Montaro Caine (27 page)

“What do you need my help with, son?” P. L. Caine asked now.

“I need you to remember something,” Montaro said.

The old man heard the urgency in his grandson’s words. “What is it?” he asked.

“I need the name of the New York hospital Dad was returning from when his plane crashed; and the name of the doctor who invited him to observe the research he was doing there.”

A long pause ensued.

“I don’t know that, son. I don’t believe I’ll be able to help you,” P. L. Caine began, then added, “But I think I know someone who can.”

“Who?” Montaro asked.

“Your dad,” said P. L. Caine. He told his grandson that against his daughter-in-law’s wishes, he had held on to his son’s briefcase and all his tapes and his notes, suspecting that someday Montaro would want them.

Caine was stunned. “You kept them?”

“I did, my boy; I always knew this day would come,” said P. L. Caine. “Where shall I send them?”

When Caine and Mozelle got back to New York, they went straight to Roland Gabler’s apartment. Gabler was surprised to see them; he explained to them that he had a new “silent partner,” whose involvement meant that he could no longer consider a deal with Caine. But Caine interrupted him.

“Our reason for coming is unrelated to any conditions, new or old,” said Caine. “We’re here for another matter.”

“What matter might that be?” asked Gabler.

“A small favor,” said Caine.

“Which is?”

Caine repeated the same request he had made of Fritzbrauner: “To see the coin.”

“For what possible reason?” Gabler asked.

“Only to see the difference between this coin and the other,” said Caine.

At first, Gabler appeared reluctant, but he could see no reason to deny the request; he always got a special thrill out of displaying the items in his collection, particularly when he was showing them to individuals whom he had outbid or outfoxed to get them. He left the room for a moment, then returned with the coin, which Caine examined briefly with a jeweler’s loupe before handing it back to Gabler without revealing what, if anything, he had seen.

“Well?” Mozelle asked Caine once they were in the elevator heading down to the lobby.

“I was right. They’re there. Back in place.”

Mozelle shook his head. “Particles vanish in Boston and reappear in New York City. Others vanish in New York and reappear in Switzerland. What can it mean?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Caine. “But I’m hoping my grandfather was right.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m hoping my father will be able to help me.”

Back at The Carlyle hotel, Robert Caine’s briefcase was already waiting for Montaro. Mozelle sat with Montaro in the living room of his apartment as he examined its contents, but Montaro barely noticed the doctor’s presence. He seemed to be in another world, one full of painful yet reassuring memories. He took out the objects one by one, slowly, carefully, holding each as if it were even more precious than the mysterious coins that had tantalized him for more than two decades. He studied his father’s precise handwriting, both in his notebooks and on Robert Caine’s Dictaphone cassette tapes, which his father had labeled “Dr. Andrew Banks,” “Thomas Lund,” and “Luther John Doe.”

His hands trembling, Montaro placed the cassette labeled “Luther John Doe” into the Dictaphone and pressed play. P. L. Caine had put new batteries in the machine and it whirred to life. Montaro couldn’t remember the last time he had shed tears and yet he could feel them welling up in his eyes the moment he heard his father’s slightly
speeded-up voice, so confident, so engaged, so young—Montaro had already lived nearly twenty years longer than Robert Caine had. As he listened to the tape of his father and Dr. Andrew Banks back at Columbia University, he could almost imagine his dad here in the room with him, speaking to him as if he had just arrived from some world beyond this one.

“I do have a son, and this is for him?”

Montaro swallowed hard as he listened to his father speak.

“That’s very nice of you. And this is very nice, too. What is it?”

And then Montaro heard a voice he did not recognize. It was the voice of a boy, and though it sounded slightly garbled, Montaro could easily make out the words the boy was saying.

“It’s a ship,” the boy said.

When Montaro got hold of Dr. Andrew Banks, the former professor was living in a retirement community outside Key Largo, Florida.

“Oh, yes. I remember your father,” Dr. Banks said over the phone. “Terrible accident that was. Loss of a good man, much too early. What can I do for you?”

“Do you remember Thomas Lund, the patient that you and your staff were studying? You had my dad and some other professors observe him.”

“Ah yes, of course. Tom Lund. What about him?”

“I would like to try to find him, if he’s still alive. And, Luther John Doe, too.”

“I have no idea if either one is alive. But I can make a few calls and see what I come up with.”

Less than an hour later, Dr. Banks reported to Caine that Tom Lund was living in a small town on the outskirts of Philadelphia and Luther John Doe was in a home for the elderly in Connecticut. When Caine was finished with the phone call, he spoke to Mozelle, who had been waiting patiently for him.

“I have to go to Connecticut to talk to somebody who might be able to help us,” he said. “Care to join me?”

“I’m up for it,” Mozelle assured Caine.

“I don’t know how many answers we’ll find,” Caine told the doctor as they left the hotel. “Maybe more than we’re ready for.”

I
T WAS QUITE LIKELY THAT THE SMALL WHITE-HAIRED MAN DID
not hear them as they approached. He was a solitary figure, hunched over in his white lawn chair as he sat by an empty pine table; he seemed to be lost inside himself, somewhere between his mind’s eye and his inner ear. He had the aspect of a man preoccupied with his own thoughts, out of touch with the reality surrounding him. As Montaro Caine and Dr. Howard Mozelle strode urgently toward him on the late summer grass, the aged man signaled no awareness of their advancing presence.

The sky was overcast and the air was muggy. Swirling rain clouds were randomly rearranging themselves into threatening configurations. The outdoor recreational area of the Oakville Estates retirement facility was otherwise deserted. Even the crickets in the nearby grass remained silent and still. As Mozelle and Caine approached the man with the twisted chin and withered right leg, they shared a quick, meaningful glance. Then, Montaro’s firm voice shattered the silence.

“Hello, Luther,” he said.

Startled, the old man wheeled to look up at the faces peering down at him. He squinted, but for a moment nothing seemed to register. He frowned, puzzled. A long, cautious moment passed. Then his eyes lit
up. As his eyes roamed Caine’s face, a smile began to gather slowly upon his weathered lips.

“Hello,” he said in a garbled voice that Caine recognized instantly from the cassette tapes he had listened to. His smile broadened. Caine smiled back. Luther then shifted his gaze to the face of Caine’s companion, where it lingered. Luther’s smile grew even wider. He moved as if to rise, but Caine’s arm shot out and rested on his shoulder with a gentle downward pressure, and Luther eased back into his chair.

Mozelle introduced himself to Luther, but the moment Caine began to say his own name, Luther interrupted.

“I know who you are,” Luther said plainly. “You’re his son.”

Caine felt himself involuntarily gasp. He tried to maintain his poise as he and Howard Mozelle sat across from Luther at the table.

“I am,” said Caine.

Luther’s smile dissolved into an expression of quiet seriousness. He watched Caine pull out from a jacket pocket a small flannel bag with a drawstring. Caine loosened the drawstring, carefully turned the flannel bag upside down, and slid an object out into his hand. Luther’s and Howard’s eyes fixed upon the dark, round, shiny form that was nearly as large as the palm of Caine’s hand. On one of the tapes, his father had said it looked like a compact, but Luther John Doe had called it a ship.

Caine placed the object gently on the table, then looked at Luther, who raised his eyes to meet Caine’s.

“Tell me about it,” Caine began.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why did you carve it?” Caine asked.

Luther looked down at the object. “Because I saw it.”

“Where?”

“In my head.” Luther’s tone was matter-of-fact.

“Forty-eight years ago?”

“Forty-eight years and three months,” said Luther.

“You mean you saw it in a dream?” asked Caine.

Luther looked up, one eyebrow arched. “No,” he answered, almost as if Caine’s suggestion offended him.

“You told my father you made it for me,” Caine said. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” Luther said. “For his son.”

“But we had never met.”

“I know.” Once more, Luther stared into the steady blue eyes of the handsome, sandy-haired man seated across from him.

“Luther. You’re sure we’re not talking about a dream?”

“It was no dream, no sir.” Luther spoke firmly.

“Why are you so sure it wasn’t?”

“Because you’re here now. And you’re no dream, are you?” He tilted his head toward Howard Mozelle. “I saw him, too,” he said. The weather-beaten face of the elderly doctor flushed and his body shivered slightly. “And I saw the ship, inside and out,” Luther added.

“What is the ship called?” Caine asked.

“The Seventh Ship,” said Luther. “It should be coming soon, now that you’re here.”

“Where is it coming from?”

Luther looked up and pointed toward the restless sky—the dark clouds above seemed to be fidgeting. “Out there,” he said. Dr. Mozelle’s pulse was racing, but he sat quietly as Caine continued to question Luther.

“Who are they, Luther? Who’s coming on the Seventh Ship?”

Luther shrugged.

Caine’s forehead knotted. “Think hard, Luther. Who or what is on that ship? What do they look like? You’ve seen the inside of the ship; you must know.”

The bewilderment on Luther’s face deepened. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never saw what they looked like. That would have been impossible.”

Caine glanced at Mozelle, who appeared both intensely absorbed in what Luther was saying and also far away. He understood that Mozelle was reminded of another time in his life when he had allowed his faith to overcome his doubts about what was possible—when he and Elsen had traveled to an island in search of a man named Matthew Perch.

“You told my father the ship was coming to get information,”

Caine continued. “When he asked you what kind of information, you told him it was a secret and that you would tell me when I came to see you.”

“That’s right,” said Luther.

“What is that secret information, Luther?” Caine asked kindly.

The little old man with the twisted chin and withered right leg had waited most of his life to answer this question. His chest swelled and his body seemed to straighten slightly, as if his answer would mark the most majestic moment of his life. “Everything,” he said simply.

“What do you mean, everything?”

“Everything about them,” he explained, his voice full of reverence.

“Them?”

“Yes. They are coming to get all the information there is about them. From the beginning to the end.”

Howard Mozelle leaned across the pine table closer to Luther. “What does that mean?” Mozelle asked. “Help us to understand. Please. How did this secret, this information, whatever it is, come to be here?”

Luther leveled his eyes at the doctor and whispered. “They’ve stored it here.”

Caine and Mozelle exchanged glances. “How did they store it here?” Caine asked.

“In people. In me, in you, in him,” Luther whispered, pointing to Dr. Mozelle. “In lots of people. Most of them don’t know anything about it.” He smiled and added, “But I do.”

“If you’ve never seen them, how do you know so much about them?” Caine asked.

“I don’t know. I must have seen only what they wanted me to see. But I never saw what they looked like.”

“Did you ever tell anyone else about them, or about the information?”

“No. It was meant only for you.”

“How did you know you were only supposed to tell us?”

“I just knew.” Luther shrugged. “I guess that’s how they wanted it.”

“Why did they choose you, Luther?” Caine asked. Then he added, “I mean, to let you hold their secret all these years, until today, for me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because they liked me,” Luther replied.

“I’m sure they do. You seem like a very special person.”

Luther smiled broadly. He liked the compliment and also the attention.

“Luther,” Caine said, leaning closer for emphasis. “A very special, smart, and talented guy like you can help us figure this thing out. Of all the people in the world they picked you, me, and Howard, and some others; but why us? For what reason? They picked us for a purpose, Luther, and we have to know what that purpose is. I know you can help us with this. Will you?”

“I’ll try,” Luther murmured.

Caine massaged his chin and pulled at it as if to draw milk from his mind. “Judging from the size of the ship,” he asked Luther, “how many of them would you guess are on board?”

“None,” said Luther simply.

“None?”

“None are on any of the ships. They died a long time ago.”

“Then who operates the ship?” Mozelle asked.

Luther turned to Mozelle. “It operates itself,” he said, then spoke with greater enthusiasm. “That ship knows everything that was ever known, and can do everything that was ever done on that place that used to be. With the information that we have been keeping for them, the ship will take it and bring it someplace where they can be born again, and in turn, you can use the information it has brought here.”

Luther leaned back and waited, giving Caine and Mozelle time to digest what he had just said.

“Tell me about the place where the Seventh Ship is coming from, Luther,” Caine said.

“It’s a place that isn’t there anymore.”

“Why isn’t it there anymore?”