CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (32 page)

Reflections from the fire revealed shadows of two men, hazy silhouettes, standing in the distance along the tree line watching the
cabin burn. About thirty yards away sat John and Cotten's rental cars.
To reach them they would have to cross in front of the men.

"We can't get to the cars," she whispered.

"We don't need to," John said.

"JONES!" JOHN POUNDED ON the farmhouse door while he supported Cotten with his other arm. "Open up, Jones!"

Cotten's teeth chattered as she desperately hugged the torn robe
to her. The ends of her fingers had at first tingled, but now were
numb. And she hadn't felt her toes in the last five minutes.

John rapped on the door again just as the front porch light
flashed on.

"Who is it? What's going on out there?" The voice was aged and
shaky.

"Jones, it's John Tyler. We need help."

"John?" The door cracked open and Clarence Jones peered
through. "What the-" The old man's mouth gaped as he looked at
them. "Blankets. I'll get some blankets."

John carried Cotten to the couch and began vigorously rubbing
her hands and feet.

"Here;" Jones said, dumping the blankets beside them. "Let me get
you some hot chocolate." He headed for the kitchen.

"I'll never be warm again," she said, her voice rattling, her body
shivering.

John threw both blankets on Cotten, then sat next to her. He lifted
her feet onto his lap, blew his breath in his hands, and put them
around her right foot. "Any life coming back to these toes?"

"Slowly," she said, curling her body and leaning her head on the
arm of the couch.

All she could think of was the horrific flight from the cellar, then
down the side of the mountain. Because she had no shoes, John carried her when possible-running, stopping to rest, lifting her,
trekking over the rocky ledges that dropped in back of the cabin
toward the creek far below, through the darkness, dodging boulders
and jagged outcrops of stone, sliding over iced rocks and into fallen
trees. Every time they stopped and she tried to stand on the frozen
earth, her feet burned as if ablaze.

Fleeing down the mountain, John had retraced a route memorized from hundreds of childhood journeys. He told her not to worry,
that he knew the side of the mountain well enough to maneuver
down blindfolded.

As she tried to gather her thoughts, Cotten strained a weak smile,
watching John wrap her like a mummy in the thick blankets, tucking
the cover especially snug around her feet.

After giving his visitors steaming mugs of Swiss Miss, Jones got a
cup for himself and sat in his rocker near the fire. "Now that you folks
are warmin' up, you gonna tell me what the hell happened?"

Cotten glanced at John.

"The cabin caught fire," John said. "We barely made it out. Electrical problem, I think."

Jones rocked, sipping his hot chocolate. "My God." He stroked a
weathered hand across a stubbled face. "And you and the lady here
ran down the mountain to my place?" He sipped again, staring at the fire, then turned to them. "Hmm. Seems it would've been easier to
drive." He covered his mouth and coughed. "Don't mean to be prying. See, not much excitement happens 'round here, so ..."

John let out a long breath and moved Cotten's feet from his lap.
He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "I can't explain it
all to you, Clarence. I would if I could. Let me just say that Cotten is
in real danger. I thought she'd be safe at the cabin, but I was wrong.
The fire was a deliberate attempt on her life."

"What?" Jones's eyes grew large.

"Arson," Cotten said. "Two men set the fire. Then they stood by
and watched the cabin burn. We couldn't get to the cars without
them seeing us. Hopefully, they think we're dead."

Jones scrunched up his face, obviously shocked. "Let's get the
chief on the horn." The old man pushed down on the rocker's arms to
get out of the chair. "Police ought to get up there right away if they're
gonna nab-"

"No," Cotten blurted. "Nobody can know where we are. We've got
to get out of here, first." She explained how her credit cards were canceled, and how John arranged for her to fly to Asheville. "We thought
it would be safe. But they still tracked me down. We can't trust anyone. Not even the police. Not yet. Once the authorities trace our cars,
they'll know soon enough that we were there."

Jones dropped back into the chair. "What are you gonna do? How
can I help?"

"We need to borrow your truck, if we can," John said. "And we're
going to need some clothes for Cotten. Then we'll drive down to
Greenville. So you can find it easy enough, I'll leave the truck at Bob
Jones University, in the parking lot of the university's museum. I hate
to do this to you, Clarence, but you'll have to find a way to get it back
on your own.

"I can do that." He laughed. "But I could drive you m'self."

"We don't want you to risk your life, John said. "If they catch up
with us, we don't want you in the middle. Will borrowing your truck
be too much trouble?"

"No, sir, no trouble. Got the old Buick out back anyway, case of
emergencies. Bob Jones, huh? Isn't that a coincidence ... or coin-
keedink as my Lilly used to say?" He blew across the surface of the hot
chocolate before taking another sip.

"What made you think of the university museum?" Cotten asked.

"I know the museum. I've been there. It's got one of the most
highly recognized religious art collections in America. Dolci, Rubens,
Rembrandt, Titian, VanDyck. And it seems like an easy place for
Clarence."

"Who'd have thought-Rembrandt in Greenville, South Carolina?" Cotten said.

John smiled. "We can catch a flight from there."

"How? My cards are no good. Yours probably aren't either."

"I'll try to make a withdrawal from an ATM. If there's a problem
with my card, we'll know they're tracking me, too. And if that's the
case, I'll get in touch with a friend back in White Plains. He'll wire
enough cash for us to fly out of the country, maybe Mexico or South
America."

Jones rocked back. "Gotta call the fire department. There's nobody
up by your place to report it. Even if there was, they'd be sleeping. The
whole mountain might catch if the fire's as bad as you say. Save for the
recent snow, it's been mighty dry."

"But you've got to wait until we're gone;" John said.

"They'll ask you how you knew about the fire, Mr. Jones," Cotten
said. "It's three-thirty in the morning-not like you were out taking a
stroll."

Jones thought a minute. "How 'bout I tell 'em I got an anonymous call. They'll ask me why this anonymous fella didn't call them direct, and I'll say I was wondering the same thing. Thought it kinda
funny myself, is what I'll say. That'll get 'em thinking something's
fishy, too. They'll start looking for who did it, and maybe get them
bad folks off your tail.'

"But they could think you started the fire," Cotten said. "We don't
want to cause any problems for you. Heaven knows I've already-"

"Shoot, we all know each other up here. This isn't the big city.
Most of us grew up together. Everybody knows everybody and everybody's business. Sometimes that's bad. Most of the time that's good."
Jones used a forward rock of the chair to boost himself to his feet.
"Give me a minute and I'll get some clothes for you, little lady." He
studied Cotten for a second. "You're on the skinny side. Lilly was a tad
heftier. She didn't like that word. Nope, she preferred fluffy." He took
two steps then stopped. "Isn't that a silly expression? But she liked it."
He nodded. "I'll give you one of her belts to cinch up the waist.
Height's 'bout right, though. But I don't know how the shoes will do.'
He continued the conversation more to himself than John and Cotten as he left the room.

"They're going to find us, you know," Cotten said. "We'll have to
use our real names and ID to buy airline tickets. It doesn't matter
where we go. They'll trace us. And then they'll kill us, John. Both of
us.

CHARLES SINCLAIR WAS PATIENT, letting Robert Wingate fume. He
watched Wingate, knowing the man was about to come undone. As
Grand Master, Sinclair's decisions were final. It didn't matter what
Wingate said now.

The camera tracked Wingate as he paced the floor of the videoconference room in Sinclair's plantation estate, shaking his head,
wringing his hands-moving in panicked animation. From the wall
of monitors, every Guardian's face glared at their presidential candidate.

"But I've explained to you," Wingate said, "there is nothing to the
accusation. Yes, the kid went to one of my youth camps, but I never
touched him, or any other child for that matter. Never even met him.
The father is a scam artist and sees a fast way to make a buck. Anybody in the public eye is subject to this kind of thing by the low-life
out there. The world is filled with their type-vultures. It happens all
the time." He panned the room, looking first at Sinclair and then the
monitors. "Come on. This is nothing new to men of your stature. Just
pick up any supermarket tabloid and look at the cover." Except for the tapping of the soles of his shoes on the marble floor as he paced and
his heavy breathing, the only response was silence. Obviously frustrated, Wingate thrust up his arms. "What else do you want from
me?"

Sinclair spoke in a calm, quiet tone. "Your statement will be that
you've decided to drop out of the race for health reasons. You've
recently learned that you have a serious kidney condition with resulting debilitating anemia, compounded by high blood pressure. We'll
arrange for medical confirmation. You and your family made the
decision together that you would not continue to pursue the presidency. You love your wife and family and want to spend more time
with them. You appreciate all the support you've received. Public
sympathy will pour in. The people will embrace you and then tearfully send you off to live a stress-free life somewhere out of the limelight. No questions. The press will also handle you compassionately.
After all, you're such a young man to be so ill. And in the fickle American way, they'll forget about you in a couple of months and move on
to our next choice."

Wingate stood with a stunned expression. "Charles, you can't ask
me to drop out. I've made a good run so far. Everything is working
and-"

"No, that's the thing, Robert-it isn't working. The blackmail
issue will always be an albatross, a millstone that gets heavier and
heavier."

"But I didn't do-"

"I told you, when dealing with an allegation of child molestation,
it doesn't matter whether the accusation is factual or not-once it's
made public, it becomes embedded in the subconscious-a blemish
that can't be removed."

"Nobody knows about the blackmail except that Stone woman.
You said you know where she's hiding and you're going to take care of
her. That means there's not going to be any-"

"She's no longer your concern. You were told not to take any
action-not to do something rash. But you did. And it's created a
mess we have to clean up. We can't risk the bomb being linked to
you.

"But I made sure it couldn't be connected to-"

"You're an amateur, Robert. You should have left these matters to
us. It's taken valuable resources to cover your sloppy trail. Besides,
there are things about the Stone woman you don't know." Sinclair
started to explain further but realized it would make no difference. "I
want you out of the public eye where there's less of a chance anyone
will dig deep enough to unearth your ties to that ... fiasco. As of now,
your political career is officially over. You've become a liability."

"But you need me," Wingate said. "Have you seen the latest polls?
I'm way out in front. And it's not just your political machinations
that have done that. I've fucking charmed and captivated the American public. Even the press."

Sinclair's eyes performed a long, exaggerated blink. "Charisma,
like talk, is cheap. Do you know how many charismatic men are out
there who would jump at the chance to run for the presidency of the
United States with the unlimited backing we could give them? And of
course from your own personal experience, you do know how easy it
is to launch a political career from out of nowhere-with the proper
support."