magic woman has said the very same words." She took a big sip of the
Swedish vodka.

"At least you aren't still holding the Cup. It's half a world awaythat should give you some reassurance."

Cotten twirled her hair into a thick cord as she spoke. "It should
... but it doesn't. Somehow I get the feeling that it's not over yet.
And I don't even know what it is."

"I don't blame you for being upset. One would think there's a
message here, but I'm at a total loss at what it could be."

She gave up a smile. "At least you didn't ask me if I was sure about
what the woman said. Yes, I'd been drinking, but, John, I heard her
loud and clear. Yes, there was a lot of noise, but I didn't make it updidn't imagine it. You believe me, don't you?"

He placed his half-finished drink onto the table. "Tell you what.
Let's catch a cab and you tell me more about what happened on the
way to dinner. Maybe something will click."

Cotten smoothed her skirt over her knees. She was going to have
to reveal everything about Motnees-things she had never told anyone, not even her mother. "John," she finally made herself say, "there's
something else I have to tell you."

JOHN FINISHED HIS SCOTCH as Cotten continued.

"I hope you have an open mind," she started, "because if you even
remotely suspect I'm crazy, this will clinch it." She drained her Absolut. "Okay, here we go." Blowing out a breath, she said, "I was born a
twin-an identical twin. Fortunately, I was healthy, but my sister was
not so lucky. She had a heart defect and died right after we were born.
As I got older, one of my earliest memories was of an imaginary playmate-a girl. She was invisible to everyone, but as real to me as you
are right now. At night, especially when I was afraid, she'd come
through my window and hover in a corner of my bedroom near the
ceiling, and I'd feel safe. Other times she'd come and we would talk
until I finally fell asleep. We played together nearly everyday. I tried to
explain to my parents that she was real, but my mother ignored itmy father humored me, sometimes pretending as if he really believed
me. But no one took me seriously. She told me she was my twin. I
called her Motnees, though that wasn't my twin's given name. It was
just part of our make-believe world."

Cotten watched John's face. Seeing what appeared to be sincere
interest, she continued.

"Motnees and I had a language all our own. It wasn't something
that I spent time thinking about-it was just there from the startlike a second language that I was born with. My mother thought it
was gibberish and jokingly called it twin talk since I insisted Motness
was my sister. Actually, she was shocked I even knew that I had a twin.
She swore she had never told me. She believed I was too little to
understand. I've read articles about twin talk-idioglossia is the scientific term. It really exists. It's the language twins sometimes invent
to communicate with each other even before they speak the language
of those around them. Have you heard of that?"

"Sure. It's pretty well documented."

"When I was about four years old, I got sick. It started with an
earache, and my mother gave me aspirin for the pain. But it was more
than an earache; it was the flu. I got better, but two weeks later I
became violently ill. When the doctor examined me, he found that
my liver and spleen were enlarged. He asked Mama if she had given
me aspirin when I had the flu. When she said yes, he suspected Reyes
Syndrome. He had her take me straight to the hospital-pediatric
ICU.

"We later learned that every minute matters with Reyes-you go
downhill pretty fast. So when we got to the hospital they drew blood,
got an IV in me, and put me in a private room. In a couple of hours
we got the news that it wasn't Reyes. I got well enough to go home,
but over the next several months there were disturbing symptoms.
My spleen stayed enlarged, and tests indicated I was still sick, but the
doctors didn't know with what.

"One afternoon I rode my trike to the mailbox with my mother.
While she collected our mail from the box, I pedaled out into the
road. A pickup swerved to miss me. Mama heard the tires squeal, grabbed me up, and popped me on the thigh. It scared her and she
told me to never, ever go into the road again. That night, when she
dressed me for bed, she saw red blood blisters on my leg-blood right
at the surface of the skin-in the shape of her hand.

"Next morning she took me back to the doctor, and he asked her
how hard she'd hit me. Mama said hard enough for me to remember
not to go in the street again, but not hard enough to leave those
marks. He examined me, and my mother was certain he was looking
to see if I had been abused, but of course I hadn't. Then, a week or so
later, Mama had me in the tub, and this time she saw blood blisters
from under my armpits stretching to my back. She called Daddy in to
take a look. He told her how we'd been playing that afternoon and he
had picked me up under the arms and swung me in circles. The blisters were from his hands. Daddy was so distraught at the thought he
might have hurt me that he cried."