Still, as her father drove along the Merritt Parkway and Priscilla was able to dry her eyes and catch her breath, she found herself beginning to develop some small new hope. If the events of the past weeks and the experience of seeing her father’s name in the newspapers in association with the mining disaster and the Fitzer takeover rumors had taught her anything, it was that Montaro Caine might not always be as right as his daughter had once thought him to be. Her father had said that she would never see Nick Corcell again, and he seemed sure of himself, but as for Priscilla, she was not so sure that Nick would disappear from their lives quite so easily.
As for Nick himself, he was cruising toward Boston along the Massachusetts Turnpike with what he felt to be a new lease on life. Frankie Naples had left Stockbridge a half hour earlier with the hundred thousand dollars in the trunk of his car. Nick wasn’t wearing his confining, fancy suit anymore, and the sunshine had never felt so good against his back. As far as Nick was concerned, the rich Connecticut bitch and her big-time parents were history. Bruce Springsteen was singing “Working on a Dream” on the radio, and Nick didn’t even feel moved to shut it off.
In fact, Nick turned the volume of the stereo louder and began singing along up until the moment when he became aware of a black sedan riding close behind him, flashing highway lights at him. Assuming the driver wanted to pass, Nick pulled right, but the car remained behind him. Looking into his rearview mirror, Nick could see that two men were inside the sedan, wearing sunglasses; the man in the passenger seat was waving, gesturing for him to pull off the turnpike.
The men could have been undercover cops from the Stockbridge P.D., friends of Frankie Naples, or members of the Boston outfit—Nick had no idea. The only thing Nick knew for sure was that whoever was in that car was someone he didn’t want to talk to. He briefly considered flooring his VW, but he knew that the Beetle could never compete with the eight-cylinder American sedan behind him. Good looks and a polite manner had gotten him through every scrape he’d ever been in; he’d have to hope that would prove true again. Resigned, he signaled a turn into the right lane, then got off at the Newton exit.
Nick parked the car in the first parking space he saw—in front of an upscale coffee shop called Taste—and the sedan pulled in behind him. He got out of his car at the same time as the men in their dark suits and sunglasses.
“How can I help you, officers?” Nick said with a smile as he approached them. They looked like Federal agents or narcs, Nick thought, but when they flashed their business cards at him, he understood that they were neither.
“We’re not cops, Nick,” said the bulkier of the two men. “My name is Alan Rothman and this is Carlos Wallace. I think you might be able to help us.”
34
DESPITE THE BEST EFFORTS OF MONTARO CAINE AND HIS ASSOCIATES, meetings with government officials to discuss the significance of the coins and the prophecies of Matthew Perch and Luther John Doe yielded no useful results. Alfonse Alfaro, the bald, bespectacled New York senator with his familiarly chubby face and thinning gray hair, quickly agreed to a meeting. But when Caine and Howard Mozelle revealed that they weren’t interested in discussing either the senator’s reelection campaign or his committee’s ability to influence mining safety legislation, he quickly adjourned the meeting and directed one of his secretaries to facilitate an appointment for the men with NASA’s chief of staff. The NASA rep informed Caine and Mozelle that he wasn’t at liberty to discuss whether he would or wouldn’t act upon the information they had given him, after which the men met with the deputy director of Homeland Security, who said that his agency’s funding had been slashed, and the men really needed to be talking to the FBI.
Anna Hilburn’s efforts to determine the whereabouts of Whitney and Franklyn Walker were proving to be no more successful. Whitney’s uncle Frederick and cousins said that Whitney and Franklyn were on vacation, but none of them knew where. Whitney’s uncle had sent a letter to the couple, but had received no response. Lawrence Aikens learned that Cordiss Krinkle was spreading the word that the couple was safely ensconced in some European country, but neither Aikens nor Curly Bennett was able to learn in which country that might be. And, after Aikens met with Montaro, both men agreed that whatever information Cordiss was spreading was probably false anyway. Near the end of a week’s worth of fruitless meetings, unproductive phone calls, and unanswered emails, Montaro understood something that P. L. Caine had impressed upon him when he was just a boy—that he would always have to rely on himself.
P. L. Caine’s ninety-ninth birthday celebration was held in the retirement community of Seaview Estates in Carmel. During Montaro’s childhood, P.L.’s birthday parties were lively and extravagant affairs, where the Canadian Club flowed freely, but now that P.L. had outlived just about all of his contemporaries, this birthday celebration was comparatively subdued—in attendance were a few friends P.L. had met at Seaview as well as Montaro and his family. The red velvet cake with white frosting was barely large enough to accommodate all the candles that Cecilia Caine had placed upon it.
The modest birthday party suited the Caines’ needs. Montaro could not recall when he had last spent this much uninterrupted time with his family; most probably it had been before Priscilla had entered boarding school. And, though Priscilla had alternately cried, shouted, and sent furious text messages on her iPhone during the limo ride to the Teterboro Airport, once the Caines had boarded their private jet, she didn’t speak, scream, or whisper another word about Nick Corcell. Even after the family had arrived at the Monterey Peninsula Airport, Priscilla didn’t even bother to turn her phone back on.
During the waking hours of their three days together, Montaro rarely left his grandfather’s side. While walking along the beachfront and chatting in his grandfather’s living room, he told P.L. everything about the coins and was surprised to find that his grandfather never doubted any part of his story. The man had seen nearly one hundred years of history and had traveled from the old country of Austria to the United States just a few years before the outbreak of World War II, leaving behind his parents, who had thought it would be safe for them to stay. He had fought in World War II on the American side, had witnessed the advent of motion pictures, computers, cell phones, transoceanic aviation, space travel, and the loss of his wife and only son—if anyone could believe that multiple worlds existed beyond ours, it was P.L.; he had already seen dozens.
“Grandpa, I know you’re not a scientist,” Montaro said one afternoon when his wife and daughter were out shopping on Ocean Avenue and the two men were alone at the counter in P.L.’s kitchen. “But the more I think about the nature of these coins and the more I become convinced that they can defy gravity, matter, space, and maybe even time, the more I’m beginning to think that there would be no need for the Seventh Ship to land in order to retrieve them. If the ship does land here, it would have to be for reasons other than the coins. But I can’t for the life of me figure out what those reasons could be.”
Though Montaro had been thinking out loud as much as he had been speaking directly to his grandfather, P. L. Caine listened intently and gave Montaro the same advice he had given him so long ago: “When the time is right, the truth will reveal itself,” he said. “Listen to what you can’t see, my boy, watch what you can’t hear, listen carefully to your inner voice, and trust your instincts. When the time to act arrives, I am sure you will know how to proceed.”
The words were simple and familiar, and yet they were all Montaro needed to hear to regain his confidence. For him, his grandfather’s voice had always had a magical quality, a healing power. His company was floundering, Richard Davis’s takeover bid had not abated, the coins were beyond Montaro’s reach, and, for the time being, so were Whitney and Franklyn Walker—and also, it seemed, his daughter. And yet, P. L. Caine’s words reminded Montaro of what he already knew—that he had the power to overcome all this; after all, P. L. Caine had lived through far worse and had survived.
The night aft
er he and his family returned from Carmel, Montaro Caine sat alone in his Carlyle apartment, tired to the point of exhaustion. Part of him wanted black coffee, part of him wanted a stiff drink, but when he rose from his couch, he sought neither. Instead, he walked over to his living room desk and removed from the bottom left drawer the small, flannel bag that held the hand-carved model of the Seventh Ship. Ever since meeting Luther John Doe, Caine had often marveled at the mysterious way that nature had invested a master craftsman’s skills in the hands of a young black boy with a twisted chin, a withered leg, an unknown background, and a mind that seemed to exist in some universe light-years beyond our own. Caine had explored the surface of the carved object countless times, searching for seams that might reveal a hidden entryway, but he had never found one. And yet he didn’t doubt that at the appointed moment, somehow the ship would reveal its mysteries.
On this particular evening, Caine puzzled over the object for nearly an hour before reaching for the flannel bag to return it to his desk drawer, when, suddenly, the object began to vibrate in his hand. Stunned, he dropped it on his desk and stood from his chair. Slowly, the model of the Seventh Ship began to open. Dazzling colors and stunning three-dimensional shapes twirled around inside it. Then they billowed out of the wooden shell into Caine’s living room. Everywhere around him, colors and shapes transformed themselves into images of objects and beings that Caine had never seen or ever dreamed existed. There was no sound at all, yet the images seemed to dance to some internal music of their own. Caine felt as if he were actually hearing the colors, seeing the sounds. It was like watching a private display of the aurora borealis. Finally, the colors, shapes, and images all gathered together in a breathtaking formation above the object, at which point they suddenly froze. They remained like that, motionless, for ten seconds or so. Then, as if on cue, they instantly disappeared back into the interior of the object, which, in turn, slowly closed itself. And after the ship had closed and once again resembled nothing more remarkable than a woman’s compact, Montaro could still see a lingering image in his mind of a person he had never met and yet immediately recognized.
The time had come, just as Luther John Doe, Matthew Perch, and P. L. Caine had predicted. And it was at this point that Montaro, stunned beyond belief yet armed with new strength, felt as if he knew all that he had ever needed to know. And at this moment, too, he felt that his primary obligation was no longer to his company, or even to his family, but to an unusual man from another place and time named Matthew Perch.
35
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, CAINE GATHERED THE MOZELLES and Anna Hilburn in his living room. He had ordered breakfast for all of them, but as they sat around his table, no one touched the food or coffee. Though none of them had seen the model of the Seventh Ship open to reveal its breathtaking display, each could detect the astonishment Montaro had experienced and the new strength it had given him. He spoke, almost as if possessed.
“Something happened to me last night, something so riveting, so amazing that even I have trouble believing it, and yet I must ask you to understand that every bit of it is true,” Montaro said, his voice hushed as he told the story of what he had seen.
“From where I stand at this moment, it appears that the strands of each of our lives are being woven into a destiny still unclear, and as yet untold,” he said. “Perhaps we are closer to that destiny than we think. There is no question in my mind that we are already an inseparable part of something unique and astounding. Consider everything we have seen up to this point. Consider the minuscule particles dislodged from the original coin that have reunited with it. How could those particles perform such a feat? How could they escape an airtight cast-iron safe, whisk themselves across thousands of miles of ocean to another continent, and, there, reaffix themselves on the coin exactly where they were originally located, all in what must have been only a matter of seconds, if that long?”
Caine stood, then walked over to the desk phone. “I am going to ask your indulgence in something that might strike you as unethical,” he said. “I want you to listen in on a private conversation, if the person I am calling is available. If you’re uncomfortable with this, feel free to leave the room.”
No one moved, so Caine picked up the phone and dialed. Moments later, a voice came through the speakerphone. “Hello?”
“Is this Kritzman Fritzbrauner?” asked Caine.
“Yes …”
“Montaro Caine, here. Forgive this intrusion.”
“No intrusion, Montaro. What can I do for you?”
“Are you in your office as we speak?”
“I am.”
“Would you please go to your safe, open it, and tell me if the coin you purchased from Cordiss Krinkle is exactly where you left it?”
In the void of a silent pause, an instant alert to danger could be heard in Fritzbrauner’s voice. “Is this some kind of joke? Tell me, why should something in my safe not be where I left it?” he asked.
“Because it’s possible that the coin has disappeared, however strange that may sound to you. It is of great importance to both of us that you look. Please, I urge you, check the safe now.”
Fritzbrauner chuckled. “You have stumped me, Montaro,” he began.
“Let me be clear,” Caine interrupted, his voice somber. “Neither you nor I, nor anyone else, can claim outright ownership of either of the coins. We all have a stake in their fate, but ownership is out of the question—no matter what the price. Not even Whitney Carson Walker and her husband, in whose tiny hands the coins first entered this world, can claim outright ownership of them. Now, with the birth of their first child drawing near, I believe that something highly unusual and monumental may be about to take place, something astonishing and historic. But for now, all I’m asking is for you to please check your safe.”
After a long pause, Fritzbrauner spoke. “All right, Montaro. I will do it now.”
Through the speakerphone, Caine could hear a deep intake of breath, and then an exhalation. In a surprisingly even tone, Fritzbrauner spoke. “It’s not there, Montaro. So tell me, where is it?”
Caine chose his words carefully. “As you may recall, during dinner at your home, you asked me a question that I could not answer. You asked me what I made of that fellow Matthew Perch. At the time, I had very little knowledge of the man.”
“And now?” asked Fritzbrauner.
“Much has changed.”
“I see,” Fritzbrauner said. “But what does this Matthew Perch have to do with my safe, or the personal property in it?”
“I don’t know for sure. But I’ve come to believe that Matthew Perch is more than we have imagined. Possibly more than we are capable of imagining. His life, it seems, embodies destinies, miracles, and truths that are inextricably intertwined with your life, my life, and the lives of countless others, in ways that logic and reason cannot explain. Matthew Perch and I have never met, and yet I believe he knows everything he needs to know about me. I also believe he knows all he needs to know about you, about Roland Gabler, about Richard Davis, the Mozelles, Carrie Pittman, and about Cordiss Krinkle. In short, I believe that Matthew Perch knows each of us who has claimed or has sought to exercise control or ownership of the coins. Before a third coin arrives, as I expect it soon will, I believe that the mountain should go to Muhammad.”
“Montaro,” said Fritzbrauner, his voice snappy, “exactly what are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that you put aside your personal agenda and your judgment and, for once, believe in something other than your money,” Caine fired back.
“Well, by my judgment,” Fritzbrauner said, “that’s a very tall order. What makes you feel that any of those people you mentioned will even be received by this mysterious gentleman, even if he is all that you perceive him to be? By Howard’s own records, the man has received only two other human beings in the past twenty-six years: Mozelle’s wife and Hattie Sinclair. My take on Perch is that he is no more than an eccentric hermit who wan
ts to be left alone.”
“I respectfully disagree,” said Caine. “I firmly believe that he is waiting to meet us. And here’s something else: I also believe that what you call your ‘property,’ which by some inexplicable process has left your safe, is now in the possession of Matthew Perch.”
“Montaro,” Fritzbrauner said. “What you believe is entirely up to you. I need facts, evidence. I paid a price for a piece of property, which has now gone missing. Whatever mystical way you came by your knowledge and believe it to be in the possession of this Perch character is not enough.”
“Kritzman, I can explain the ‘how’ and the ‘why’ to you, as I understand them. As to the larger and more pressing question of ‘to what end,’ my guess is that Perch will have to provide that answer. Time is running out. This is an opportunity that may never come again.”
“A moment, Montaro,” Fritzbrauner said. “By what procedure was my property removed from my safe, and by whom? I would greatly appreciate whatever you can tell me.”
“I believe you already know the answer to that question. But you are not yet ready to accept it,” said Caine. “The truth is that you can’t win this one; but losing could teach each of us more than we ever thought we would know. There are huge, unimagined lessons waiting for us if we join forces and work together. In the end, what you hear may well be worth the money you have paid. I urge you to think about it and call me when you have reached a decision.”
Caine hung up the phone, then turned to the others in his living room. “What I’ve just told Fritzbrauner,” he said, “is what I learned last night, not through words, but through the images I saw.”
Montaro Caine: A Novel Page 25
