CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (25 page)

After the service ended, some of the network executives and managers gathered to offer their condolences to Cheryl Graham. Cotten
stood back and waited patiently in the biting cold wind and light snow until she saw Cheryl being escorted to the funeral home's limousine. Quickly, Cotten composed herself and rushed to catch up.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Cotten said, reaching out and lightly
touching Cheryl's arm.

"Thank you," Cheryl said, her expression blank, pulling her arm
away from Cotten's touch.

Thornton's father took Cheryl by the elbow and began again to
lead her to the car.

"Wait," Cotten said, stepping in front of them. "Could I possibly
call you sometime? It's important."

Cheryl glared at her before turning and walking away.

"What was that all about?" Ted Casselman asked, coming to Cotten's side.

"I'm hoping they sent Thornton's comp book back with him. I'd
like to take a look if Cheryl has it."

"What do you expect to find?"

"I'm not sure."

"Come on, Cotten. I know you better than that."

"It's cold," she said. "Let's get to the car."

They walked quietly to the Lincoln Town Car the network had
provided and climbed in the back. The driver steered it out of the
cemetery and back toward Manhattan.

"Talk to me," Casselman said.

Cotten hesitated, knowing she could be completely wrong.
"Thornton called me a couple of days ago. I didn't pick up. He'd
phoned before, trying to get us back together. I didn't want to go
through that again. But he left a message. I didn't listen to it until the
day you told us he was dead."

"What did he say?"

"He was on his cell and didn't have a good signal, but what I
could make out was a little upsetting."

"What do you mean?"

"Thornton said he'd stumbled across something and it scared
him."

"You're kidding. Nothing scared Thornton Graham. I've seen him
confront terrorists and the Mafia head-on."

"There was something about his voice-something different. He
said he was in contact with someone deep inside."

"Inside what?"

"That's a good question. I assume it had something to do with the
Vatican because of the stories he was covering."

"But he didn't say for sure?"

"No. It sounded like he didn't want to say too much on the
phone."

"What else?"

"He said he feared for his life, and I think he said something like `the
tip of the iceberg' and something about international connections."

"What do you really think?"

"Either it was some kind of pity-me head game he was playing to
get my attention, or he was really in danger." Cotten brushed the hair
from her face. "Now with his death, I'm thinking-"

"But it was a brain hemorrhage. Nothing suspicious."

"I know, I know. But it just doesn't sit right. There must be some
drug or poison that could cause it."

"You're right, and he was on it-warfarin ... Coumadin. Maybe
he had an aneurysm blow-he got excited over the project, his blood
pressure went up, the blood thinner kicked in, and there you have it.
You're not just feeling guilty about the breakup, are you?"

Cotten huffed out a frustrated breath. "Either way, I need to look
at his notes."

"Give Cheryl time-don't push her."

She frowned. "I'm not insensitive, Ted."

"I know you're not," he apologized. "Did Thornton say anything
else?"

"He said if something happens, he still loves me."

COTTEN WAS RELIEVED TO see John waiting for her in front of the
restaurant as her taxi pulled to the curb.

He took her hand and helped her out of the cab. Her icy fingers
welcomed his warm palm.

"You look a little ragged," he said. "Are you all right?"

Cotten straightened her skirt and fiddled with the collar of her
jacket. "I'm a mess. I can't get focused, can't sleep, can't work." She
looked at him as he opened the door to the restaurant. "To answer
your question, no, I guess I'm not all right."

They slipped into a booth in the back. "I know we've talked about
this for hours," Cotten said, "but I still don't think Thornton's death
was from natural causes." She pulled a scrunchy from her purse and
bound her hair at the base of her neck. A hank of hair didn't get
caught in the elastic, and it spilled down the right side of her face.
"Shit," she said, yanking the scrunchy free and starting over.

John watched as she collected herself. "Relax," he said.

Cotten forced a smile. "I should have picked up the phone when
he called. I keep thinking I might have been able to do something,
help him ... something. I don't know."

"He was a long way away, Cotten."

"It just doesn't make sense," she said. "Thornton was excellent at
what he did-probably the best investigative reporter in the business.
I've been thinking about the stories he was working on. Since there
was nothing unusual about how the pope died, whatever Thornton
stumbled upon had to be related to the theft of the Cup. It scared the
hell out of him. What if Thornton discovered who stole the Grail, and
the thieves were on to him-and he had reason to believe they would
kill him. The only thing that gnaws at my theory is who would want
the Cup that badly? Who would murder for it?"

John took one of her hands in both of his. "You aren't being rational. We've already discussed this. There's no evidence that Thornton
died of anything other than a brain hemorrhage. And you told me he
might have been overly dramatic in that phone message just to spark
your sympathy. He couldn't accept the fact that you weren't in love
with him anymore. You're torturing yourself with guilt."

"I'm not doing that, John. It was over, but I still cared about him.
You don't just uncare about someone who's been a part of your life
like that." She pulled her hand away. "I'm stable." I'm so frigging stable
I've been sitting here holding a goddamn priest's hand, and then I pulled
it away like a pouting lover. Jesus, Cotten, he's just trying to console you
and you act like an ungrateful ass.

"I don't doubt you;" John said. "I'm trying to help you work
through things, make sure you see them as they really are."

He withdrew his hands from the table, and she realized she was
sorry she had pulled hers away. For an instant she considered offering
hers, open as his had been, in the center of the table-but she didn't. Instead she fumbled with the scrunchy, again. "I'm telling you, I knew
him well enough to know there was something wrong."

John leaned back, his face serious and thoughtful. "All right, then,
let's try to make some sense of it. Who would want the Grail? Antiquities collectors. Black market dealers."

"But they couldn't sell it. It's not like they could auction it off on
eBay."

"Wouldn't have to. They'd already have a buyer lined up before
they did the job. No relic switching on speculation. Most likely the
thief would be paid a portion of his fee up front and would get the
rest on delivery. There are private collectors who'd think owning the
Holy Grail the ultimate prize. To them, money would be no object.
There are even those who will go to extensive means to fake an artifact, like the recent Ossuary of James hoax."

"But those kinds of people aren't murderers. They get off by owning a great work of art or in this case, a profoundly religious relic. It
doesn't fit."

"So who do you think fits the profile?" John asked. "Who would
kill to own the Grail?"

Charles Sinclair stared out the picture window. He was going to take
his time to make his point, he thought, looking past the gazebo and
the formal gardens, all the way to the river. "Sit down," he said to
Robert Wingate. He heard the soft leather of the chair give way as
Wingate sat. "The river never fails to hold me in awe-its sheer
power." Sinclair turned to face the man he had summoned.

Wingate shifted in the chair.

Hitching his chin toward the window, Sinclair said, "Ever think
about its power?" He stared at Wingate and thought perhaps he detected a nervous tick in the man's left eyelid. Sinclair moved behind
the large mahogany desk. "The river has one purpose, one goal. For
two thousand three hundred miles it courses, sometimes thundering,
sometimes only meandering, but always it flows-driven to carry out
its destiny. The current steadily washes over and drowns all obstacles.
When it reaches its destination, it empties itself, becoming one with
an even greater, more ominous power, the Gulf of Mexico. Oh, men
have sometimes thought they could harness it with locks and dams.
They've bridged it, they've navigated it, but it's never been controlled.
Dams burst, bridges wash out, ships sink, the land floods. All at the
river's whim."

Sinclair sat and leaned back in his chair. "The Guardians are like
the river, Robert. We have a destiny, a goal we have worked toward for
centuries. Nothing will be allowed to stop us. You understand that,
don't you?"

Wingate's eye twitched, and he rubbed it. "Of course."

"We've invested our financial resources in you and your counterparts in Europe and other parts of the world. Each of you plays an
important role in establishing our new world-the world as prophesied. There's a tremendous amount of money backing you, and more
importantly, our mission has been entrusted to you. We can't let anything get in our way. We are like the great river, Robert-we drown all
obstacles." Sinclair paused, drumming his thumb on the edge of the
desk.

"Absolutely," Wingate said.

"We've got a problem, Robert. And we can't afford problems, can't
tolerate them."

Wingate shook his head. "What problem?" His eyelid quivered,
and a small muscle beneath his eye seized. He drew his hand over his
face, bearing down on eye and cheek.

"This blackmail issue. It's attracted the attention of Cotten Stone.
She's not letting go-"

"She doesn't know anything. She's probing, looking for a weak
spot. Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

"She's digging up your skeletons, Robert. And she's done it in no
time at all. She's as good if not better than her dead boyfriend, don't
you think?"

"I told you, she doesn't know anything. I can handle it."

Sinclair took a pencil from a leather canister and twirled it on the
desk top. "And the skeleton she dug up, the blackmail matter-it's like
a pesky mosquito. You can't swat it away. You have to slap it ... dead.
And you know what? I don't think you've told me everything. You've
danced around the details several times, now."

"Because it's not important. I'm innocent. It's just some jerk out
there trying to cash in. His kid was in one of my youth camps a couple of years ago. Now the father claims I molested the boy and wants
money to keep quiet. He knows it's not true, but he figures I'm running for president and I'll pay to shut him up.'

11
Robert, Robert," Sinclair said, his voice oozing with southern
charm-patronizing. "It doesn't matter whether you are innocent or
guilty. The accusation will ruin you. You must be beyond reproach.
Stone's not going to let this tidbit slip past her. Before you know, it'll
be the lead story on the nightly news."

Wingate leaned forward, his hands rubbing his knees through the
wool trousers. "Just let me take care of it. It's not something the
Guardians need to worry about."

"It's our job to worry." Sinclair studied Wingate, wondering if
they had bet on the wrong horse. "Give Stone her interview and tell
her there's been a terrible misunderstanding-that there is no blackmail. Apologize for your previous rudeness and move on to the elec tion issues. In the meantime, we'll pay a generous sum to the boy's
father to make him go away."

"What if Stone doesn't believe me? Charles, I have friends who
could take care of her once and for all."

Sinclair felt the heat rising in his face. "Out of the question. Don't
do anything rash, Robert. Don't even think about it."