Montaro Caine: A Novel

by Sidney Poitier

  “So then what lies ahead for us?”

  “Clearly neither our science nor the resources of our planet will get us as far as our imagination promises.”

  “So, will we blunder our way into extinction?”

  “One cannot blunder one’s way into the inevitable. Extinction is only as far away as we can manage to keep it.”

  “What about Matthew Perch? Does he exist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where might he be as we speak?”

  “Everywhere you expect him to be. Presently, he is very much in your head. What you may not know is that he may well be waiting for you to seek him out. It seems to me that among the seven billion people on this planet, you will likely find that a Matthew Perch is not all that rare.” Tom Lund began to chuckle, and soon his chuckles became infectious laughter; Caine began laughing, too. Soon, Lund and Caine were both roaring, convulsing in ways that threw each back to a time long before such deliciously unbridled behavior had to be corralled and locked away in now-forgotten trunks of memories.

  Finally, the men drifted back toward silence until Montaro spoke. “You’ve never heard of a woman named Whitney Carson, have you?”

  “No,” said Lund.

  “Franklyn Walker?”

  Lund shook his head.

  “Soon, they will be having a child; you don’t know what will happen then, do you?”

  Tom Lund shook his head. “But I do know this,” he said. “You’re looking for answers. You don’t know where to turn and you don’t have much time. That, I think, is why you’re here. Because you’re desperate, you’re looking in places you ordinarily wouldn’t have thought of: me, Luther, your father. And somewhere in all of this are these people you mention, in particular this Matthew Perch, whoever he is. You’ve worked your way through conventional thought and are now willing to look at other forces, other realities. Since I don’t know this Perch fellow, there isn’t much I can offer you in that regard—except that if you do meet him, and I expect you will, you should look him right in the eye and let him see who you really are. He will not be able to see who you are if you do not allow him to; and he will not be able to see you without also letting you see who he is.”

  Caine stared at Lund, taking the measure of his elder. “My dad was right; you are a wise old duck,” he said. “I truly thank you for your counsel.”

  “It’s been my pleasure,” Lund said. “By the way, can I have a copy of all those questions and answers from my interviews with your dad? I’d love to read all that flattery. I’d just love to stuff some of it right up some folks’ noses.” Lund grinned, chuckled to himself, then erupted into another round of full-bodied laughter. Caine tried to resist but was sucked in again. Eventually, their laughter diminished to broad smiles.

  The two men stood. Caine hugged the old man, then handed him the folder of interview transcripts. All things considered, Caine thought, he had gotten what he didn’t know he had come for: a visit with a father he barely knew. The contents of his father’s briefcase had reminded him of words P. L. Caine had often said—that every man must always try to face his troubles, fight his demons, and look both friend and enemy in the eye and, as Tom Lund had said, “let them see who you really are.”

  Caine started for the door, stopped, turned, then asked, “One more question?”

  Lund smiled and beckoned with both hands for Caine to ask whatever he wished. Caine dug into his shoulder bag, fished out one of his dad’s old notebooks, then searched through it until he came to a particular page. He read aloud: “What each person sees with his or her eyes is instantly transmitted through highly sensitive regions of one’s internal self, across a network of instincts, intuitions, emotions, through countless chambers of our brains, and on into that most private place inside ourselves, the headquarters of our individual existence, the human mind, where a judgment is made as to the importance of what we see, and how what we see might apply to our ongoing struggle to survive as individual human beings.”

  “Now here comes the question,” Montaro said. “Was what I just read your thought or my father’s? It isn’t clear in his notes.”

  Lund chuckled. Then, his face turned serious. “Listen, I had it all over your father in mathematics. He was good; I was the genius. But he was the one who saw the world as a philosopher as well as a mathematician. As I’ve told you, outside of mathematics, I’m not really good at much else.”

  Caine looked long and hard at Lund. “If you ever come to New York, it would be my pleasure to see you again,” he said.

  32

  EVER SINCE MONTARO CAINE HAD BEEN THRUST PREMATURELY into the world of adult concerns at the age of eight when his father died, he had been conscious of the sensation that he inhabited more than one world at any given time. But in the days that followed his visits to Luther John Doe and Tom Lund, he felt that sensation more profoundly than ever. How many worlds did he actually inhabit? It had become hard for him to keep track. He was Montaro Caine, CEO of Fitzer Corporation, trying to survive a hostile takeover bid that was persisting even as news of the fallout from the Utah mining accident was beginning to recede. He was also Dr. Montaro Caine, the M.I.T.-educated Ph.D., leading an ad hoc team of scientists and medical professionals trying to gain control of two mystery coins that could revolutionize industry, perhaps even prevent disasters such as the one that had taken place in Utah.

  He was Montaro Caine of Kansas City and he was Montaro Caine of Westport, Connecticut; he was Montaro Caine of The Carlyle Hotel, and at the same time, he was Montaro Caine, citizen of planet Earth, whose citizens would have to find a new home someday when their sun began to die. And, as Montaro led a meeting in the living room of his Carlyle apartment, where he debriefed Drs. Howard and Elsen Mozelle, Dr. Michael Chasman, and Anna Hilburn about all he had learned from Tom Lund and Luther John Doe, he was soon made aware of another important role he held, one that he realized he had been somewhat neglecting during all this drama; he was also Monty Caine, Cecilia’s husband and Priscilla’s father.

  The meeting in The Carlyle was contentious and highly charged, so much so that Montaro ignored his cell phone each time it rang and didn’t even take the time to check to see who was trying so persistently to get hold of him. He was emphasizing to everyone gathered in his living room the need to focus on the most pressing matter at hand—finding Whitney and Franklyn Walker as quickly as possible so that the couple would have their child in Manhattan under Dr. Mozelle’s care; Matthew Perch’s prophetic words suggested that something magnificent would surely happen upon that occasion. And Luther John Doe’s story, no matter how improbable it had sounded, only added to the sense of urgency.

  “We must do all we can to have Whitney’s child delivered here,” Montaro was saying when another chirp from his telephone made him finally shut off his ringer.

  Meanwhile, Dr. Chasman, Anna Hilburn, and the Mozelles debated whether or not they should inform government agencies about the coins’ existence, and if so, which agencies? NASA? The FBI? The CIA? The Department of Homeland Security? Elsen Mozelle insisted that doing so would be prudent, but her husband remained dubious.

  “If those government fellows ask when this ‘spaceship’ is coming, what do we say?” Mozelle asked. “If they ask where it’s going to land, what do we tell them? If they ask what kind of creatures are on board, how do we respond? That there are none? That the ship operates itself? That it roams the galaxy at the speed of light looking for a hospitable planet? That the last ship of those extinct alien creatures will be reborn here so that they can retrieve their entire civilization and culture, which has been preserved in human genes, DNA, and chromosomes, all of which is materialized in the form of coins that were found in the hands of newborn babies? If I were at NASA and someone told me all that, I’d laugh them out of my office; it’s too off the wall. Plus, we’d lose control of the coins.”

  “But we know that the story isn’t off the wall,” Elsen said, scooting forward from the corner of the couch
. “Each element of it has been experienced by one or another of us in this room.”

  Throughout the meeting, Michael Chasman played the role of skeptic, scoffing at Luther John Doe’s words. “A race of creatures so advanced that they possess the technology to survive longer than the sun that gave them life? Nonsensical prattle from an autistic old man.” Nevertheless, Chasman admitted that the very existence of the coins suggested profound implications that might lie beyond the scope of human understanding. “Of course, as a scientist, I have to dismiss Luther’s mumbo jumbo, but at the same time, I also do have to give serious thought to what Montaro said about the organic nature of the particles,” he said. “If what you’ve told us is right, Montaro, then we are no longer simply in a race with Fritzbrauner and Gabler for possession of both coins. We could be either at a new frontier for science or at a tragic new turn in human error. In the latter case, the risk we run in not sharing what we’ve learned with the government could be catastrophic. Not only for us but for the entire country.”

  By meeting’s end, Anna Hilburn agreed to help Montaro’s investigative team, which had not yet succeeded in tracking down Whitney and Franklyn Walker; Chasman and the Mozelles volunteered to contact the Department of Homeland Security and the office of New York senator Alfonse Alfaro to inform them of all they knew about the coins. At which point, Montaro finally took the time to take out his phone, turn it back on, and look at the message displayed: “You have ten missed calls.” When he checked his voice mail, he discovered that all the messages had come from Cecilia.

  “We’ve got to talk about Prissy,” Caine’s wife said after he called her back. “Your ‘friend’ Whitcombe called. We’re due at the Stockbridge police chief’s office tomorrow at one.”

  33

  THE WALLS OF THE OFFICE OF ALBERT MASTERSON, CHIEF OF POLICE of Stockbridge, Massachusetts, one hundred and fifty miles and more than a few light-years away from Fitzer Corporation, were covered by citations, awards, trophies, and a variety of framed photographs of the chief in familiar poses. There was Masterson in his dress blues, shaking hands with the former Stockbridge chief; here he was receiving a commendation from Massachusetts governor Deval Patrick; and there he was standing proudly in pinstripes with his arms around two star players of the Little League baseball team he coached.

  Gordon Whitcombe, already somewhat sweaty and rumpled, was waiting inside when the desk sergeant showed in Montaro, Cecilia, and Priscilla, each of their faces displaying varying aspects of uneasiness. At the sight of Whitcombe, Priscilla flinched. When her mother had told her that she would have to attend this meeting, she had loudly protested, but after her father informed her that she had no other option, Priscilla consented—Montaro Caine was CEO of his family, and unlike at Fitzer Corporation, about which she had been reading all too much lately, Priscilla knew that there was no chance for anyone to launch a successful takeover against him, hostile or otherwise.

  “I’m glad we’re all able to meet like this, before formal charges are filed and the law takes its usual course,” Masterson said after the Caines had sat down in the chairs positioned across from him. “I’ve found that having a chat with the family is always useful, especially when the lawbreaker is still in her teenage years. Mr. and Mrs. Caine, I appreciate your being here to support Priscilla in light of the seriousness of the allegations. And, Priscilla, I hope you can appreciate the importance of having your parents’ support at a time like this. Still, I would be less than candid if I didn’t point out that the evidence against you is pretty conclusive. It would help your situation if you would, in turn, be candid with us.”

  Priscilla prepared herself to do battle, to defend Nick at all costs. But she was disarmed by the sound of a knock at the door. “Come in,” Chief Masterson called out. The door opened and the desk sergeant entered, followed by Nick Corcell.

  Priscilla’s eyes bulged.

  “Good afternoon, Chief Masterson.” Nick was dressed uncharacteristically in a jacket and tie, and his blond hair was cut short. He looked less like the often shirtless, always smooth-talking, working-class, athletic scholarship jock she knew from campus and more like a wannabe pre-law student toadying up to the partners in some white-shoe firm. But it was unmistakably Nick; even with her eyes closed, Priscilla could have recognized him by the smell of his aftershave.

  “Afternoon, Nick, thanks for coming.”

  “Thanks for asking me, Chief.” Nick turned to face Montaro and Cecilia. “You must be Prissy’s parents; I’m Nick.”

  Montaro shook the young man’s hand and Nick stared steadily into Montaro’s eyes. Montaro stared back, impressed and somewhat alarmed by the young man’s composure. Cecilia’s response was less cordial; she looked blankly at the hand Nick was offering her.

  “So, you are Nick,” she said coldly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Nick stepped over to Priscilla, all the while sensing Cecilia Caine’s watchful eyes upon him. “Hi, Prissy. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Nick.”

  “Great.” He touched her arm gently and Priscilla seemed to take strength from his calmness.

  Looking back at Montaro and Cecilia, the young man said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you both, Mr. and Mrs. Caine; Priscilla has told me so much about you. But I’m sorry it has to be under these conditions.”

  Knowing from the world of business that there was usually little to be gained from rudeness or hostility, Montaro nodded politely. For her part, Cecilia kept her suspicious eyes fixed on the young man as he sat beside Priscilla.

  “Nick,” Chief Masterson began, “it’s obvious to us that you and Priscilla are very close and that you want to do anything you can to help her. We understand that. But we don’t want you to bend the truth in any way just because of your feelings for her. All we want is for you to be straightforward and honest.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Nick said.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Nick Corcell responded amiably to Chief Masterson’s questions. Cecilia Caine was not the least bit convinced by the young man’s “Yes, ma’am; No, sir” act, but she did find herself glad that her daughter’s friend—she did not let herself think of him as a boyfriend, let alone a lover—was so gifted at glib insincerity. His answers were all crisp and to the point. Taken together, they painted a picture of Priscilla as a young woman too decent, too well brought up, too morally well balanced to consume drugs, let alone distribute them on campus. It was a picture that Cecilia wanted desperately to believe was true and that Montaro knew without question was false. Nick told the chief that he was certain Priscilla was innocent of any wrongdoing and was willing to sign any document attesting to that assertion.

  “Sure, there are drugs on campus, Chief,” he said. “People pass joints around fairly openly. I have heard of the selling and buying of marijuana on and around campus all the years I’ve been a student there, and I know more than a handful of people who have occasionally indulged. But, to the best of my knowledge, Priscilla is not one of them.”

  Whitcombe twisted uneasily in his chair, regretting that he would not have a crack at questioning this slick pretty boy. There was something dangerous about this kid, the lawyer thought, something too cool and smooth, something that someday could cause harm to Priscilla and her family. But for the moment, Nick seemed to be winning over Chief Masterson, and as the Caines’ lawyer, that was precisely what Gordon Whitcombe needed the kid to do.

  When the chief stopped questioning Nick and turned his attention to Priscilla and her parents, Nick Corcell smiled, proud of himself. He felt suddenly flushed with a sense of his own power. It was the second time that day he’d felt that way. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the most dramatic events of the day had already played out hours earlier. First thing in the morning, he had been cruising west along the Massachusetts Turnpike in his Volkswagen Beetle convertible, gusts of summer wind warm against his bare, suntanned torso. His mind was in high gear, too, moving methodically over the few
remaining points that needed to be smoothed out before the business transaction awaiting him could close.

  Nick’s Volkswagen exited the turnpike and picked up US-20. His left hand was draped lightly on the wheel while his right hand rested on the overnight canvas bag on the passenger seat. He checked the car’s clock and saw that he was running ahead of schedule, so he relaxed his speed as a Bruce Springsteen song came blasting from the speakers. Nick changed the station before he could even identify the song; the Boss was his stepfather’s favorite, and the only time Nick ever listened to Springsteen music was when he was trying to impress naïve, upper-crust Connecticut girls like Priscilla Caine with his blue-collar street cred. For the remaining fifteen miles of his drive, Nick blasted Eminem.

  Nick had grown up in South Boston in a small two-bedroom apartment. He had lived there with his mother, Angeline Corcell, and her husband, Nick’s stepfather, Anthony Stavros, who every weekday evening brought home with him the nauseating stench of the fish market where he worked. One time, long before he had begun to shave, Nick spent his entire weekly allowance on aftershave lotion, which he’d splashed around his room to chase away that smell he hated so much.

  Nick had been only six when his father left for reasons that Nick still couldn’t understand. Piero Corcell had worked in the fish factory, too, but his smell was different; Nick had associated it with a time his family had been together long before Stavros entered the picture. Even now, Nick wore a healthy splash of aftershave lotion every day, even on days when he didn’t shave.

  When Nick arrived in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, the hotel was busy. A weekend convention of manufacturing associations was being held there, a fact that Nick had taken into account when he had chosen this date and location. The parking lot was nearly full. Nick paid close attention to every vehicle in the lot, making sure that there wasn’t a gray Mercedes in sight, eventually guiding his car into one of the few available slots before turning off the motor.