CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (28 page)

"Gotcha. Traveling does that. You get on up there and kick your
shoes off. Road's a little tricky, just take it slow and easy." Jones followed her onto the front porch. "When you leave here, go back the
way you came till you see a white sign with red letters that says Riverstone. That's the name of the Tyler place. Turn onto the dirt road.
That'll be north. It gets pretty steep, but keep on goin' up the mountain. Only cabin up there. The front light should be on. Get that fire
goin' soon as you get there and by the time you turn in, it'll be warm
and cozy."

"Thanks again, Mr. Jones," Cotten said, shaking his hand.

Cotten got the heater fan blowing on high and turned the rental
around, heading back toward the main highway. The sleet had
changed to a light snow. Soon, the Riverstone sign came into view.

Taking the narrow road, she heard the gravel crunched under her
tires as she headed up the incline.

The trees along the sides were thick, some barren and some evergreens. Mostly barren. Occasionally, slabs of bare rock became exposed
as the road cut back and forth, digging its way up the mountain. Near
the peak, the wind picked up and threw sheets of snow across her path.
Jones was right; it was steep. She had to gun the engine a number of
times. The tires spun in the dirt and skidded over patches of ice.

The cabin appeared hauntingly in her headlights. A yellow light
bulb on the front porch flickered like a faint beacon through the
falling snow.

Inside there was a light on over the sink in the small kitchen to the
right. A musty, closed-up smell met Cotten's nose as she went around
the cabin turning on lamps and lights. She found a six-pack of longneck Budweiser and a few cans of soda in the refrigerator, but not
much else. The cabinets held several Ball jars of home-canned vegetables and jams along with a few cans of pork and beans, mixed fruit,
and some spices.

After inspecting all the rooms, Cotten started a fire using the kindling she found in a basket beside the hearth-light wood her dad
used to call it. It didn't take long before she threw a log on and the fire
roared, sending warmth into the living room.

For dinner she had a pop-top can of fruit cocktail and a beer. Cotten plopped down on the bench of the trestle table. Great meal, she
thought, sipping the Budweiser.

Later, the wind picked up and she stoked the fire-sleet tapped on
the windows like nails. She thought of Thornton and Vanessa-her
ex-lover and her best friend.

Murdered.

Her life was imploding. John was the only one left she trusted.
And maybe she was putting his life in danger as well.

The old cabin moaned in the howling wind, and the trees outside
creaked like wooden ships in a gale. Lying on the couch, she watched
the fire until she fell asleep.

Cotten dreamed she heard music-its beat pounding louder than
the wind. There was laughter, too. Shouts and singing. She felt herself
shoved and pulled, caught up in a tide of bodies.

Suddenly, she smelled burning candles and incense. Praying
voices hummed like bees. She felt hot breath on her cheek; lips whispered in her ear.

Geh el crip ds adgt quasb. You are the only one who can stop-

Cotten bolted upright. Trying to drive the sleep from her head,
she raked back her hair and stared at the fire, now only glowing
embers. But something besides the old priestess's words had awakened her. A thump on the front porch.

Through the window she saw orange light from the cabin falling
onto the white snowdrifts. In the distance, snow banked against her
car.

Cotten inched open the door, and an arctic blast blustered its way
inside. In the pool of light from the open door, she saw faint footprints on the porch. Were they hers from hours ago or fresh prints?
Had they found her already?

Cotten slammed the door shut, securing the lock and chain. She
moved from window to window, checking the latches. Satisfied every
entrance was locked, she built up the fire until it crackled and popped
-drowning out the wail of the storm.

One by one, she turned off all the lights, then paced, peeking
through the drapes and blinds for signs of an intruder. But there was
only driven snow and swirling tree limbs in the darkness.

Cotten looked at her watch-three o'clock. The dawn would not
come too soon.

She found an old pistol and a box of cartridges on the top shelf of
a bedroom closet. After loading the gun, she returned to the couch
and sat with the weapon beside her, watching the door. Waiting.
Ready.

SINCLAIR SAT IN HIS private plantation estate video conference
room staring at the dark monitor screens long after the faces of the
Guardians had faded to black. He leaned back his head having grown
tired of the endless demands on him. Now that the final phase had
begun, he must appraise the Guardians on almost a daily basis. The
old man had to be kept pleased and satisfied-all the while meeting
the time schedule. Plus, Sinclair was the one responsible for the complex duties-all the way down from procuring the Cup to performing
the scientific tasks. Sometimes he thought his dedication to the project was not appreciated or respected enough.

Then there was that goddamn Wingate-Cotten Stone screw up.
What the hell was Wingate thinking hiring someone to assassinate
the woman? Wingate wasn't good under pressure-that was becoming clear. And he had a real problem following orders.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sinclair spotted Ben Gearhart.
"Come in."

"How did it go?" the attorney asked.

"Fine," Sinclair said, keeping his post-video conference thoughts
to himself. He swung his chair around and looked at the crest on the
wall behind his desk-the crest with the Croix Patee and the dog rose
bramble. "We're so close, Ben. All the planning-all our work is
about to pay off."

Gearhart nodded, but Sinclair could see there was something else
on his mind. "What is it?" he asked.

"Charles ... he's here. I saw him outside, on the lawn."

"Fuck." Sinclair closed his eyes and pressed two fingers hard
against his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose. He didn't need
this right now.

The old gentleman, his demeanor always composed and relaxed, sat
in a high-backed wicker chair in the gazebo.

"Good afternoon," Sinclair said. "You surprise me. I didn't know
you were coming." He stepped inside the gazebo. "I just finished
another video conference bringing the Guardians up to date."

"Technology is so incredible, Charles. It astounds me."

Sinclair edged to a bench and sat. He thought he knew what the
old man wanted to discuss. "The project is going well and on schedule," he said without being asked.

"That is a great relief. You see, Charles, I got the impression that
loose ends still weren't clipped. Those untidy things can be bothersome. Perhaps bothersome is a poor choice of words. Treacherous is
better."

Sinclair tugged at the knot in his tie. Suddenly, it felt as if there
were pressure on his larynx-a sensation not unlike someone's hands
around his throat, squeezing ever so softly.

"The good cardinal delivered the Cup just as planned," Sinclair
said. "Ianucci has performed perfectly, as predicted."

The old man's face was granite. "The Vatican knows he made the
switch."

Sinclair's gut contracted. "We knew they would figure that out.
But there has been nothing in the news."

"And there won't be. It would be too embarrassing for the Church
to admit that one of their own betrayed them. They will keep it quiet,
amongst themselves, and in the next several days I expect they will
announce Ianucci's retirement. And that is very fortunate for us."
Sinclair knew the old man was leading up to something by the tone of
his voice, the deliberate low volume, the expression on his face, the
suspenseful pause before speaking again.

"Attention to detail is so important," the old man said. "You know
that." The lines around his eyes crimped. "Don't lose sight of the cardinal, not for the smallest moment in time. And you must keep Stone
flushed out. You cannot let up. As soon as Ianucci's task is completed,
dispose of him."

Sinclair nodded as he glanced toward the river. It surged over anything in its way. "We've begun the work in the lab," he said, changing
the subject. "Maybe even a day ahead of the timeline. This is a delicate stage, and we won't rush it at the risk of making an error."

"Oh, I am sure the science is as it should be, Charles. You are the
best in the world-just the man to bring about our miracle, are you
not?" He paused a moment. "Perfection in everything, Charles. Nothing less will do."

The old man's eyes bored into the geneticist's. Sinclair recognized
the fury-he envisioned the flames of hell burning inside.

The grip on Sinclair's throat tightened.

"Now, tell me about the fiasco in Miami."

Sinclair shifted his weight and stretched his spine against the back
of the bench.

"Wingate," Sinclair said. "He decided he would take matters into
his own hands. He doesn't understand. He operates only on a needto-know basis. But I did tell him not to do anything to Stone, just give
her the interview, charm her, deny the blackmail issue."

Sinclair's stomach felt as if he had swallowed acid as the old man
stared at him. "Within an hour of his attempt on her life, we had her
immobilized. Her bank and credit card accounts were frozen. Stone
was cut off, contained. But her priest friend came to her rescue. When
she attempted to purchase an airline ticket to Asheville, we did some
background checking and found that his family has property in the
area. She's up there now. Arrived last night. We believe the priest is on
his way there."

"And?"

"She and the priest are on the run. We've kept the pressure on. It's
only a matter of time."

The elderly gentleman crossed his legs and turned to look at a
huge magnolia tree nearby. "I am anxious to see that in bloom, again,
Charles. Creamy white blossoms. Exquisite fragrance. One of the
more perfect creations, don't you think?" His focus returned to Sinclair. "You do open your windows to allow the scent to ride in on the
breeze, do you not? It would be a pity not to.'

"When it's in bloom," Sinclair said, wondering if this was yet
another of the old man's ramblings or-

"A perfect flower has no blemishes. Flawed blooms are an insult
to the eye. The horticulturist has no use for flowers with imperfections. He discards them without the slightest hesitation. Wingate is a
blemish. I'm sure you follow me."

A THUMPING SOUND JOLTED Cotten out of a light sleep. "Shit," she
whispered, snatching up the pistol and slipping across the room to
the side window.

She had watched and listened all night, sometimes her hand resting on the gun. When the first hint of dawn came, she'd relaxed
enough to doze off.

Now the pale light from the overcast morning seeped into the
room. Cotten inched back the curtain just enough to peer out.