Planned Coincidence: A Thrilling Suspense Novel (International Mystery & Crime)

by Dana Arama

  An empty bus zoomed by my car, jolting me back to consciousness. It was rushing up King George Boulevard to start the daily route on schedule. I noticed a black Mercedes across the road. The driver lowered his tinted window, threw something towards me and sped up. My eyes clung to the red dot on the road. I quickly recognized Alex’s red flat cap.

  My car was where I left it. I sat down and for a long time I shivered without control.

  Chapter 5

  By the time I reached my driveway, I was already a different person. I’d found a new purpose in life. I grabbed the first notebook I came across and began scribbling the darkest thoughts I could conjure up.

  This new purpose rekindled my inner fire. Over the next few weeks, I managed to cut down considerably on my alcohol consumption and stopped wandering the streets at night. I would sit and think, day and night, scheming and planning. It took months for me to bring my plans to life, with the help of realtors, welders, sound engineers and other specialized service and supply workers. I never left the comfort of my home, managing operations by phone. Each provider was only responsible for one piece of the puzzle, and they never crossed paths - not with each other or with me. All I needed for assembling this puzzle piece by piece was time and money. Since I was alone in the world now, I had plenty of both.

  At times I got discouraged, thinking I’d never find the strength to realize this dream. I didn’t have that final piece of the puzzle. I was tuning out again, filling up the void that was my being, with dreams, bigger and stronger now, taking center stage in my life.

  I drove everyone away - again; turned to the bottle - again; and I was numb - again. I was only sustained by writing in a leather bound notebook, a constant reminder that I had something to strive for.

  Time changes some things, however. Reporters stopped showing up at my doorstep, the conversations with my beloved faded away, and I no longer walked around town aimlessly. I even stopped pointing an accusing finger at God. What I still couldn’t bring myself to accept was how the person responsible managed to escape justice and would never pay for all the suffering he had caused. I would recall my encounter with that call girl from Gan Meir. Her words surfaced every now and again, merging with the image of my son’s hand slipping from under the white sheet. Now, though, the image didn’t make me sob. It sparked a strong will within me, one which helped me clear the way for sweet revenge.

  Months passed by. The day came when I ran out of whiskey and arranged with the liquor store to send more. I was watching TV while I waited, and there it was again, that telecast of the soldier going down a dangling rope attached to a chopper hovering above a sea vessel. At the end of the rope was a deck filled with an angry mob ready to fall upon him in an angry frenzy. Suddenly, I knew where to find the puzzle piece I was missing. I was moved by his determination. Though he was being attacked, he never let go of that rope. It was amazing.

  Persistence was the missing piece I sought.

  Still, it wasn’t enough to actually move me to take action.

  I turned off the screen and sat in the dark. It was my time of reflection. Nothing but my thoughts and plans to keep me company. One day, I thought, they will come to life. I dug deeper inside my cocoon, me and my old friend patiently waiting in the bottle. I was drowning in the softness of my sofa, which became an extension of me. It gave me a sense of security and warmth, as if I was back inside the womb. Mixed together with the silence and the darkness, it became addicting.

  It was three years since the murder and two since the incident at Gan Meir. Throughout those years I received reminders of the evil that existed in my life: I had found a corpse of a cat, brutally butchered, on the roof of my car, house gates remained suspiciously open and my beautiful daffodils, planted in the front yard, were forcefully ripped out of the ground. I had learned of it from a conversation I overheard between Ahmad and Esther. I gave up reporting the Russian cigarette butts found in my yard. In response, the security company reinforced the patrols around my house yet continued to claim it was merely a neighborly prank.

  I knew they were wrong.

  As long as I was still alive, I was a threat to him. I also knew that as long as I maintained my defensive behavior, he would continue advancing towards me. He played me like a cat with a mouse. Keeping me on the verge of panic. Not letting me forget. I had to fight back. Attack. With strength, determination and brutality that I couldn’t muster.

  Besides the adrenaline rush, that image of the beaten soldier also evoked some kind of maternal instinct in me. It was the first time in many years that I did not feel defeated. The constant torment I had felt for the past three years was no longer there. I woke up from an excruciatingly long nightmare. I knew now what needed to be done to complete my life’s mission. Life had not prepared me for the mission I took upon myself, but I believed I could learn. An invisible weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I no longer felt like my face was shoved into the ground. I straightened my spine, pushed my shoulders back and began breathing again.

  That night, I did not seek to numb myself. I wanted to be alert, and resolved to keep this state of complete awareness from this day on.

  That was the first night the bottle got put back in its place, untouched.

  The sun delivered a new morning. I woke up with an urge to cleanse myself from these past couple of months and decided that a warm soak would do the trick. I drew myself a bath, sprinkled in some aromatic bath salts, and left the water running. I was pulled toward the den adjacent to my bedroom, found myself sitting behind the desk staring at an open address book. A sweet floral scent filled the room. I heard Esther opening the front door, and it sounded like she was running upstairs and barging into my bedroom. The shutters were open and the morning sun welcomed her in. I stormed out of the den to check what the commotion was all about.

  “Goodness gracious, Madam, you frightened me to death!” she exclaimed, still trying to catch her breath.

  I gave her a genuinely sober smile. “What frightened you so much, Estherikka?”

  “I heard the water running. I thought you’d passed out, with the drinking and all. I was sure you were drowning. These things happen, you know.”

  “I have no intention of doing so. Heavens, Estherikka - drowning?” I could tell she was surprised by my vigor; her jaw dropped and she looked at me dazedly. I turned toward my bathroom and slipped off my robe. “I’d love some breakfast when I’m done.” I could sense she was smiling. I felt the warmth of her joy embracing me.

  Clean and appropriately perfumed, I came down and sat beside the patio table. My breakfast looked inviting. On my right was a plate with two slices of toast, lightly buttered. In front of me was an oval plate with eggs sunny side up and runny in the middle—just the way I like them, with a side of mixed vegetable salad—perfectly cubed, fresh, and bursting with color. I ate the toast, dipping it in the yolk, while nibbling on my salad. I ate until I was sated. I took in the morning air. The air was moist. After all, it was June, but it didn’t bother me at all. I was amazed by the world at hand. Life welcomed me back with open arms. It had been weeks since I visited the garden for no particular reason. Perhaps it was a form of punishment, denying myself the joy I had always felt in the presence of Mother Nature’s gifts: the blooming flowers, the crisp morning chill, the drops of dew shimmering in the light of dawn. For years, I'd forced a life of darkness and gloom upon myself. Seldom would I turn on the garden lights while slouching on my sofa. Even then, it was only during late evening hours. I took comfort in the sight of my hedge growing tall, guarding me from the world, blocking out everyone, friend or foe.

  I went back up to the den. It used to be Dan’s workspace, and even though I had made it my own, after his death, I hadn’t changed a thing about it. I was still expecting to see him there every time I walked in, sitting in front of his antique desk or resting in one of his matching armchairs, the floor lamp beaming on the green velvety cover making all the diamonds fan out, shimmering bright like a st
arry night. We used to spend a lot of time in that room. He would choose one unique diamond and place it on the back of my hand to examine it closely. It would always lead up to the same phrase: “Such exquisite fingers, you know, you could model for me if only you’d quit hurting those hands with your sculptures.”

  "I’ll never be able to give up sculpting,” I used to reply, or I’d sometimes say, “There are plenty of models with amazing hands.”

  The room was pleasant to walk into. I was glad I had opened the windows earlier in the morning. The room needed it after being dark for so long. The address book was waiting for me. I sat down, opened it, and started dialing numbers. Yoram, my liaison at the bank, Dorit, my diligent gallery manager, and Oded, the private eye, were surprised to hear from me, but responded quickly. The appointment book got some use for the first time in over a year. Coming back to life was easier than expected, at least at that point in time.

  I walked over to the safe. Inside was a big binder overflowing with paperwork regarding the case, including newspaper clippings, local and foreign, with respective translations, and all sorts of photos. I had ignored them for months, though I had shed countless tears and made endless promises of revenge over them. I sat in front of the desk and opened the portfolio, as if I was looking through it for the first time. I was sure something new would pop up, a clue I might have overlooked. I felt so rejuvenated this morning - enough to take a fresh new look at the information, as if it had just happened.

  Oded connected me with three private detectives from three different continents to help me gather information from across the world. Still, I was sure it would take a lot of digging into for the information to be of use. I sorted the information in three categories: first, by the investigator’s name; second, by date; and the third - the most intriguing category- following the timeline of the man who had influenced my life so deeply.

  My first piece of information regarding this man was collected from a photocopy of his birth certificate and its translation. I learned that Sergey Vlotzky was born in the city of St. Petersburg to a woman named Galina Vlotzky. His father was listed as unknown. Next, I managed to put my hands on what looked like copies of police reports. According to their translations, when Sergey was ten, he was suspected of stabbing his mother and her lover in their bed. The bodies were discovered two weeks later in a state of advanced decomposition.

  Additional police records reported that after the murder he walked the streets, joined a gang, and climbed the ladder of violence until he had overpowered all the other members and became their leader. The gang’s main occupation was shoplifting food, assault and battery against the homeless, and street robbery. When he was arrested and accused of assault and battery at a train station, the prosecution included the murder under the same case order, and he was tried for both. In his testimony, the social worker assigned to the case pointed out that, “(He is) one of the youngest to have ever arrived at this juvenile detention center. Leniency should be considered when deciding his verdict and he should be sent to an orphanage. In any case, his chances of surviving there are slim.”

  The Russian orphanage resembled a jail. Survival there was as brutal as in any regular penitentiary. Setting his teacher’s lounge on fire was a clear signal that Sergey belonged elsewhere, and he was sent to Juvenile Hall, to which he should have been sent originally. Later, it was discovered that, after gaining his wealth, Sergey donated large amounts to that orphanage. It wasn’t out of kindness that he did this, but cold hearted business instinct instead. He used the orphanage to recruit boys for his gang, whom he could train and use at will.

  Juvenile Hall was testing a new treatment plan involving sessions with psychologists. It was reserved for a handful of boys deeply rooted in violence. Sergey, though very young, was among those boys. In all his years at Juvenile Hall, he participated in dozens of sessions. All the psychologists who treated him came to the same conclusion. The boy, by that time a teen, was a sadistic psychopath, with an ability to ‘play’ the therapist during the session, all the time gaining knowledge about normal behavior, which made him even more of a threat to society.

  The sessions stopped when he reached the age of fourteen. From that point on, I could get a somewhat clear picture of his life only through periodic reports from juvie. They held detailed accounts of what he went through in that cold and dangerous place. His behavior became more violent: stabbing older inmates, leading mutinies, being sent to solitary confinement, attacking a doctor with a knife, and an escape attempt. I assumed that this behavior had something to do with his need to survive that place, but still, I could not feel even an inkling of compassion toward him.

  I pushed the folder away. It annoyed me. I was now, just as I had been years before, when I first laid eyes on these documents, full of self-hatred for what I had done to my family and myself. He wasn’t just another flirtatious guy whom I used in order to help me feel that thrill again. He was an evil man who had targeted me. He knew my weakness, the sure way to make me feel guilty for the rest of my life. He was right when he said I would never forget him. I never did.

  Nor would I ever forgive him.

  I moved on to the next folder. The documents revealed no new information about his personality, only his continuous advance in the criminal world. These were from the 1980s. He was playing with the ‘big boys’ now, and was arrested several times as an adult after his release from juvie. It was the years when the communist regime, as the western world saw it, was fading, giving way to a flourishing ‘free market.’ Sergey quickly seized the opportunity to its fullest. National deprivation was extreme. It was not only food, clothes and cigarettes; the market was wide open to medication, gasoline, and weapons. The market was not really free and the deprivation was not due to lack of supplies. When the Soviet Union opened its gates to the west, it was swamped with supplies, but it all went to those who were either close to the government or to criminal organizations. At this stage of his life, Sergey was already head of a big gang. His people robbed warehouses and took control over the stock, selling it at a high price and eliminating all their opponents in the process.

  The next set of documents revealed the next decade of his life. It included many photos. Sergey looked like the man I knew: tall, strong, and surrounded by bodyguards. Most of the photographs were taken in Israel. In some of them, a tall blonde lady appeared beside him. Her face was never caught by the camera. Wide brimmed hats or long blonde hair always covered her features well. Unlike her, Sergey was always caught facing the camera, as if he was telling the photographer, “Go ahead, take your shots, I have nothing to hide.” In some photos, he appeared with that charming grin of his, and a look that said, “I know you’re there behind the bushes, sweating like a pig for the sake of this stakeout. I’m going home to lounge about and enjoy my fully air-conditioned apartment.”

  One of the most shocking reports about him was the testimony of a young woman. It was a couple of pages long, each page filled to the limit with tiny letters, transcribing her words unedited. Two photos were clipped to the report, before and after - one showed a deep scar running across her face, while the other was from before she had been brutally deformed. I read that report so many times, I knew it by heart. I felt connected to this young lady, her fear and her helplessness. According to her, while she was out with her boyfriend strolling in the park, Sergey and his accomplice cornered them.

  Her description of Sergey was much like I pictured him in my imagination, twenty years younger and twenty kilos thinner. Most of her physical recollection consisted of descriptions of his accomplice, using phrases like ‘angel face’ and ‘face of a model,’ which was the complete opposite of her recollections of the event itself: “They beat up my boyfriend until he was unconscious, then they woke him up so he could watch them rape me over and over. After the rape, they stabbed him to death, kidnapped me, and were about to pimp me.” Luck was on her side when a fire broke at the warehouse she was held at, which allowed her escape.
She concluded her testimony with a surprising note: “I couldn’t really understand why they were raping me. It seemed as if they were more aroused by each other, making out with such passion. It’ll always remain a mystery to me whether they were homosexuals or not.” It was never established if, in fact, it was Sergey. He was able, quite miraculously, to establish an alibi placing him far away from the rape scene.

  I tightened her photo to my chest. I knew very well that my fate could have easily been hers. Sergey was creative with his torture. He had come up with a different hell for me. I had first-hand knowledge that not all of his victims were lucky enough to evade their grim fate. I had evidence. The beautiful hand peeking from under the white sheet was one of them. There was also the silence in my house, and my empty life.

  I moved to the floor and arranged the photos in rows, until it looked like they were the carpet. I examined them closely. A few questions came to mind, but the most bothersome concerned the day we first met. What was so special about that Tuesday? Why was Sergey without his bodyguards that day? I circled the tapestry of photos. I looked at every angle possible. How could I get him to be alone like that again?

  Chapter 6

  Oded arrived later that afternoon, parking his motorcycle on an oil stain at the end of the pathway. The stain was a mark of his previous visits. He walked straight into the kitchen and kissed Esther on her cheek. The hours he spent in my home when I was desperate for information had bonded them. Esther armed him with a cup of coffee and sent him to the patio. I was wearing an all-white cotton ensemble. I felt peaceful, like I was an integral part of the blooming garden in front of me.