Montaro Caine (40 page)

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.

M
Y 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.