have seen
something in the crypt. Like I said, Gearhart is on it."
"You know who she is?" the old man asked.
"Her name is Cotten Stone."
The old man rocked back. "Stone," he repeated, then nodded
slowly as if coming to an understanding. "You know, Charles, perhaps it is time to give you some additional assistance." He turned to Sinclair. "I have an old friend who can help."
Sinclair fought back a sigh. "It will all be done as you've requested.
There's no need to involve anyone else."
The old man patted Sinclair's leg. "Just to be on the safe side. After
all, you never know . . ." He turned back toward the front of the
church in silence, seeming to signal that the conversation was over.
Sinclair stood and moved to the aisle. Out of habit, he genuflected
and made the sign of the cross before walking to the back of the
church. Pushing open the door to leave, he turned and stared at the
crucifix suspended over the marble altar. Shards of sunlight struck it
in an almost surreal way. He could clearly see Christ's head sagging to
the side-tired, weary, encircled by an askew crown of thorns.
A gust of cold wind blew through the door, whirling leaves inside
and making Sinclair pull his topcoat closer to his neck as he headed
toward the waiting limousine.
INTRUDER
COTTEN STONE ENTERED HER apartment, thankful to be out of the
New York winter. She was exhausted, not only from the concerns
brought on by her meeting with John Tyler and the mystery of the
box, but knowing the time spent away from Thornton had not healed
her heart. Seeing him again brought back emotions she had hoped
were cold and dead.
Cotten stripped off her heavy coat and scarf and unloaded her
small bag of groceries. The apartment was chilly, and she turned up
the thermostat, hearing the familiar thump as the gas heater kicked
on.
She rubbed her arms for warmth while thinking about Tyler.
She'd become more and more unnerved in his office, realizing as he
described Archer's theory that she'd been in the crypt, seen the Crusader's bones ... held the box. Tyler must believe her to be completely
crazy-and ungrateful. She practically ran out of his office after saying she had all the information she needed. How embarrassing. And
John was so polite, even offering to answer more questions.
Thornton crept into her thoughts.
Thornton.
Just letting herself get so deeply involved with him was another in
a long line of stupid mistakes. Not only was he married, his face was a
household fixture in millions of homes around the country. It would
have been hard to pick someone with a higher profile to jump into
bed with.
And of course there was the box. Another mistake. She should
have left it in the crypt. But wasn't that what she'd done most of her
life-run away from problems, decisions, relationships-hoping they
would disappear?
They never did.
Before putting the cold cuts in the refrigerator, she made a sandwich, then wandered back into the living room to watch the news.
That's when she spotted the blinking light on her answering machine.
There were three messages. She sat on the sofa, pressed play, and bit
down on the ham sandwich.
Beep.
"Cotten? It's Ted. I got your message that you weren't coming
back in today. Are you all right? Why did you leave the edit? What's
going on? Call me."
Beep.
"Cotten, it's Ted again. They've just about finished your piece, but
there's a tape missing. What should they do? We're running it tomorrow night. If I don't hear from you I'll tell the editor to use some
stock cover shots. Call me as soon as you can."
Beep.
"Hi."
Thornton's voice.
Pause.
"I really need to talk to you. I know you think it's over, but it's not.
We weren't just having an affair. I love you. And I know you love me.
Please, Cotten, we've got to talk."
Pause.
"Can't we just meet for dinner? That's all I want. Just to talk. Call
me back. I love you."
The sound of his voice had made her stomach tighten-the
something in the crypt. Like I said, Gearhart is on it."
"You know who she is?" the old man asked.
"Her name is Cotten Stone."
The old man rocked back. "Stone," he repeated, then nodded
slowly as if coming to an understanding. "You know, Charles, perhaps it is time to give you some additional assistance." He turned to Sinclair. "I have an old friend who can help."
Sinclair fought back a sigh. "It will all be done as you've requested.
There's no need to involve anyone else."
The old man patted Sinclair's leg. "Just to be on the safe side. After
all, you never know . . ." He turned back toward the front of the
church in silence, seeming to signal that the conversation was over.
Sinclair stood and moved to the aisle. Out of habit, he genuflected
and made the sign of the cross before walking to the back of the
church. Pushing open the door to leave, he turned and stared at the
crucifix suspended over the marble altar. Shards of sunlight struck it
in an almost surreal way. He could clearly see Christ's head sagging to
the side-tired, weary, encircled by an askew crown of thorns.
A gust of cold wind blew through the door, whirling leaves inside
and making Sinclair pull his topcoat closer to his neck as he headed
toward the waiting limousine.
INTRUDER
COTTEN STONE ENTERED HER apartment, thankful to be out of the
New York winter. She was exhausted, not only from the concerns
brought on by her meeting with John Tyler and the mystery of the
box, but knowing the time spent away from Thornton had not healed
her heart. Seeing him again brought back emotions she had hoped
were cold and dead.
Cotten stripped off her heavy coat and scarf and unloaded her
small bag of groceries. The apartment was chilly, and she turned up
the thermostat, hearing the familiar thump as the gas heater kicked
on.
She rubbed her arms for warmth while thinking about Tyler.
She'd become more and more unnerved in his office, realizing as he
described Archer's theory that she'd been in the crypt, seen the Crusader's bones ... held the box. Tyler must believe her to be completely
crazy-and ungrateful. She practically ran out of his office after saying she had all the information she needed. How embarrassing. And
John was so polite, even offering to answer more questions.
Thornton crept into her thoughts.
Thornton.
Just letting herself get so deeply involved with him was another in
a long line of stupid mistakes. Not only was he married, his face was a
household fixture in millions of homes around the country. It would
have been hard to pick someone with a higher profile to jump into
bed with.
And of course there was the box. Another mistake. She should
have left it in the crypt. But wasn't that what she'd done most of her
life-run away from problems, decisions, relationships-hoping they
would disappear?
They never did.
Before putting the cold cuts in the refrigerator, she made a sandwich, then wandered back into the living room to watch the news.
That's when she spotted the blinking light on her answering machine.
There were three messages. She sat on the sofa, pressed play, and bit
down on the ham sandwich.
Beep.
"Cotten? It's Ted. I got your message that you weren't coming
back in today. Are you all right? Why did you leave the edit? What's
going on? Call me."
Beep.
"Cotten, it's Ted again. They've just about finished your piece, but
there's a tape missing. What should they do? We're running it tomorrow night. If I don't hear from you I'll tell the editor to use some
stock cover shots. Call me as soon as you can."
Beep.
"Hi."
Thornton's voice.
Pause.
"I really need to talk to you. I know you think it's over, but it's not.
We weren't just having an affair. I love you. And I know you love me.
Please, Cotten, we've got to talk."
Pause.
"Can't we just meet for dinner? That's all I want. Just to talk. Call
me back. I love you."
The sound of his voice had made her stomach tighten-the
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