Chapter 47

 

When Ilona arrived home from the hospital she walked directly to the kitchen and sat on the hard wooden chair with her eyes closed. Her breathing was slow and measured. Nothing could lift the cold gray cloud of despair that completely engulfed her. With head bowed and arms folded across her chest, she sat wishing she could will herself out of existence.

Then the answer came. It was as if a bright light had suddenly been turned on, Suddenly and completely illuminating a totally dark place. It arrived fully formed and lucid in every detail. After years of accepting her impotence she was instantly certain she now possessed the power to end the carnage. She was confident she had the ability to bring sanity to her mad, out of control world.

“Is this what you were trying to tell me, Momma?” she said aloud to the empty room. The answer had been there all along, she just hadn’t looked in the right place. As long as Kalakov and her father were both alive the slaughter would continue. If either died, it would end. That was the key.

Not now or ever, for any reason, could she willingly harm her father, so it must be Kalakov. Kalakov must die.

“And why not Kalakov?” she again questioned the empty room. “He has killed so many. It was his avarice and brutality in Budapest thirty years ago that gave birth to the madness that now is our lives. Who more than Kalakov deserved to die?”

When the realization of what she had just said hit, she crossed her hands over her mouth and gasped. She had done what her father had been doing for thirty years. This was how he justified the carnage. She shuddered at the realization of how easy it was to rationalize completely irrational thoughts and ideas. Everyone claimed God was on their side. Their way was the right way – the only way.

What she must do had to be done, but it could not be justified. Once her task was completed, she would surrender to the police and accept the consequences of her actions. Whatever the punishment, it would be well deserved.

I let it happen. I have no less blood on my hands than Poppa or Uncle Arpad, she thought as she picked up the phone and called information for Caspian’s number. Her call was answered by a receptionist.

“Caspian Enterprises, can I help you?”

“Mr. Kalakov, please.”

“He is not in now. Can I take a message?”

“No. When will he return?”

“I don’t know. What is your business with Mr. Kalakov?”

“I have information about the fires I think he will find valuable.”

The receptionist’s interest was aroused. “Tell me and I’ll see he gets the message.”

“No. I will speak only with him. When can I reach him?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Enough. If you don’t give me a satisfactory answer I will not call back. I will give my information to the police, and I don’t think that will make Mr. Kalakov very happy.”

The receptionist hesitated for a moment. “Today is Wednesday. On Wednesday he usually returns to the office after dinner, about eight o’clock, to review the weekly reports from our divisions. He’s here for a couple of hours, but he does not answer the phone.”

“You tell him I’ll call between nine and nine-thirty, and he best take my call.”

Ilona hung up without waiting for a response. She had no intention of calling Kalakov. She just needed to know when he would be in his office so she could be waiting outside when he left.

When the time came, would she be able to kill Kalakov in cold blood? She wasn’t sure, but she suppressed her doubts and pressed ahead with her plan.

Her father kept a gun in his night stand. She checked the cylinder and determined all six chambers were loaded. As she checked, the phone rang, but she ignored it. After putting the gun into her purse, she left the house and walked to the black Oldsmobile in the driveway. The Mercury, she believed, was still in Dayton where Arpad had parked it before he was killed.