CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (33 page)

"Please, Charles. I'm one of you. My family has a long history."

"Then you know we sacrifice for the Order."

"But there is no need for sacrifice. Please, Charles."

The man was begging now, and it made Sinclair's stomach roil.
"Most unbecoming, Robert. Sit down and collect yourself."

Wingate stood behind a high back chair, his hands squeezing the
stainless steel frame at the top.

"Relax, Robert. Your future won't be so awful."

Wingate remained behind the chair.

"You've been loyal, and we do value that quality. Tell me where
you want to go. Belize? Barbados? Fiji? We'll see to it you're taken care
of."

Wingate tugged at his collar and straightened, like the last rally of
a terminally ill man. "I can pull this off ... even without you."

"But you won't."

"I don't need any more campaign money. The press loves me, so
I'll get all the coverage I want. Americans believe in me, they trust me,
and they'll take that straight into the voting booths next year in
November."

Sinclair forced a smile. "Are you sure you don't want to sit?" His
jaw muscles tightened, and his teeth clenched.

"What the fuck is with you, Charles? You know I can finish the
race and win. Come November, you'll see. I'll be President Elect
Robert Wingate. There's nothing you can do to stop me."

Sinclair folded his hands, his patience exhausted. "What about the
spray of roses?"

Wingate stared at Sinclair. "What roses?"

"The ones wilted on your grave, come November."

THE SUN HAD NOT yet stolen above the horizon as the '66 Chevy
pickup sped along U.S. 25 out of the mountains toward Greenville,
South Carolina. Cotten watched the bleak landscape rolling by. In the
headlights, the glare of snow patches shone like white islands in the
fallow brown fields and skeleton forests. Bare, bony tree branches
reached up and picked at the thick sky.

She felt a trickle of warm air on her legs, but not warm enough to
remove her coat. She wore one of Lilly Jones's long work dresses and
her herringbone wool jacket. The shoes fit better than the clothes, she
thought, as she glanced down at the simple brown lace-ups. Even the
dim light of the dash couldn't hide that they were sturdy work shoes,
but certainly more comfortable and practical than the heels she wore
everyday at SNN.

A semi-tractor trailer rig moved past, throwing up a shower of
grime. The pickup's worn-out wipers only smeared it across the
windshield.

"I know," John said, glancing quickly in Cotten's direction. "Needs
a new set of blades."

"That's not what I was thinking."

"Then what?"

"I was thinking how lucky I am.'

"To be sporting around in this fancy retro truck or donning that
Blue Ridge designer outfit?"

"Lucky I have you. Despite everything that's happened, you're still
here."

Another huge truck swept by, spraying more slush. John leaned
forward as if a few inches would improve visibility. "Nobody can say
you don't look on the bright side. Have I told you I'm a sucker for
adventure?"

"You'd have to be." He was trying to lighten up the situation, and
she appreciated his effort. "How we doing on gas?"

He checked the gauge. "We'll fill up in Hendersonville. There's a
Skyway Truck Stop there."

"Good. Then I can check my answering machine and call Uncle
Gus."

"It's Saturday." John looked at his watch in the headlights of a
passing truck. "And five thirty in the morning."

"Gus is a workaholic. He's up and at it before the dawn-Saturdays included. If he's not in the office, my call will be routed to his
house. We need to know if he's put together some connection with
those names on Thornton's list."

"Cotten, what if I get you out of the country? Maybe fly to someplace like Costa Rica."

"It's not just me anymore. They want you, too," Cotten said.
"Whatever they think I know, they must believe I have told you. We'll
never be safe, never have any peace until we unravel this whole mess."

They rode in silence for a while before John said, "There's the
Skyway."

As the endless parade of 18-wheelers swept by, John steered the
pickup into the truck stop's parking lot and pulled beside the first
available gas pump. "I'll fill up while you make your calls." He took
his wallet out and gave her a ten dollar bill.

Cotten slipped out of the truck and after getting change made her
way past shelves of junk food and soda cases to a line of public
phones. She called Gus.

Waiting for him to answer, Cotten dumped the rest of the money
in her pocket and looked back in the direction of the cashier. She
could see John beyond the front window in the glare of the service
center lights pumping gas.

A sleepy voice came on the line-a man, but not her uncle.
"Hello."

"Hi, this is Cotten Stone. Can I speak to Gus, please?"

The line was quiet for a moment. She already knew something
was wrong.

"Ms. Stone, my name is Michael Billings. I'm the operations manager for Ruby Investigations. I've had the calls forwarded to my
home."

"I've never heard my uncle mention your name."

"I just recently joined the agency."

"I need to speak to Gus right away." She hoped Gus was out of
town on business or taking a few days vacation.

Billings sniffed, obviously still trying to wake up. "Ms. Stone, I
hate to be the one to give you bad news, but I'm afraid your uncle was
in an accident last night."

Cotten sensed the all-too-familiar chill sweep through her body.
"Accident?"

"Driving home, his car ran off the road."

"Is he ... all right?"

Billings' long sigh sounded like air escaping from a punctured
tire. "It's pretty bad. What we know so far is that Gus suffered a severe
head injury, his liver is lacerated, and there's internal bleeding. He's
got some broken bones, but that's the least of it. Doctors won't speculate on his recovery, or if he recovers what kind of brain damage
there might be."

She wanted to scream. Everything she touched ... Yes, she had a
touch all right. Not a Midas touch, but the touch of a mortician.
Everyone she loved wound up dead. God, please don't let him die,
too, she thought. Raw rage built inside her. "How did it happen?"

"The road was icy. Apparently he lost control and ran off the
highway into the river. Because of the weather, there weren't many
people on the road, so the accident didn't get reported right away.
He's lucky he's even alive."

"He just ran off the road?"

"Apparently."

Cotten looked around the service center. It wasn't yet daylight,
and only a handful of truckers moved about, mostly filling large Styrofoam cups from the self-serve counter or shoving an egg `n' bacon
sandwich into the microwave. Her thoughts came like splinters that
brought needles of pain. Her life was coming unstitched, and all the
things that were good were spilling out and dying. How could these
people in the truck stop just go about their business slugging down
black coffee and eating Krispy Kremes while she was unraveling?
Their lives went on like long, flowing rivers while hers was tumbling
over cliffs-out of control.

"Ms. Stone? Are you still there? If there's anything-"

"No." Cotten hung up. "Gus had no fucking accident," she mumbled, gritting her teeth.

She braced herself, palms flat against the wall, her forehead resting on the phone, her body shaking. Pretty soon there would be no one left. They were getting to everyone around her and eliminating
them all, one by one.

She looked back toward the cashier and caught a glimpse of John
cleaning the pickup's windshield. He was all she had left. How long
before she lost him, too?

Digging into her pocket she pulled out quarters and dimes, picked
up the phone again, and dialed her apartment. In response to the
automated system's message, she successfully fed the phone a quarter,
but the second coin clanked in the return slot. She punched in another
quarter and hit the phone with the heel of her hand. The telephone
accepted the rest of her money, and in a moment she heard her
answering machine pick up.

"Hi, this is Cotten-"

After entering her retrieval code, she heard a synthetic voice say,
"You have two messages."

Beep.

"Cotten, this is Ted. It's imperative that you call me immediately.
Day or night. The authorities want to talk to you right away."

The synthetic voice announced the digital timestamp, "Thursday,
9:10 AM." Two days ago.

Beep.

"Ms. Stone?"

The voice was odd and muffled, disguised as if spoken through an
electronic distortion device. Cotten strained to hear, to understand.

"Please listen to me. I can save your life, yours and the priest's if
you do exactly what I tell you. I'm willing to give you the whole story
on the theft of the Grail and more ... much more. This is bigger than
you can possibly imagine. Follow my instructions and meet me where
I say. Here's what you must do."

Cotten pressed the phone harder to her ear and listened to the
remainder of the message. Then she heard the timestamp, "Saturday,
2:20 AM." Today.

Beep.

"End of messages. Press one to save or two to erase."

Cotten pushed the number two button on the phone then hung
up. She looked around suspiciously as she hurried to the front of the
store. Was anyone watching her? She threw open the doors and
sprinted across the parking lot. John had just climbed into the truck
when Cotten jerked open the passenger door.

"What's the matter?" he said. "Is everything all right?"

"They got to Gus. Get us out of here!"

"Where are we going?"

"New Orleans."

"THAT NAILS IT," JOHN said, withdrawing his card from the ATM. It
was midmorning as he and Cotten stood in the Greenville- Spartanburg International Airport.

"They've canceled your accounts, too," Cotten said, shaking her
head. "That means you're as much of a target as I am.' Her voice
trailed off. "John, I never intended-"

He pressed his fingertips to her lips. "I'm here because I want to
be."

"They're shutting us down."

"Not completely. I still have a trick or two." He motioned to a
bank of pay phones along a wall. "I've got an old friend who can
help."

"Archbishop Montiagro?"

"No, someone harder to connect to me. My rabbi friend I told
you about-Syd Bernstein. He can purchase the tickets at his end and
wire us some money. I've still got a little cash, but not enough to get
us very far. And with no credit cards, we'll have to pay cash. So don't expect the Marriott when we get to New Orleans. It'll be more like
the No-Tell Motel-pay by the hour in advance."

This brought a smile to Cotten's face. "And how would you know
about such things?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm a priest. The confessional-remember?
People tell me everything."

She grinned but then turned serious. "Can you trust your friend?"

"Completely.

"That's how Vanessa was for me."

There was a moment of awkward silence as John dug for pocket
change. He dropped quarters and dimes into the slot and dialed.

How wonderful it must be to have such a fertile life, she thought.
Hers seemed shallow and sterile in comparison. He was the only other
person besides Vanessa who added richness to the threadbare tapestry
of her life. Not even Thornton had done that.

She remembered a close friend from high school and how they
kept in touch for a couple of years after Cotten left home. But their
lives took on such different dimensions-Cotten in college studying
journalism, and her friend at home raising three children-that they
soon found little in common. Gradually their friendship came down
to a few scribbles on the inside of Christmas cards. John and his
friend managed to maintain a strong bond even though they lived in
different worlds. Cotten hadn't thought about it before, but she
regretted purging so much from her life. She could hardly complain
about winding up being so isolated when she was the one who had let
it happen. Self-inflicted wounds were the most painful.