“Go on,” Montaro heard his grandfather say. But Montaro held tight to his mother.
Sarah Caine took her son’s hand in hers. “No, Sarah, you stay here,” P. L. Caine told his daughter-in-law. “Let the boy say his good-bye in private.”
His mother let go of his hand and Montaro walked forward. He felt terrified by the thought of being alone with what would surely be a terrible sight—the dead, mangled body of his father. His mother gave his hand one more squeeze, then ran her fingers through his hair. “It’s all right,” she said. “We’ll be here.”
Montaro looked up into his mother’s eyes for reassurance, then turned to face his grandfather. The child took some strength from the tears that rolled down the old man’s cheeks. “The difficulties of life can lick a man or they can strengthen him. It’s the man’s choice,” P. L. Caine told his grandson now. Montaro understood his grandfather’s words, especially his use of the word “man” instead of “boy”; the choices he would have to make now were the choices that men had to make.
Montaro looked up at his mother once more before he turned and walked out of the kitchen. “A man has to stand up to hard times, no matter what,” he heard his grandfather say. This time, P. L. Caine was speaking to the others around him in the kitchen, but his words were still clearly meant for his grandson’s ears.
The boy walked down the hallway, past his own room, past the guest room where his mother’s brother Uncle Jim and Jim’s wife, Aunt Carol, were staying, then across the living room toward his parents’ wing of the house. He wondered if it would be possible for him to scare himself so badly that he would die like his dad. Die of fear. And now as he reached the massive mahogany door that led to his father’s study, a sudden bombardment of horrible images of what he might find in the coffin exploded inside his head. He felt petrified, unable to move; he stood staring at the forbidding entrance beyond which unspeakable nightmares no doubt awaited.
He could turn back, he thought as he stood before the door. He didn’t have to face his father’s body alone; the choice was his. But then how would he face his grandfather afterward? “It’s the man’s choice,” P. L. Caine had said. And now Montaro asked himself, what would a man do? He weighed his fears against his grandfather’s wishes until deep down inside himself he decided on the course that he had to take even if it would kill him. There was no escape; he could not disappoint his grandfather.
Montaro took a deep breath and rushed the door, which flew open from the forward thrust and threw him into the room. His father’s open coffin stood in the center of the study surrounded by pink and white flowers. Montaro shut his eyes tight and put his hands to his face to cover them. Then slowly, hesitantly, he squinted and peeked at the body through the openings between his fingers.
Montaro was surprised and relieved to find that his father looked alive. There was no blood. Robert Caine was wearing his blue suit with matching tie—he just seemed to be sleeping, Montaro thought as he moved a cautious step closer. His fears gradually subsided, allowing room for his grief to emerge. Montaro wished he could do something to wake his father up, make him breathe again, but he understood that he had lost him forever, that Robert Caine had passed from this world into another.
Now that he was no longer quite so afraid, Montaro became ashamed of the fear he had felt. He hoped that wherever his dad was, he would never know how frightened he had been. He made a silent vow to himself that he would never feel such fear again, that from now on, he would face every challenge life presented him like the man Robert Caine had wanted him to grow up to be, like the man his grandfather knew he was already becoming. “The difficulties of life can lick a man or they can strengthen him,” his grandfather had told him, and no, Montaro Caine would not let himself be licked.
Three weeks later, at his grandfather’s insistence, Montaro found himself with his mother and grandfather seated around the desk in his father’s study. On top of the desk was his father’s black leather briefcase. It had survived the plane crash intact, with only telltale scars from the impact. Montaro’s mother, who had wanted to wait until more time had passed before dealing with such matters, had raised a timid objection to her father-in-law, but the man had forcefully overruled her. He knew that the locked briefcase might well hold substantial evidence as to how his only son had spent his last three days of life, and he said further that he didn’t want to open the briefcase alone.
Montaro watched his grandfather unsuccessfully attempt to crack the lock, first with a screwdriver and then with pliers, while Sarah Caine began to cry softly. Hearing his mother’s stifled sobs caused Montaro’s eyes to cloud up in spite of his effort to tough it out. Montaro held his mother close—he felt that comforting her had now become his responsibility. Finally, using the screwdriver as one would a crowbar, P. L. Caine popped the latches on the battered case.
Inside the case, along with other personal effects, was Robert Caine’s Dictaphone and two medium-size leather-bound journals containing the notes that Robert had written while he was in New York. There were comments on his trip, mathematical equations, calculations, projections, conclusions he had reached, and drafts of paragraphs for the paper he planned to write. There were also extensive notes about both Tom Lund and Luther John Doe. Sarah Caine took one of the notebooks, and, frequently interrupted by her own sobs, read some of her husband’s notes aloud to her son and his grandfather. Through it all, P. L. Caine sat quietly, his face a wrinkled mask of sadness.
After Sarah had finished reading, the three of them began to listen to the tapes. Sarah wept openly while hearing her husband’s voice, but Montaro was already learning to control such outward expressions of emotion the same way his father had and the way his grandfather still did, even at this very moment.
As Montaro listened to the recordings, he saw images in his mind of the way his father had spent his last day less than a month earlier. He could hear the urgent footsteps of his father and Dr. Andrew Banks pacing briskly along the corridor of the hospital in New York City. And he could hear the voices on the tape, speaking to him now, almost as if they were coming from another world.
“You do have a son, don’t you?” he heard Dr. Banks say.
“Oh yes.” His father’s voice sounded distant, as if speaking from a faraway past. “I do have a son, and this is for him? That’s very nice of you. And this is very nice, too. What is it?”
And then, Montaro heard the voice of a young man. The voice sounded slightly garbled, and yet he had little difficulty making out what it was saying.
“It’s a ship,” Montaro heard Luther John Doe say.
Montaro’s mother couldn’t bear to hear any more of the tape. She asked her father-in-law to turn it off and to dispose of the briefcase and send the relevant contents to Dr. Banks. A look at his brokenhearted daughter-in-law evoked a tender promise from P. L. Caine. “I will take care of it, don’t worry,” he said, then shut off the tape.
But P.L. would not return the tapes and notebooks to Dr. Banks. He would keep them; after all, he thought, his son’s professional notes and personal diary might one day be of value to his grandson, particularly if the boy decided to follow in his father’s footsteps. The boy was already showing signs of having a fine scientific mind.
Now P. L. Caine carefully lifted from the battered briefcase the carving mentioned in his dead son’s notes, a present that had apparently been sent to his grandson by a little black boy whose name was Luther John Doe. The boy had spoken of a gift for Montaro; apparently, this was it.
“Here,” P. L. Caine said. “Later in life, who knows? This might provide you with fond memories of your father.” He placed the carving in Montaro’s hands. Montaro had no idea what the carving was or what it might be for; he would be an adult before he would learn.
Nearly fifty years had passed. It was a summer afternoon in the departure lounge of the crowded Delta terminal at LaGuardia Airport, where a good-looking young couple sat among the many passengers milling about, waiting for their flights. Amid th
e cacophony of flight announcements and cable news broadcasts, of passengers texting and speaking on their cell phones or typing on their laptops, this couple was remarkable for their stillness as they sat together in the bustling waiting area.
Finally came the announcement they were waiting for: “Flight 674 to Atlanta is now ready for boarding.”
Cordiss Krinkle and Victor Lambert squeezed each other’s hands, then rose from their seats. They were within hours of taking a giant step closer to their goal. Their aim was deadly, their focus sharp, and their unsuspecting targets, Whitney and Franklyn Walker, were eagerly awaiting their arrival.
Weeks earlier, Cordiss had called Whitney Walker at her home in Atlanta. The two had met when Cordiss had worked as a receptionist for Whitney’s doctor, Howard Mozelle. Whitney and Cordiss had had a friendly relationship, and Whitney had told Cordiss to give her a call if she ever found herself in Atlanta. During the course of Whitney and Cordiss’s phone conversation, there had been the usual chatter and catching up. Cordiss made more than a few allusions to the fact that she and her boyfriend Victor had come into some good fortune and were doing quite well for themselves—something to do with real estate and health clinics, she said, but she didn’t want to talk about all that over the phone; she hoped she could tell Whitney and Franklyn the whole story in person. She said that she and Victor would be traveling together on business to Atlanta; could the four of them get together for dinner while they were in town?
“We would love it,” said Whitney. “But you’re gonna be in our neck of the woods, girl; and down here you’ll have dinner in our home. So get your butts down here and you’ve got a deal. I’m looking forward to seeing you and finally getting a chance to meet that rascal Victor of yours.”
“Terrific. And I may have a surprise for you,” Cordiss said quietly.
“What?” Whitney asked her.
“Just you wait,” said Cordiss. “We’ll see you soon.”
Whitney and Franklyn Walker lived in a small two-bedroom apartment in the Buckhead section of Atlanta, but the dinner Whitney had prepared for Cordiss and Victor was far from modest. Since Whitney and Franklyn had moved south, they had had few visitors, and Whitney was thrilled to entertain guests from New York. She prepared Southern fried chicken, black-eyed peas, rice, and collard greens. For dessert, there would be vanilla ice cream and peach cobbler, the smell of which drew murmurs of anticipation from both Cordiss and Victor the moment they entered the apartment.
“It feels like coming home,” Cordiss said with a smile. She and Victor embraced.
Cordiss then shook hands with Franklyn, who eyed the stylish couple with guarded enthusiasm.
In the Walkers’ little kitchen, Whitney finished preparing dinner while Franklyn made cocktails, which everyone but Whitney drank. Cordiss and Victor discussed their new business ventures, which ranged from selling real estate to setting up affordable health-care clinics in impoverished nations. Meanwhile, Whitney and Franklyn spoke of the difficulty the two of them had had in finding decent-paying work ever since they had gotten to Atlanta.
“We thought we’d have it better down here. But the economy’s tough everywhere these days,” Franklyn said. “And we’ve been having a lot of bad luck.”
“Well, maybe we can help you turn that luck around,” Cordiss said once they had sat down to dinner and started passing around the collard greens and the chicken.
“What do you mean by that?” Franklyn asked, at which point Cordiss offered the surprise that she had mentioned to Whitney on the phone.
“We want you as our partners,” Cordiss said.
Several seconds passed in silence. Cordiss shifted her eyes from Whitney to Franklyn across the dinner table. Franklyn’s mouth was open in surprise, while Whitney seemed stunned, as if unable to speak.
“Our partners,” Cordiss repeated.
Franklyn Walker’s eyes narrowed quizzically. His usual winning smile, framed by a bushy mustache, had left his face, which remained neutral except for a questioning stare. Victor flashed a smile and a wink at Cordiss, who proceeded to enumerate some of the work they thought Franklyn and Whitney could assist them with in setting up medical clinics in Africa.
“We need what you both can bring to this venture,” Cordiss said. “We have all the financing necessary for the first stage. After the program’s approved, all other financing will be provided by the host country. When that government green-lights the project, then contracts can be signed between them and us. As our partners, you’ll be twenty percent owners in the venture, and in all future projects in other countries. Victor and I have done a great deal of research on the commercial viability of the idea and there’s lots more to do; but believe me, from any angle you approach this thing, it’s a good, solid deal all around.”
“How much are you talking about up front?” asked Franklyn. Something was fishy here, but he wasn’t sure what. True, he had a degree in finance, but his wife’s background was in literature and he didn’t see how either of them was qualified to work in setting up health-care clinics anywhere, let alone in Africa. Plus, they barely knew this couple—as far as Franklyn knew, Cordiss’s only work experience was as a receptionist in a doctor’s office. And he had no idea what Victor did.
“Fifty thousand,” said Cordiss. “I hope that sounds okay.”
Whitney remained silent. She was thinking of the baby that she and Franklyn were expecting. The number fifty thousand was still echoing in her head as Cordiss pressed on. “And of course, we’ll pay your expenses for the three-month period it will take to get our proposal shaped into a final draft,” she said.
Whitney jerked her attention back to the table. “Cordiss! Are you serious?” she asked.
“Never been more so in my life. Tell her, Victor.”
“She’s serious, all right. We are both serious,” said Victor.
“And make no mistake,” Cordiss continued, “we’re talking about a soundly conceived, soundly set up, soundly operated business.”
“Bottom line,” Victor interrupted, “it has to be a profit-driven entity from start to finish. This is no Peace Corps or missionary effort we’re talking about.”
“Absolutely not,” Cordiss added. “Government-subsidized health clinics efficiently, professionally, and cost-effectively operated. The whole continent of Africa is ripe for something like this. We set them up, we operate them for ten years, then the government takes over.”
Franklyn exploded into laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding. Us? Come on! Why us?”
“Why not you?” Cordiss responded. “You both have all the qualifications necessary.”
“Yeah, Cordiss. Girl, come on!” giggled Whitney. “Shoot! Africa? I wish! Even if you were serious, your timing is wrong.” Whitney looked down at her ballooned stomach. Her hands gently massaged her precious bump as she continued. “It will be just a few months before this little person here is ready to make an appearance.”
Cordiss looked on sympathetically until a twinge of envy made her move on. “I know, but the baby won’t interfere with anything, the way we see it,” she said. “There’s so much more research and paperwork yet to be done for the draft proposal. You’ll be sitting on your fannies reading in libraries and typing at home till your eyes fall out. No, the baby won’t be a problem.”
“Think of it as a three-month vacation, with pay, before the real work starts,” Victor said.
“Victor is right. That’s virtually what it amounts to. Three months’ vacation with pay. After that, who knows? We may all be Albert Schweitzers—with pay.”
Both couples laughed. But as the chuckles subsided, Franklyn wondered what was really going on behind Victor’s dark brooding eyes. Was he truly serious? And if he was, how smart was he? What had he accomplished? Did he have what it would take to carry out the grand vision they had just described? And why had he chosen to invite them of all people to join their venture? In his mind, he was developing a theory, but he didn’t give voice to it just ye
t.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Victor, what’s your background in health care?” he asked.
“My background is in business, Franklyn, primarily real estate in New York. Cordiss is the one with the experience in health care.”
“Victor brings management skills. He also provides all the financing the venture will need to get off the ground,” said Cordiss. “Look, we’ve given you a lot to think about, so we won’t say any more about it. Just know that Victor and I very much want you along on this.” She leaned back in her chair. “It’s an opportunity for us to bring in friends we can trust.” She smiled at them, then glanced at Victor.
“But surely you have friends who could be of more help to you. We’ve got no money, no background in health care. We’ve got nothing to offer,” Franklyn said.
Cordiss sprang forward. “You have a great deal to offer.”
“Like what?” Franklyn asked.
Cordiss hesitated. “We’ll get into that tomorrow. Enough for tonight. Let’s talk about something else.”
“No, I’d like to hear it now,” Franklyn insisted.
Cordiss pursed her lips. “Well, first, I have known Whitney for years, and I trust her. Second, you’re both very well educated, and I think you’re willing to go the extra mile to move ahead in life. You’re about to have a baby, so we figured you could use the extra money. And, most important of all, you’re black.”
Cordiss and Franklyn held each other’s gaze. Then Franklyn turned to Victor and said, “I kinda thought so.”
Cordiss smiled inwardly. That was exactly what she and Victor wanted them to think—that they needed black partners to showcase their project in a black country. But according to the plan that she and Victor had devised, Whitney and Franklyn would never see Africa. Where Cordiss and Victor planned to take them, no one would be able to find them until it was too late.
3
MONTARO CAINE WAS NOW FIFTY-FOUR YEARS OLD. HE WAS CEO of the Fitzer Chemical Corporation, a multinational mining company based in New York, and he had lived nearly two decades longer than his father had. As he stopped to glance in a mirror in the apartment he kept in The Carlyle hotel and studied his lined face, besieged with the events of the past weeks, he could see few traces of the boy he had been back in Kansas City, save perhaps for his sandy hair and his late mother’s pale blue eyes.
Montaro Caine: A Novel Page 2
