Coincidence

by David Ambrose

Genres: Suspense; Siblings; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

From the critically acclaimed author of The Man Who Turned Into Himself and Superstition comes a truly bizarre and mind-twisting tale of murder, suspense, and coincidence. Isn't it odd how you can just be thinking about someone and they happen to call you on the phone that very moment? Or when you come across a picture of a friend you haven't seen in years and she suddenly bumps into you on the street the next day? That type of thing happened to George all the time, which is why he started investigating the fascinating world of coincidences and synchronicities. In fact, it's while writing a book on the subject that the most remarkable experience of his life occurs: he runs into Larry Hart, the identical twin brother he never knew he had. Or so he believes. As George gets to know this newfound twin brother, stranger and stranger things begin happening, until George realizes that Larry is not really his identical twin, but someone else entirely. While trying to get to the bottom of the identity of his mysterious twin, George discovers the real reason for coincidences and synchronicities-and why they're not nearly as innocent as they seem. Based on the real metaphysics of synchronicities, Coincidence is a chilling and suspenseful novel about one man's search for the reason behind coincidences-and the shocking and murderous truths he uncovers.

Release date: September 9, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 328

Sample

It started with my father’s death. At least, that was how it seemed at the time. Now, looking back, I realize how impossible
it is to be sure where anything really begins; or, for that matter, where, or even whether, it has ended.


I was alone at our apartment in Manhattan for the weekend. My wife, Sara, was in Chicago checking out a couple of young artists
who were exhibiting there. She had her own gallery downtown in TriBeCa and a reputation for bringing new talent to the attention
of a sophisticated market at just the right time. It was Sunday evening and I’d spent the day alone, trying to work up an
idea for a new book. I write nonfiction books that occupy a kind of no-man’s-land between real science and fantastical speculation.
I’ve dealt with poltergeists, ESP of various kinds, stone circles, ley lines, the pyramids. You get the idea. I have a good
time and never knowingly write junk. I mean I don’t just invent stuff or make claims unless I can support them with at least
a respectable amount of evidence. They’re not best-sellers, but at least they do well enough to keep my publishers coming
back for more, so I suppose I can’t complain. But I didn’t have the vaguest notion what my next subject was going to be. I
felt I was in a dead end, written out. Nothing would come together no matter how long I cudgeled my brain in search of a theme
or framework that had some spark of novelty.


Around six-thirty I poured myself a scotch and took it out on the terrace, where I watched the lights coming up across the
park. It was the time of year when the trees were turning into a rich blend of copper, gold, and red. Looking at them made
me think of New England and that whole East Coast, and of the small town where my father lived in a retirement home. I’d spoken
to him on the phone earlier in the day, as I did most weekends. I went up to see him every couple of months or so, and I was
about due for another visit. Maybe I’d go up at the end of the week, I told myself, or at the very latest the week after.


It was at that moment, when the image of my father and his sad, frustrated life were at the forefront of my mind, that the
phone rang. I went inside to answer it. It was Abigail Tucker, the superintendent of the home. I knew at once from the tone
of her voice that he was dead. A heart attack, she said, less than an hour ago.


I thanked her for letting me know so quickly and said I’d take a train up in the morning. She agreed that there was no point
in my rushing up immediately. She herself would make arrangements with the funeral home if I wished. I said I would be grateful
for that and thanked her again.


When I hung up I didn’t move for some time, just stood there looking at my reflection in the window, watching it grow clearer
moment by moment as the light outside faded. What were you supposed to feel, I asked myself, on learning of your father’s
death? Was there something specific, something deep-rooted in the psyche, a special sense of loss? Or growth perhaps? And
how remarkable that I should have been thinking of him at that very moment when the call came.


Except, of course, it wasn’t remarkable at all. The association of trees, New England, the fact of having spoken to him that
morning, and of feeling slightly guilty about putting off my next visit to him as long as I could explained the coincidence.
But I felt no rush of remorse, no sense of unfinished business as a result of having missed that last chance to see him, no
lack of “closure,” as your local corner therapist would call it. I felt nothing that I hadn’t been feeling half an hour earlier.
The only difference was that my father had been alive then and was dead now. A simple fact.


But, although -I didn’t consciously know it then, I had found both the subject and the title of my next book.

Coincidence.

The sky was overcast when I stepped off the train and crossed the footbridge to where a taxi waited to take me the last three
miles to the home. As we wound up the hill I looked out at the familiar sights passing by, seeing them for the last time—and
feeling, to be honest, little apart from relief that I would not have to make this journey again.


At least, I told myself, he had been well looked after. The place hadn’t been cheap and had eaten up my father’s modest capital
as well as his pension, and had still required several thousand a year from my own pocket. But it was money I’d been happy
to pay. Somehow it made up for the lack of warmth between us, allowing me to feel that I at least had done everything I possibly
could, and that it was my father who had resented me and kept me at arm’s length all my life, not I who had in any way let
down, betrayed, or walked away from him.


Sara, to her credit, had been as anxious as I was to ensure that he was given the best possible care when it became obvious
five years ago that he was no longer fit to live alone. Two falls and a growing drink habit had done that. He wasn’t an alcoholic;
it was just something to do. He was bored. My father had been bored, and bitter, almost all of his adult life. He had continued
to drink in the home, though far less; it wasn’t one of those regimented places that regarded old people as an inconvenience
to be drugged senseless and kept out of the way as much as possible. They had their own rooms and, within reason, their own
routines.


Mrs. Tucker appeared at the door of the handsome old house as I got out of my taxi. She was a pleasant-looking woman around
forty, dressed casually for the country and looking more like a favorite aunt than some matronly superintendent. She took
me into her office, which looked onto a broad sweep of tree-covered countryside. I was impressed by the efficiency with which
she had assembled all the necessary paperwork, but then reflected that this was not exactly a routine she was unaccustomed
to in her line of work. Tea was brought in as we took care of everything, after which she drove me to the chapel of rest,
where my father’s body had been taken the previous night. He was lying in a “temporary casket”; I almost embarrassed myself
by laughing out loud when I heard it called that.


We had already decided that the funeral was to be the following morning, Tuesday. There were no far-flung relatives to be
informed and who would need time to make travel arrangements, therefore no sense in waiting. I had spoken to Sara, who said
she would be back in New York late Monday and would either take a train or drive up early Tuesday. I told her it wasn’t essential
she be there and I would understand if she was too busy, but she wouldn’t hear of not coming.


It only remained for me to pick the casket in which he would be buried. I chose the one I thought he would have chosen himself:
simple to the point of being ascetic, but in the best materials and workmanship available. My father appreciated quality but
dismissed with scorn anything that he felt could be described as chichi. Design for him was governed by function, all unnecessary
ornamentation being regarded as the worst form of original sin.


I spent the afternoon going through the things in his room. It was bare and anonymous compared with some of the other rooms
I glimpsed through open doors as I made my way along the corridor to his. Most people had pictures of their family, treasured
possessions accumulated over a lifetime, gifts sent by friends and relatives. My father had nothing of that kind. A few books,
mostly thrillers and adventure stories; a couple of suits, some sweaters and casual clothes; four pairs of shoes. The only
things in his drawers, most of which were empty, were socks, shirts, and underwear. I found his wallet in a bedside drawer.
It contained a few dollars in cash, his driver’s license that he hung on to though he hadn’t driven in years, and a few yellowing
business cards. In the same drawer was a key ring with two small keys that looked as though they might fit a briefcase or
a piece of luggage. I had found nothing of that kind in the room, but, as I double-checked, a young woman called Shirley who
was on duty that afternoon put her head around the door. She had a round face and a bright smile, and I knew that she had
made repeated efforts to draw my father out of his shell, all to no avail. She asked if I needed any help or whether I might
like a cup of coffee or anything else. I thanked her and said I was fine, then gave her one half-empty and one unopened bottle
of whisky from my father’s drinks cabinet and suggested she pass them to one of the gardeners or keep them herself, whatever
she chose. I also asked if she could arrange to give away his clothes if they were of use to anyone, otherwise perhaps send
them to some local charity shop. She said she would see to it.


“By the way,” she said, “would you like someone to bring up your father’s chest from the store room, or will you deal with
it down there?”


“Chest?” I said, surprised, because I had no memory of his having had any such thing when I helped him move in. “How big?”

“Fairly large,” she said, using her hands to make a shape in the air that suggested a substantial piece of luggage.

“Is it locked?”

“I don’t know.”

I looked at the keys that I still held in my hand.

“I’ll come down,” I said, “if you’ll show me where it is.”

The store room, which had been a four-car garage when the house had been privately owned, was a window-less cavern with two
long strips of overhead lighting. One of the gardeners hauled a battered, ribbed traveling trunk down from a shelf and dragged
it into the middle of the concrete floor. He was delighted when Shirley presented him with the bottles of whisky I had given
her, then they both tactfully withdrew to let me go through my father’s things in private.


Both locks snapped open like mousetraps, but I hesitated a moment before lifting the lid. My first thought was that a trunk
this size must almost certainly contain some of my father’s paintings. My father, I should explain, was an unsuccessful artist
who had given up in despair and bitterness and finished his working life behind the counter in a gentlemen’s haberdashery.
After he had been doing that for about a year my mother died—of an accidental overdose, according to the coroner’s verdict.
I, however, was convinced and still am that it was suicide. My father took his sense of failure out on her, not in any brutish
physical way, but with a thousand little mental cruelties. All my life (I was twenty when she died) I had heard his peevish
references to the way in which domestic chains were death to an artist’s soul. Looking back now, it was almost as though he
were preparing himself for a failure that in his heart he knew was unavoidable, and making sure that the blame could be laid
elsewhere than on himself. Whether he really had talent or none at all I never knew. When he finally faced up to the fact
that the success he yearned for had eluded him, he destroyed all his paintings in one frenzied afternoon and forbade any mention
of them in his presence ever again.


So it was with mixed feelings that I finally opened the battered old trunk in that dark bunker of a place. My father’s paintings,
though I had lived with them for so many years, had left only the dimmest of memories in me: vague, abstract landscapes, a
sparing use of color, nothing that sprang to the eye any more than now sprang to mind. As I pushed back the lid I didn’t know
whether to expect a painful confirmation of my father’s mediocrity or whether to prepare myself for the even more painful
discovery that he had been a true though neglected talent. Would it not be a bitter irony, I mused, if I could persuade Sara
of his work’s value and have her establish some small posthumous reputation for him?


But of course, and perhaps not for the first time, I found I had misjudged him. The trunk contained only bric-a-brac, the
detritus of life that he had never found time or made the effort to throw away. Or perhaps this trunk was the place where
he’d thrown it away and then forgotten about it. I rummaged through old cameras, a broken radio, a box of cheap cuff links
that had never been opened, books, letters, a scattering of old photographs, and a couple of albums into which several more
photographs had been fixed.


There was also a stack of yellowing old newspapers. They were intact, not cuttings, though most of them had been folded open
at some particular page. Glancing through, I saw that several carried reviews of exhibitions my father had held over the years
at various obscure galleries in out-of-the-way places. Their tone ranged from the dismissive to the patronizing, and I felt
a sudden pang of sympathy for the poor man faced with this response to the work into which I knew he had poured everything
he had to offer. It just hadn’t been enough, that was all. There is a theory that provided you know you’ve done your best,
then failure isn’t so hard to bear. I don’t think that’s true. I think the worst thing of all must be to do your best, to
work and slave and wring the last drop of talent you can find out of yourself, then to be told you’ve wasted your time, that
you were never up to the endeavor in the first place.


I knelt there for some moments with a terrible sense of heartbreak for my father’s wasted life, as well as for the undeserved
misery into which his failure had dragged my poor, unassuming, unambitious mother. Tears stung my eyes. As I wiped them away,
I realized that this was the moment of mourning I had not allowed myself so far: which, indeed, I had persuaded myself I had
no need of. I had wept for my mother long ago, but never thought I would for him. I had been wrong again. He was my father,
and whatever his faults I couldn’t help but cherish him in some corner of my heart, and champion his heroism in attempting
the dauntingly impossible task in life that he had set himself.


There is an odd and poignant fascination in old photographs. I picked up a handful that lay there in the trunk and started
looking through them. They were mostly of holidays on various stretches of New England coastline, some taken before I was
born and showing my parents as a handsome and happy young couple whom I could barely recognize as the same people I had grown
up with. There were several of me as a child during one long and wonderful summer when we’d been lent a small house on Cape
Cod. I remember my father painting happily all day while my mother and I went sailing with our neighbors, who had two boys
about my own age. That summer was the best time of my childhood. Looking back, I think it was the last good time my parents
had together; it was certainly the last good time we had together as a family.


I picked up one of the albums, wondering what memories my parents (most likely, I thought, my mother) had found worthy of
preserving in this special way. The pictures stuck onto the plain gray pages all dated from before my birth, though only just.
In a couple of them my mother was heavily pregnant. These too were happy pictures, most of them featuring another couple about
the same age as my parents and whom I’d never seen in my life. Some of the pictures had obviously been taken in a private
garden, which I also didn’t recognize, and which fairly obviously belonged to the other couple, not my parents. In several
of them the man—good-looking with thick dark hair and a winning smile—was turning steaks and sausages on a barbecue, and in
others pouring wine and serving lunch to my parents. His wife, assuming that she was his wife, was blonde and pretty. There
were several pictures of them with their arms around each other, clowning for the camera. By comparison with them my parents
were shy-looking and reserved. All the same, I sensed a bond there and a real warmth among the four of them. I was curious
to know who they were, and why they had disappeared from my parents’ life before I had ever known them.


I turned a page, and what I saw drew a small gasp of surprise from me. As though in answer to my question “Why didn’t I know
them?” was a picture that said, unambiguously, “You did.” It was a picture of me, aged about ten I should think, sitting on
a wall, a kind of stone balustrade at the edge of a terrace or balcony, with the unknown couple flanking me on either side.
There seemed to be a garden behind us, with a big ornamental urn visible over my shoulder. They both wore evening clothes,
he white tie and tails, she a glamorous ball gown. I wore just an ordinary shirt and short pants, but I had my arms around
them and they around me. We were hugging one another and grinning at the camera like a happy family group. I found it hard
to believe my eyes. I had absolutely no memory of the occasion.


I set the album down, still open at the puzzling photograph, and began racking my brain in an effort to recall where and when
it had been taken. But my mind remained a complete blank. I thought back to my life at that age and started running through
the months and years. Could there be some piece of my childhood, I asked myself, that I had for some reason forgotten? There
were no gaps in my memory so far as I could see. But maybe that was how amnesia worked, disguising itself from its sufferer
by hiding the fact that anything was missing.


Yet I couldn’t believe that. From what little I knew of memory loss it was something of which the victim was intensely aware.
Either that photograph was a fake—but why would anyone conceivably do that?—or the boy in that picture wasn’t me.


If he wasn’t me, the resemblance was remarkable. I compared it with the pictures of myself I’d been looking at only minutes
earlier, all of which I remembered being taken. There was no doubt that the similarity was overwhelming.


It made no sense. There were no names or dates or information of any kind written alongside the pictures in the album. I pulled
a few loose, including the one of myself with the unknown couple. There was nothing on the back of it either.


As I continued to puzzle, my gaze drifted from a corner of the album and onto one of the yellowing old newspapers lying in
the trunk. It was one I hadn’t looked at yet, and I saw now that it was an old copy of Variety, the show-business weekly. Curious to know what its connection with my very non-show-business parents could be, I picked
it up.


Nothing on the front page caught my attention, so I flipped through in search of whatever might be there that could have caused
my father to keep it in this little cache of memorabilia.


On page four I found a quarter-page photograph of the same couple, being showered with rice. The story was headed: “Jeffrey
Hart Marries His ‘Larry.’”


Rising British stage and film heartthrob Jeffrey Hart yesterday married his dance and comedy partner, Lauren Paige (“Larry”
to her many friends in the business). After a short honeymoon the pair will embark on a nationwide tour of The Reluctant Debutante before returning to the U.K. to fulfill film commitments there.


So that’s who my parents’ friends were: actors. I had a feeling they might have been fun, which made me regret even more that
I couldn’t remember them. It also made me feel the sadness of my parents’ later years all the more keenly. How much had changed
within a few short years.


Why couldn’t I remember those people?


I had booked an executive suite at the Traveller’s Rest. It was far larger than I needed for one night, but it would serve
as a place for Sara to change clothes or get some rest if she wanted to. After an early and mercifully brief dinner in the
Antler Room, where the service was prompt but the food awful, I went through my father’s trunk once again in my room. Aside
from the photographs and the copy of Variety, there was nothing in it that I felt inclined to keep for sentimental or any other reasons. I went down to the desk and asked
for a large, strong envelope. I put the photo albums and the old showbiz paper in it, plus my father’s unfortunate reviews,
then tipped a porter to get rid of the trunk.


My phone rang. It was Sara on her way in from JFK to Manhattan. She would spend the night at the apartment, then come up first
thing in the morning as planned. But there was something else she had to tell me. She would be coming up with our usual driver,
Rauol, but instead of returning to the city she was having him take her on up to Boston, where she needed to spend a couple
of days with some gallery people she had met in Chicago. She asked if I would like to go with her, but wasn’t surprised when
I said no thanks: She knew how lost I was in the art world, and how lost on me was most of the art she dealt in. She gave
a tolerant laugh, then asked if I was all right, not too depressed by everything. I assured her I was fine and said I looked
. . .