The 731 Legacy (2 page)

"Just a few days," he answered. "Once I finish with the meetings here,

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I'm taking a quick side trip to Washington to visit with the President. I'll fly back to Rome from there. Did I ever tell you how far back he and I go? Way before he became a politician, Steve Brennan actually entertained the idea of becoming a priest. We were pretty good friends in our early twenties."

"You mentioned knowing him, but I didn't realize your friendship let you drop in on the White House whenever you want."

"It's a lot easier as director of the Venatori than before."

Cotten watched a group of French-speaking tourists wander in, looking for a table. "Then while you're here we might be able to squeeze in some time to catch up. I mean I don't want to interrupt your schedule or anything. I just thought..."

"There's no way you could be interrupting. I've looked forward to this trip especially because I thought we could spend a little time together. You're good for me, Cotten Stone."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "How do you always do that—

make me feel like I'm the first thing on your mind?" She set her cup down.

"Wait, don't answer. I don't want an explanation. It might take the magic out of it."

"Magic, huh? Is that what it is?"

"Yep. Nobody else in my entire life has ever made me feel that I was special like you do."

"Well, maybe I make you feel that way because youare a special lady."

"Damn," she said, wrapping her hands around the cup.

"What?" John said.

"You know exactly what. The priest thing."

He reached across and took her hands in his. "But we've learned to deal with it."

He was right. But it didn't stop her wishing. She tilted her head. "Know what else?"

"No. What?" he said.

"Those red robes cardinals wear aren't all that flattering. I like you better like this, in a polo shirt and jeans."

"It's casual Friday at the Vatican," John said with a chuckle. "I've got a meeting later this afternoon, but I thought we could have dinner—"

Cotten's cell rang.Bad timing. "Hold that thought." Groping in her purse, she dug the phone out and flipped it open. "Cotten Stone."

She listened for a minute before snapping the phone closed. Plowing her fingers though her hair, she said, "Never fails. It just doesn't work out for us, does it? I've been called back to SNN. Some guy just staggered into the lobby and collapsed. Says he needs to talk to me." She gathered up her purse, and as she slipped out of the booth, she said, "John, I'm so sorry. I told them to only call me in an emergency. They said I'd better get there right away, the guy's in pretty bad shape."

"No problem. I'll settle up here and give you a call later. So, maybe

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dinner?"

"That would be perfect." Cotten paused next to him. "It's so good to be with you, John Tyler. But it wasn't long enough. You promise to call me later?"

"You bet," he said.

"Now let me go find out why some guy's dying to see me."

***

Cotten barreled through the Satellite News Network's revolving doors. A crowd of SNN employees had gathered around a man lying on the floor.

News director, Ted Casselman, Cotten's boss, mentor, and friend, ushered her through the group.

"Who is he?" she asked, catching the first glimpse of the man.

"No idea," Ted said. "Security says he's got no ID."

"Has he said anything?"

"Not a word since he asked for you. Ambulance is on its way."

Cotten glared down at the man sprawled on the floor. "What's the matter with him? Jesus, he looks so—"

"Stone." The raspy voice was barely heard over the commotion in the lobby.

Cotten started to kneel, but Ted tugged on her arm. "Don't get too close. We have no idea what's wrong with him."

An SNN cameraman suddenly appeared. "Okay?" he asked Ted.

Ted gave his consent with a nod. "I'm going to get this on tape," he told Cotten.

The cameraman moved closer, flipped on the camera-mounted floodlight, and focused.

The man muttered a few words, followed by a flow of frothy blood foaming from his mouth.

"I didn't understand you," Cotten said, ignoring Ted and going to her knees.

The fast-approaching sound of sirens heralded the arrival of NYC Fire and Rescue.

The man tried to speak, with no success. Cotten lifted his head. He coughed, and crimson-lined bubbles swelled and burst out his nostrils. A thin thread of glistening red mucous dangled from his bottom lip.

She heard the sirens build to a crescendo before suddenly going quiet on the street outside. "What did you say?" she asked him.

"Step aside! Move back!" shouted security from the direction of the lobby doors as the paramedics rushed toward her.

Cotten bent close to the man's face. His glazed-over eyes finally found their target and latched on to hers. "Tell me," Cotten said.

"Black Needles," he barely mumbled before closing his eyes.

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DOA

After the excitement settled down, employees began filing out of the SNN

lobby to return to work. Through the glass doors, Cotten and Ted watched the medics load the sick man into the ambulance.

"What did he say to you?" Ted asked.

Cotten threaded her tea-colored hair behind one ear and shrugged. "He was delirious. Mumbled something about dirty needles, I think. Probably a junkie."

"We need to reevaluate our building's security procedures," Ted said, looking over his shoulder at maintenance cleaning up the area where the man had collapsed. He and Cotten walked across the marble floor inlaid with the gold satellite dish and SNN world globe logo. Entering the elevators, Ted pushed the eighth-floor button. "How's John?"

"He's great. In town for meetings with some people from the FBI and the State Department." She watched the digital floor indicator click off the levels as the elevator climbed to the eighth floor where the network had its news department, video edit suites, and archives.

Cotten shifted her gaze to Ted's reflection in the polished bronze walls of the elevator, thinking how much she appreciated and respected him. The gray around his temples was becoming more pronounced, and she knew a great deal of it was her doing. He was a handsome black man, with a face etched with strength and eyes filled with a sparkle that always inspired her and the rest of his staff. He was a constant source of unequivocal support—in the best and worst times of her career. And she'd had her share of major screwups. But when she did, Ted was there to remind her that it was okay to make mistakes, just not to make them again. His recent second heart attack forced him to slow down his work schedule and Cotten worried about him, but Ted didn't like anyone fussing over him. Even with the health issues, he still made a strong, commanding figure as news director.

"It's hard for you, isn't it?" he said to her reflection in the bronze.

"What?"

"John coming in and out of your life."

"It's that obvious?" Cotten looked away.

"Want my typical fatherly advice?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Enjoy the time you have together. After my close calls with the Grim Reaper, I've learned to live in the moment, not in the next one. Everything else is a waste of time."

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened.

Ted put his arm around Cotten's shoulders and gave a comforting hug.

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"Live in the moment," he said, then let her exit first. "We've had enough excitement for one day, kiddo."

"You're right. That guy was pretty sick. Hope he makes it." She glanced around the newsroom at the reporters and editors moving like bees in a hive.

"Talk to you later, Ted."

He waved as they parted, and Cotten headed for her office. But something kept nagging like an unscratchable itch; why had the guy in the lobby asked for her?

***

Late that afternoon, a young intern fresh out of journalism school came to Cotten's door. "Here's the first draft of the Shroud of Turin piece, Ms. Stone."

"Thanks." She motioned the girl in. "Do me a favor."

"Sure. I'd be glad to."

"You heard about the commotion in the lobby earlier?"

"Yeah. Poor guy."

"See if you can find out which hospital they transported him to and the status of his condition."

"Do you have his name?"

Cotten shook her head. "He had no ID."

"Okay, I'll see what I can come up with." She spun on her heels and scurried away.

Cotten glanced at her phone for the umpteenth time, just in case the message light was blinking and John had called while she was on the line. She swiveled her chair and peered out her window at Central Park West. This was her favorite time of year, particularly with the leaves turning and the brisk air she enjoyed during her walk to work each morning. Only when the elements would become unbearable later in the season did she give up her sidewalk commute and take a cab.

She scanned the Shroud story—a report of a new test on pollen traces found in the Shroud of Turin. The pollen was identified as a type of thistle plant calledGundelia tournefortii which was thought to have been used to fashion the Crown of Thorns worn by Jesus Christ at the Crucifixion. The plant is found primarily in Israel, around Jerusalem.

After reading the script, Cotten wrotepossible second segment across the top. She hosted a weekly science-and religion-based program called Relics that explored the facts and myths of ancient objects. This might make a good filler piece, she thought. Her prime story for the next show was the debunking of the bones thought to belong to Joan of Arc.

She did some line edits on the Shroud story, then a little more research on the Internet. But no matter what she tried to do to distract herself, two things remained on her mind for the rest of the afternoon—John Tyler and the man in the lobby.

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She assumed John's meeting had run long, and was about to pack it in for the day when there came a knock. The new intern stood in her doorway. "Come in. Have a seat."

The girl smiled broadly.

"What's up?" Cotten asked.

After hesitating, she said, "I don't want this to come off sounding like a major suck-up, Ms. Stone, but I just needed to say what an honor it is to be able to work with you."

"Well, thank you," Cotten said. "You just made my day. And please, call me Cotten."

The girl smiled again and dropped into a chair. "Did you know we studied you in broadcasting? There's an elective on how ancient religious objects have changed our lives. It's a lot about the impact of your reporting work. When I found out SNN had accepted me into the internship program, I hoped I would just get to meet you, much less work with you."

"You're awfully sweet, and I appreciate the kind words. We work as a team at SNN, and it's only with everyone giving their all that we make those worthy accomplishments happen."

"Well, I'm just proud to be a part of it."

"So, what did you find out about our mystery man?"

The intern stared at the paper in her hand. "I followed the story right up to a dead end. I can't believe it's the first assignment you give me, and I couldn't..." She looked at Cotten. "I hope you won't be too disappointed in me."

"Give me what you've got."

She unfolded the paper and handed it to Cotten. "He died en route to the hospital. The name of the ER physician I spoke to is on there."

"Did they determine cause of death?"

"The doctor said that they brought the guy in, but there was some kind of mix-up. Somebody released the body to a mortuary before the coroner picked it up to do the autopsy."

Cotten rolled her eyes. "How does this happen? Typical of the right hand not knowing, blah, blah, blah. Incompetence at its best. I guess they'll get it straight in the end. So, where did they take the body? You can follow up with the mortuary."

"That's just it. Nobody could find the documentation identifying the funeral home."

DEVIL'S DEATH PING

Luther Sutton stared out the farmhouse window at the grave markers where generations of Suttons rested atop a distant crest. Two hundred fifty-five acres of land in the middle of West Virginia had been in the family for over a hundred years. At the age of sixty-three, he was the eldest of Big Thelma's

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brood. And as such, he had ambled up to the graveyard yesterday morning and checked out her spot. A long time ago, she'd laid claim to the space beside Hubert, her husband for over forty years.

"All the good plots is taken," she said to Luther when they put Hubert in the ground. "Them first Suttons was buried under the trees when the roots was small. Can't dig under 'em now. Oh well, Hubert liked the sun. Hated the winter, he did. Sweat didn't bother him like it does me."

The thought of laying his mother to rest without benefit of shade made his bottom lip quiver.Gotta plant a goddamn tree, he thought. It wouldn't be right for her to suffer eternally just because

Papa tolerated the heat. Course in the winter, it would be a different story. And they had some mean West Virginia winters.

Turning away from the window and memories of his father's passing, Luther's stare returned to the front room where twelve other Suttons had gathered at his request. His step-daddy, Daniel, sat in the corner whittling. Daniel was a good man, but had lost his mind over the last few years. Dementia, the doctors called it. Sometimes Daniel knew where he was and who his family members were, but most often he was no different than a stranger.

Luther sat on a chair near the window and stroked his gray beard before taking out his watch from the pocket of his flannel shirt. He dangled it by the chain before palming it to see the time. "Guess Mary couldn't make it," he said, referring to one of his sisters. "She's been feeling down in her back lately."

He returned the watch to his pocket, rested both hands on top of his cane, and propped it between his legs. He took another visual assessment of all those present before rapping the cane on the wood floor. The sound had the effect of a courtroom gavel.

"I've called this meeting cause of being the oldest child of Big Thelma. Mother is tired now and says she wants to go home to her Maker. I know it makes us all full of sorrow, but she's a good woman and has led a long life. She'll be rewarded in Heaven. She's wanting to say her goodbyes and—"