“Breathe easy,” Anna Hilburn told her patient. “Breathe.”
In the birthing room, there was a sense that something miraculous and otherworldly was taking place, and yet, there was nothing particularly unusual about this. Even after so many years, Anna Hilburn and Howard Mozelle still found every birth to be a miracle, the transporting of a small, living being from one world into another.
Another pain stabbed through Whitney’s body and she clutched Franklyn’s hand so hard, it seemed to him as if his wedding ring might just break off his finger at the knuckle. Franklyn shut his eyes and clenched his teeth while Whitney cried out, emitting a loud, low sound that seemed to come from deep within her.
“Push, child,” Anna said softly to Whitney. “It’s almost time.”
Anna knew that the baby would be born in moments—she didn’t have to look at Whitney to know this. The baby was announcing its entrance, and it didn’t have to say a word.
One floor below, the Mt. Sinai conference room was a different world entirely. Everyone at the four conference tables had arranged themselves into configurations that represented their apparent allegiances. At one table sat Kritzman Fritzbrauner, his daughter Colette, Herman Freich, Verna Fontaine, Roland Gabler, and their lawyer Julius Hargrove. Hargrove was a stout, broad-shouldered man with more hair on his knuckles than on his head, and he looked every bit the part of one of New York’s most-feared attorneys. At another table sat more attorneys from Hargrove’s firm. To Caine, the most conspicuous aspect of that table was not who was sitting at it but who wasn’t—his old friend Larry Buchanan, who still wasn’t in these lawyers’ echelon. At Caine’s own table sat his family’s lawyer, Gordon Whitcombe, Elsen Mozelle, and four empty chairs, which would have been occupied by Anna Hilburn, Howard Mozelle, and Whitney and Franklyn Walker, had they not been busy on the floor above. And at the last table sat Luther John Doe, his caretaker, Tom Lund, Carrie Pittman, Richard Walmeyer, Michael Chasman, and Hattie Sinclair.
At the center of the room stood Montaro Caine. For him, the road to this day seemed to have begun forty-six years earlier when his father had died, but in fact, it had started even earlier than that, perhaps months before Dr. Robert Caine’s arrival in New York, when Luther John Doe had carved a model of a ship for a boy he had never met. Or perhaps it had begun hundreds of thousands of years before that, when the Seventh Ship had journeyed from its dying world into space in search of a planet whose sun would not die so soon. That model that Luther had carved was now in Montaro’s jacket pocket.
As an eight-year-old child, Montaro could not have had any idea of the significance Robert Caine’s death would have on the world around him, only the impact that tragic death had on his own tiny world and that of his mother and his grandfather. Now he understood that, from the moment Robert Caine had died in that airplane crash outside Kansas City, his father’s life and his untimely passing had led everyone in this room to this particular moment, intertwining all of their fates. Even the future of Montaro’s company seemed to lie in the hands of two babies born twenty-six years ago, and in the hands of their baby who was busy being born upstairs.
Though at this moment he stood alone, Montaro took strength from those around him, from the living and from the dead. He took strength from the confidence his wife and daughter still had in him; he took strength from the examples his parents had set; and he took strength from the words that P. L. Caine had spoken to him when he was a boy, and again when he was a man: “A man has to stand up to hard times no matter what.” No matter how hard these times may have been, Montaro was standing firmly and he felt strong. Not long ago, he might have needed a drink to steady his resolve. Even more recently, he might have felt exhausted and wanted nothing more than a few hours of peaceful sleep. Now, he felt as awake and alert as he ever had.
The conference room was abuzz with nervous anticipation. The lawyers and executives at Julius Hargrove’s table were discussing percentages, fees, and technical definitions of ownership. Those at Montaro’s table were speculating about what Howard Mozelle might find when Whitney’s child was born. One coin? Two? Coins similar to the ones that they had already seen? Different coins entirely? Ones depicting new celestial configurations? Montaro’s own mind was swirling with the words he planned to use to address the room. But the moment he cleared his throat and made as if to speak, a deadly quiet took possession of the room. He thought that everybody was looking at him, but in fact, nobody was.
Instead, everyone in the room had turned to focus on the conference room’s revolving door, which had begun to turn as if of its own accord. Standing in the doorway, there appeared a tall, lean black man. He seemed to be in his middle years, with a still handsome face and salt-and-pepper hair.
Several audible gasps were heard as the man took a few steps into the room, then looked around, his eyes resting for a moment on each of the four tables. Tears streamed down Hattie Sinclair’s and Elsen Mozelle’s cheeks, and they caught each other’s eyes across the tables. Though decades had passed, the man’s face appeared little changed.
Montaro immediately knew who the man was; yes, some things you could know without ever having been told.
For his part, Julius Hargrove looked on suspiciously. Though he had not called the meeting and was not in charge of the agenda, he was used to being in control. Since no one else had spoken to the self-possessed, dark-skinned stranger in their midst, Hargrove stood up and looked around at the other tables, then gestured toward the man and approached him. “Sir,” he said, “are you an invited guest, or an employee of the hospital?”
The man took his time before answering. “I believe I have been invited,” he finally said. “But no, I’m not an employee. I am here as an observer. I am here to see, to listen, and to remember.”
“Are you with the press?” Hargrove asked.
“No, I am not,” the man answered, at which point Elsen Mozelle stood.
“Mr. Hargrove,” Elsen said as she wiped her eyes. “This gentleman is very well known to me and also to Hattie Sinclair.”
“Who is he?” Hargrove asked. “What’s your name?”
“Matthew Perch,” the man replied.
Hargrove smiled, and yet his smile was neither kind nor welcoming. “Ah, you’re the elusive Mr. Perch,” he said. “You’re the one who cures cancer with bush medicine. We hear that you are a miracle worker in that regard. You are indeed welcome here, Mr. Perch. Your reputation precedes you. My apology to you. Please take a seat.”
But Perch remained standing, and then, after surveying the scene, seeming to diagnose it as he would a patient, he turned and began to move toward the revolving door. Hargrove followed Perch through that door and out into the main hallway. For a man of his age, Hargrove moved quickly but not quickly enough. He had to shout to make himself heard: “Mr. Perch, a word or two with you.”
Matthew Perch slowed his pace but did not stop.
“Sir,” Hargrove said when he had finally caught up to Perch, “my firm is here as part of Mr. Fritzbrauner’s, Mr. Davis’s, and Mr. Gabler’s legal representation. We are here to fashion a fair and just resolution as to who, among the people present today, are the true owners of the items at the center of this complex issue; who, in light of the laws of the United States, are the legal owner, or owners, of the two coins in question. I am sure you are aware of the coins I’m referring to.”
But all that Hargrove was saying seemed to sound like inconsequential gibberish to Perch, who stopped for only a moment before raising his hand to silence the lawyer. “I am going to the delivery room,” he said. “I don’t think it would be wise for you to follow me there.”
Hargrove had always known that his success in corporate law was largely attributable to his ability to read both his clients and their opponents in the world of industry. But now, a warning sign rattled within him. He instantly understood that Perch might be a man he could not read.
“No,” Hargrove answered, his voice now significantly quieter and
less self-assured. “You are right, of course.”
“Good,” said Perch. “You can raise whatever issues you wish upon my return.”
Upstairs, Matthew Perch entered the delivery room unseen. Whitney was pushing hard as her husband held her hand, while Anna Hilburn reached for the baby, whose head of slick black hair was now clearly visible.
“He’s crowning,” said Anna, and Whitney gave a throaty moan that seemed to make the whole room vibrate. When Whitney closed her eyes tight to fend off the pain, she saw swirling colors and shapes, a spectacular, private display. At the foot of the hospital bed stood Dr. Mozelle, who caught a glimpse of Perch—he stood there as if he had always been there, as if he had never left, as if he was standing where he had always belonged. The men shared a silent nod of recognition as Whitney gave another strong push accompanied by yet another, even louder, deeper moan.
Franklyn gently placed a cool towel on his wife’s forehead while Dr. Mozelle moved closer to his patient.
“There you are,” said Mozelle as he saw the baby’s head. “Whitney, you’re almost there.”
“Breathe, honey,” said Franklyn. He gave his wife his hand again and she squeezed it gently, then harder.
“Ready, honey?” Franklyn asked.
Whitney managed a small smile. Yes, she was ready. She gave another push.
And now, the baby slid out of her body—a slippery boy with a mass of dark curls upon his head. When Franklyn cut the umbilical cord, Whitney trembled and cried, a cry that turned into happy laughter as she watched Anna Hilburn wrap the baby in a clean white towel. Tears appeared in Franklyn’s eyes as Anna handed the baby to Franklyn, who brought the baby to his wife. Whitney grasped the bundle and clutched it to her chest.
The new parents beamed at each other, both of them crying now. They had no consciousness of Dr. Mozelle or Anna Hilburn or of Matthew Perch standing before them. They seemed to have forgotten the cameras in the room and the conference room full of people one floor below. Franklyn sat at the edge of the bed with his arm around Whitney. She rested her head on his shoulder. They both smiled at their first child, his tiny eyes closed.
Then, the baby opened his eyes. He squirmed underneath his swaddling blanket, and as he did, Whitney understood that he was trying to do something; he was trying to open his hands.
41
DOWNSTAIRS IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM, THE LUNCH PLATES had been cleared, coffee was being served, and Julius Hargrove was standing at the podium, speaking of the coins that had disappeared from Kritzman Fritzbrauner’s and Roland Gabler’s possession. Directing his remarks toward the table where Montaro Caine was seated, Hargrove said he hoped that whoever had removed the coins from the safes would now return them to their rightful owners; then a discussion could begin regarding how an agreement about shared ownership could be reached. Hargrove discussed what Caine’s diminished role might consist of in a restructured Fitzer Corporation led by Richard Davis. He emphasized the fact that, despite Montaro’s industrial and scientific expertise and his years of leading the company, Davis’s extensive experience in management and finance would be indispensable when it came to exploiting the properties of the coins. But midway through that thought, Hargrove noticed that everyone had stopped listening to him. All eyes were focused on the conference room’s revolving door.
Hargrove turned to see Howard Mozelle and Matthew Perch reentering the room. Mozelle, dressed in the suit that he had worn under his scrubs, seemed deep in thought.
“Well, Doctor?” Hargrove asked simply, “How did it go?”
Mozelle stood silent for a moment, then approached Hargrove at the podium. “Exactly as I had hoped,” he said, speaking specifically to Hargrove but loudly enough so that the people gathered at the tables could hear. “Mother and child are doing well. Anna’s taking care of them.”
Hargrove proceeded to interrogate the doctor as Matthew Perch looked on impassively. “Can you tell us if there was anything surprising or unusual about the extremities of the baby—its arms, its legs, its hands?”
“What, in your view, would be surprising or unusual?” asked Mozelle.
“An object in one of the child’s hands, for instance, perhaps a coin,” said Hargrove.
“Well,” replied Mozelle, “then I would say that there was something surprising but nothing unusual.”
“What was in the baby’s hands?” Hargrove asked.
“Nothing at all,” said Mozelle.
Murmurs of disbelief were heard throughout the conference room. Fritzbrauner and Gabler looked at each other, the former puzzled, the latter suspicious. Richard Davis loudly cleared his throat. Colette Beekman appeared to tremble. Several men at one of Hargrove’s tables stood up. Surprise registered on just about everyone’s face, save for those of Tom Lund, Luther John Doe, and Montaro Caine, who had endured so much in these last months that little could surprise him anymore.
“The baby opened his eyes,” said Mozelle. “Then he opened his little hands. I thought one or two coins would fall out, but nothing did.”
“Then what in the world was he doing when he opened his hands?” asked Hargrove.
Matthew Perch stepped forward. “He was reaching out to his mother and father,” he said. “As any newborn child would.”
“It was all filmed as we agreed,” said Mozelle. “You’ll be able to see for yourself.”
“No coins?” Hargrove asked.
“None,” said Perch.
“Nothing unusual, you say?”
“Miraculous, yes. But no, nothing unusual.”
Hargrove now seemed more curious than combative; even he could not resist the commanding, hypnotic presence of Matthew Perch. “But do you have any idea why?” he asked. “We all assumed … Everybody here, we had all been told …”
“Because there is no need for coins anymore,” Perch said, interrupting. “The first coins already did the work they were needed for.”
“What work was that?” asked Hargrove.
“They brought Whitney Carson and Franklyn Walker together, and then they brought all of you together,” said Perch. “The child is always the miracle, not any object it was or wasn’t holding. The first coins were brought here by the remnants of a dying civilization, one many light-years away from this one. The coins could have appeared in the hands of any of a number of human beings, but they appeared to Franklyn and Whitney, who, as they have grown up, have proven why they were chosen—for their honesty, their decency, their openness, their ability to believe. These are among the qualities that allow a species to survive. These coins were given to Whitney and Franklyn to show all of you the way forward. All of you have been waiting for something physical to happen, something you can see with your own eyes, but perhaps the most important thing that the coins have brought is something that’s inside of you. The knowledge contained within the coins, if it is used properly, can save this planet’s inhabitants from dying out one day too, can keep it from suffering the same fate that the travelers on the Seventh Ship journeyed all this distance to escape.”
Silence ensued. Hargrove considered what Perch said, weighing its improbability against the certainty with which it had been said. Now, when Hargrove spoke, his tone was noticeably softer. “What happened to the other coins? The ones Whitney and Franklyn were born holding? The ones my clients purchased?” he asked.
“I believe Montaro Caine can help you answer that question as well as I can,” said Perch.
Montaro looked back at Perch, at first uncertain of the man’s meaning. When Montaro had first met Tom Lund, he had asked him about Perch. He now remembered Lund’s response. Lund had said that he didn’t know Perch, but, he added, when Montaro did meet him, he “should look him right in the eye and let him see who it is that you really are. He will not be able to see who you are without letting you see who he is.”
As he looked Matthew Perch straight in the eye, as Lund had counseled, Montaro saw a man whose kindness and self-assurance reminded him very much of his own fathe
r. And it was at this moment, when Montaro was remembering the smile on his father’s face, the gentleness of Robert Caine’s touch, the depth of the man’s brilliance and his capacity for understanding, that he felt something faintly vibrating in the pocket of his blazer and he began to understand why Perch was staring at him so expectantly. Montaro reached inside and felt the small flannel bag that contained the model Luther John Doe had carved of the Seventh Ship. He took the bag out of his pocket, and when he looked up, he saw that Luther was staring straight back at him. Caine turned to Matthew Perch, who in turn looked to Luther.
Caine walked toward the podium. “If you please,” he said. “There is someone here I’d like all of you to meet. Some of you here are familiar with him and his story. His name is Luther John Doe. Luther, would you mind joining me up here?”
Luther nodded cautiously. He stood and moved slowly toward the front of the room, accompanied by the bullish and somewhat stocky orderly who had accompanied him on the trip to Manhattan. Luther’s physical condition seemed to have deteriorated even since Caine had seen him. The severe deformity of his hip and right leg made it all but impossible for him to maintain even the slightest degree of balance without his aide’s help. When Luther had taken his place beside Caine, he rested one hand upon the podium, using it for support.
“Do you know why you’re here, Luther?” Caine asked.
Bewilderment gathered on Luther’s face and a touch of panic seemed to seize his body. “I’m here because you and Dr. Mozelle sent me an invitation. You know that,” he said.
“That’s true enough,” said Montaro with a gentle smile. “Well, then tell me this. How do you feel about being here?”
A long pause held while Luther appeared to examine his feelings.
“I guess I feel important being here, with all these important people,” he finally said.
“Surprised?” Caine asked.
Montaro Caine: A Novel Page 28