Montaro Caine A Novel - By Sidney Poitier Page 0,5

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 the 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