Last Words

“How long will you be in New York?” Cotten Stone asked before taking a sip of coffee. She sat in a booth of her favorite deli on Broadway, a few blocks south of the world headquarters and studios of the Satellite News Network. Across from her was John Tyler, her closest friend, confidant, and the unfulfilled love of her life. In the eyes of the world, Cardinal John Tyler was the prelate of the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archeology. To a select few in the world of international espionage and security, John was the director of the Venatori, the ultra covert intelligence agency of the Vatican. To her, he was the man she could never have.

“Just a few days,” he answered. “Once I finish with the meetings here, 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 you are 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 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.