Montaro Caine A Novel - By Sidney Poitier Page 0,90

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.”

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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