Montaro Caine A Novel

Epilogue




THE BABY WAS HEALTHY—EIGHT AND A HALF POUNDS, WITH HIS mother’s trusting brown eyes and just a hint of his father’s suspicious smile. His parents had named him Luther John Walker—a tribute to the strange, gifted orphan who had helped to bring them together. Now, a boy named Luther John would have a last name and would grow up knowing who his parents were. Luther John Walker’s hearing had been checked, his breathing was normal, and he already knew how to nurse from his mother. As he lay in Whitney Walker’s arms, the boy’s little fists were clenched tightly, but nothing was inside them.

Matthew Perch stood in the conference room of Howard Mozelle’s clinic, the two coins still in his pocket wrapped in gauze. Mozelle had just given Whitney and her baby one last checkup before their trip back home to Georgia and was handing Franklyn a list of pediatricians in Atlanta. Anna Hilburn was finishing the day’s paperwork and preparing to shut down the office for the evening. Still seated around Mozelle’s conference table were Elsen, Montaro, Kritzman, Colette, and also Julius Hargrove and Gordon Whitcombe.

This would probably be the last time that all of these people would be gathered together in the same room. Later that night, Franklyn, Whitney, and their baby—with Dr. Mozelle’s permission—would be flying back home to Atlanta on a private jet provided by Caine. In the morning, Kritzman and Colette would board a plane to Buenos Aires to see Colette’s mother, after which they would travel back home to Switzerland. Montaro was due back home in Westport. And soon, Matthew Perch would be leaving too, although his destination was unknown to the others.

The details had not yet been worked out, but the basic framework for an arrangement had been agreed upon by all parties—the coins would be entrusted to a foundation whose board would include Montaro, the Walkers, the Mozelles, Kritzman Fritzbrauner and his daughter, as well as Richard Davis, Verna Fontaine, and Roland Gabler. Tom Lund would help to oversee the foundation’s finances. Fitzer Corporation would provide the seed money for the foundation’s initial endeavors. On Montaro’s insistence, his friend Larry Buchanan would serve on the foundation board as well. However, if the foundation decided to develop and exploit the knowledge contained within the coins, the money gained from any endeavor would be used to support science and education. The agreement had not been easy to reach—Roland Gabler and Verna Fontaine had both argued that board members should receive greater compensation for their participation; Julius Hargrove had advised his clients to take more time before arriving at their decision. But Fritzbrauner had been firm and, eventually, everyone had come around to his idea of accepting the agreement both for the good of humanity and for that of their own egos. For Davis and Gabler, especially, the idea of being remembered for generations to come as men who had helped to develop the properties of the coins ultimately proved to be more important than the idea of owning the coins or profiting from them.

Now, with an open hand and a solemn expression, Perch passed the gauze-wrapped package to Franklyn, who passed it to his wife.

“Here,” Perch said. “Here are the objects that brought all of us together.”

Whitney gently unfolded the layers of gauze. As she stared at the coins for the first time, her lips quivered, and her eyes moistened. She made as if to speak but remained silent. She passed the coins to her husband, who likewise remained speechless as his tears began to flow. The Walkers couldn’t say for certain what impressed them more—the beauty of the craftsmanship that had gone into the smattering of stars that appeared on the faces of each coin, the fact that two and a half decades ago their hands had been as small as their son’s were now and had clutched these very coins, or the understanding that these coins had brought the two of them together. Whitney handed the coins to Colette, while her father peered over her shoulder.

As father and daughter looked at the coins, they knew that in addition to the mystical tale of their arrival, the coins had demonstrated other great powers; they had brought Kritzman and Colette closer together. Colette looked to Matthew Perch, who nodded at the Walkers, and Colette handed the coins back to Franklyn.

“We’re entrusting these to you,” Franklyn said to Montaro.

But as Franklyn held his hand out to Montaro, Perch shook his head. “Keep them with you,” he told Franklyn. “They will find their proper destination when it is time.” Franklyn covered the coins with the gauze and placed them in his pocket. Perch nodded his approval.

Matthew Perch seemed as though he was getting ready to leave. He was gazing at the office door, or perhaps through that door to the world that lay beyond it. But before he could leave, Kritzman Fritzbrauner spoke.

“May I offer just a few words of thanks before you go, Mr. Perch?” Fritzbrauner asked.

Perch nodded.

“I don’t really know who you are, or where you come from,” said Fritzbrauner. “We met only a few days ago. But from what I’ve seen of you, I’m glad to have met you. You’re a gentleman, the likes of which I’ve seldom seen. Somehow, you have taught me more about myself than just about anyone else ever has.

“Who are we?” Fritzbrauner asked, looking around as if to search the faces of the others in the room. “Who am I? I have always thought that I was hot stuff. I now realize I’m not.” He pointed a finger at Perch. “You are hot stuff,” he said. “That old black man Luther, he was hot stuff. He took with him to his grave a history of two worlds—one we know, the other so technologically advanced that we still can’t comprehend it. What he knows will lie with him forever. What remains is still contained in the carving he made for Montaro.

“I admit that at first I didn’t get it,” Fritzbrauner said. “It’s taken me this long to sense that something monumental has been happening. It’s all around us, right in front of us. You, Mr. Perch, have opened my eyes. Being here with you feels like the beginning of the end of a monstrous darkness. I agree with Montaro. If we can all work together, despite our egos and our greed, despite whatever faults we might have, we may be able to see our way through the darkness to the light. Our journey may often feel like the steps of a baby being led to a place it does not understand. But if our choices are good and our motives are pure, we may trust that we will be led to the right place.”

He reached for his daughter’s hand and grasped it tightly. Colette smiled, and Matthew Perch offered a slight smile as well. Perch then gently placed a hand on Fritzbrauner’s shoulder.

“You are right, of course,” Perch said. “You do not know all the answers you seek to know yet; you shouldn’t expect to. But you are beginning to ask the right questions, and that is what is most important. Too often, questions take the shape of one’s doubts, and those doubts strive to weaken the better selves inside of us. Only by the constant strengthening of our better selves can we win against those doubts. There are doorways everywhere, leading everywhere. Let your better selves guide you and, who knows, one day, somewhere in a place far away, in this world or another, we may meet again.”

Matthew Perch then turned to Montaro. “Allow me to tell you that, in my opinion, your company will heal and revitalize itself until it stands, once again, as strong as ever it did,” he said. “Mind you, this will not happen without challenges, both for yourself and for your family. But if you trust your instincts, if you trust the paths that your father and grandfather and those before them made for you, you will see your way through.”

Hargrove and Fritzbrauner each made as if to speak, but Perch held out his hand.

“Now, I truly must go,” said Perch, “But all of you, remember that when the passage of time commingles with worthy efforts, the universe never fails to take notice and reward you in ways you are seldom aware of. If you remember nothing else, remember this.”

Moments later, Matthew Perch was gone.



A glorious night was falling and the skies were clear as Montaro Caine stood in front of Howard Mozelle’s clinic, waiting for the parking lot attendant to bring him his car. He had said good-bye to Kritzman Fritzbrauner and to Colette; he had wished the Walkers good luck, and he had told the rest of the members of the soon-to-be-formed foundation board that they would all be in touch, once Julius Hargrove and Gordon Whitcombe had worked out the details.

The worst of the after-work traffic had passed, and Montaro was anticipating a quick ride back to Westport. He was eager to get home to Cecilia and Priscilla—though he knew that he had had good reasons for spending as much time away from them as he had of late, he regretted all the nights he had spent alone at his apartment in The Carlyle. Yet he was a stronger man now—he was no longer a man of restless, sleepless nights, for whom a strong drink helped keep his terrors at bay. For all the time he had spent away from Cecilia and Priscilla, these two women would be granted a more thoughtful and considerate husband and father; in some way, the coins could be credited for creating this small miracle too.

Montaro had been standing alone on Park Avenue for some minutes when he heard the sound of a car slowing as it approached him. He reached for his money clip so that he could pay the garage attendant when he realized that this wasn’t his car; it was a newer model Mercedes, navy blue, not black. Montaro was surprised when the Mercedes pulled up alongside him. The two passenger-side doors opened, and from the car emerged Carlos Wallace and Alan Rothman. The men wore ties and dark suits that almost seemed to match each other’s; if Montaro had not known these men, he might have mistaken them for federal agents.

“Good evening,” Montaro said warily as the men nodded at him, then shook his hand. Rothman stood close to Montaro, while Wallace stood in front of the rear door of the car, blocking Montaro’s view of what was inside. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We’re here to offer our congratulations,” said Rothman. “We’ve heard all about the foundation. It sounds like a worthy endeavor.” But from Rothman and Wallace’s stiff postures and pained smiles, Montaro knew that they had not sought him out in the spirit of cooperation.

“Thank you,” Montaro said, then waited for the men to reveal their purpose.

“We understand that everything has been settled,” said Rothman. “At least as far as the coins are concerned.” He took a breath. “Business at Fitzer is, of course, another matter.”

“I think you’re mistaken there,” said Montaro. “I’ve been meeting with your colleagues and your representatives. I’ve spoken with Davis, Hargrove, and everyone else. And at this point, I believe that everyone’s needs have been satisfied.”

“Perhaps. But we also have needs, and they have not been satisfied,” said Rothman. “I do wish you luck with your foundation. But if your plan is to remain at the helm of Fitzer, that might not happen quite so easily. There could be complications.”

Montaro’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly what sort of complications are you referring to?” he asked.

Rothman stared directly into Montaro’s eyes. “Put it this way,” he said. “Certain information has come to our attention that might make it difficult for you to maintain your position.”

“Really,” Montaro said. “And where does this information come from?”

At this point, Carlos Wallace moved aside to reveal a person sitting in the backseat of the Mercedes.

Rothman opened the car door. “Step out here a minute, Nick,” he said.

Nick Corcell was wearing a good suit and gleaming black shoes; apparently, he was being paid well. He looked cocky as he got out of the car.

Montaro felt his anxieties returning. Rothman did not need to say anything more for Montaro to understand what he and Wallace had in mind. This wasn’t the end of the Fitzer story, far from it; Montaro had already known that this would be true even before Matthew Perch had told him that great challenges lay ahead. How often had P. L. Caine taught his grandson that there would always be hard times, and that a man had to stand up to them no matter what? The way forward wouldn’t be any easier than the way here had been. Rothman and Wallace wouldn’t give up their quest for power, and surely, Cordiss Krinkle and Victor Lambert wouldn’t either. Most probably, Rothman and Wallace were planning to blackmail Montaro into resigning; they knew that he had used his influence so that the Stockbridge Police Department would stop pursuing charges against his daughter. And once again Montaro would be forced to weigh the importance of his career against the importance of his family, the public concerns he faced at his job against the private ones he faced at home.

As Montaro searched for the right words to speak, he felt a slight vibration inside the pocket of his sport jacket, and that vibration eased his doubts. He knew, without even needing to open the model of the Seventh Ship that Luther John Doe had carved, that the coins were once again inside it; they had arrived at their chosen destination. Many years ago, Perch had prophesised that someday the “son” would hold the coins. Not until this moment did Montaro understand that he was the son of whom Perch had been speaking, and that the coins would be in his care.

When Montaro’s Mercedes emerged from the garage and the attendant stepped out from the driver’s side of the car, Montaro stared Rothman and then Wallace straight in the eye. And then, remembering something, he smiled.

“You know,” Montaro said, “a man who is far more intelligent than you or I can ever hope to be once told me that in order to see who a man truly is, you need to look him in the eye. Looking in your eyes, I can see exactly what you men are. I should feel hate for what you would like to do to me and to my family, but in my heart, I have only pity.”

“Pity?” Rothman asked sneering.

“Yes. Pity,” said Caine. “Over these past few months, I’ve learned that there are multitudes of worlds beyond our own. I feel sorry that you will never be able to see beyond this one.”

“Is that some kind of threat?” asked Rothman.

Caine shook his head, then recalling something Matthew Perch had said, he responded. “It is simply truth,” he said. “Truth is all there is. I hope you enjoy your day at Fitzer Corporation tomorrow. Understand that it will be your last.” Then, Montaro paid the attendant, got into his car, and began his drive home.

Traffic clogged the highway when Montaro approached the Triborough Bridge en route to I-278. With his car stalled behind the line of cars in front of him, he took a moment to look up at the sky. The lights from the city cast a haze across the darkened firmament, but nevertheless a configuration of stars was visible. The stars were arranged in a recognizable pattern, save for one extra star that was passing through. Montaro knew it was nothing more than a meteor, or a shooting star, and yet it brought to mind the star or moon he had seen on the coin that he had examined many years ago and that was now inside the model of the Seventh Ship that was in his pocket. And as he saw that star making its way across the sky, almost as if leaving one world for another, he felt a profound surge of optimism. The car in front of him began to move forward and Montaro put his foot on the gas pedal; he headed home, ready for what awaited him.



Whitney and Franklyn Walker saw the shooting star, too. They were on board the jet bound for Atlanta when they saw it traveling across the sky. Their son, Luther John, had been sleeping in Whitney’s arms since the moment of takeoff; the lights in the cabin were off, and aside from the pilots and a physician, they were the only ones on the plane.

Whitney and Franklyn did not know the names of the stars they were seeing out their window, but they both felt that when they saw the shooting star, someone or something was heading toward home, just as they, too, were heading home. They were not surprised to find, when Franklyn took the gauze out of his pocket, that it was empty; after a long journey, the coins were on their way home now, too. The coins had traveled through so many worlds to bring Franklyn and Whitney Walker together and guide them through this world. As the Walkers looked down to watch Luther John sleep, they knew that their love would be strong enough to guide their son through this one.





To my mother, Evelyn Poitier,

whose knowledge of the universe

was instinctual.

She could barely read or write, but she knew …

and

to Carl Sagan

for introducing me to his many books

about the cosmos, the Milky Way galaxy,

and the universe at large.

I am looking forward to seeing them again,

in places yet unknown.





Acknowledgments

MY LIFE HAS HELD AN ENCHANTING FASCINATION WITH THE universe. As a young boy, as young as four or five, I was often drawn to the dense sprinkling of lights in the sky and I would wonder how so many such lights could be everywhere at night and disappear so completely by morning. The seed for this book was planted in that young boy’s fascination.

No book is ever the work of one individual. Such is the case with this one, for without Cindy Spiegel, Montaro Caine would have remained an arresting idea instead of maturing into a truly stirring adventure. Her unrelenting instincts were so keen that she recognized each and every emotional heartbeat that pounded in the chest of every character in this book. Hers is a challenging profession, but she manages to unearth the humanity at the heart of every manuscript she chooses to publish, with a work ethic that is unyielding in bringing out the best there is in each author she represents.

To my editor, Adam Langer, who has as firm a grasp on the English language as ever there was—he has heard language spoken on a multitude of cultural levels that define class, educational levels, and social standings, all of which speak of the who that we are and the who that we aspire to become. He is a wordsmith of extraordinary talent and swift execution, and I thank him for his professional approach and insight.

To Susan Garrison, gifted, talented in countless areas. Her sharp eyes and her many talents are eagerly awaiting her decision to set her sails toward the stars.

To Sherrie Brooks, my right-hand “man,” a hard and experienced worker adroit in so many areas—all of which she seemingly effortlessly calls upon as she manages the day-to-day keeping of the office and details of my many obligations running flawlessly.

Carl Sagan, a good friend, no longer here and sorely missed. He has left behind his many books, his many thoughts of who he was and what he has done—what he has really done.

And to my family, for none of this would have been remotely possible without their love and support, especially that of my rock, the love of my life, Joanna.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author of three bestselling autobiographical books, This Life (1980), The Measure of a Man: A Spiritual Autobiography (2000), and Life Beyond Measure: Letters to My Great-Granddaughter (2008), Sidney Poitier is an actor, film director, author, and diplomat. In 1963, Poitier won an Academy Award for Best Actor for his role in Lilies of the Field, and has starred in films including To Sir, with Love; In the Heat of the Night; and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. The movies he has directed include Uptown Saturday Night, Let’s Do It Again, A Piece of the Action, and Stir Crazy. In 1999, the American Film Institute named Poitier among the Greatest Male Stars of All Time, and in 2002, Poitier was chosen by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences to receive an Honorary Oscar for “his remarkable accomplishments as an artist and as a human being.” He was the Bahamian ambassador to Japan from 1997 to 2007. And in 2009, was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the United States’ highest civilian honor, by President Barack Obama. Mr. Poitier was born in Miami, Florida, but spent his first fifteen years growing up in the Bahamas, on Cat Island and later in Nassau. Mr. Poitier currently lives in Beverly Hills, California, with his wife of forty-four years, Joanna Shimkus Poitier.