“But you take on an awful lot too, you know. Three kids, a full-time job, and Werner is never there. Why don’t you cut back on your hours a little? I mean . . . for some people, I understand that there’s no choice, but you guys really don’t need the money.”
Helen gave her friend a sharp look. “I love my work.”
Arianne took a sip from her water bottle. “I understand that, but it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for one of you to take your foot off the gas a little.”
“And why should I be the one?”
“Well, it would be trickier for Werner, what with all the people working for him and all the things he’s responsible for.”
Helen raised her eyebrows. “Since when are financial responsibilities more important than the responsibility for somebody’s life? If I don’t do my work properly, people might die.”
“Jeez, Helen, don’t be so dramatic. You get what I mean.”
“No—I don’t get it at all, actually, especially not coming from you.”
Arianne refused to take the bait. “It’s just—it’d be easier for you to reduce your hours than it would be for him. That way you could still enjoy your work and also have more time for yourself. For the whole family.” She raised her hands in a gesture of submission. “And for your friends, of course.”
Helen regarded her in silence.
Arianne shook her head. “Oh, forget it. You’re taking it all far too seriously. I just miss you, that’s all. We used to have so much fun, the four of us. Man, I always used to ache the following day from laughing so much.”
“Those times will come again,” Helen heard herself say. “I mean it. But I have to go now. Werner is waiting for me.”
“On a Friday night? That’s new.”
“We’re going to the movies. His idea.”
“Well, I never. When was the last time that happened?”
“About a thousand years ago.”
11
Ralf could scarcely keep up with Brian. He was almost running. They’d walked down the side of the yard and scaled the wall, avoiding the loose soil in the flower beds and stepping on paving slabs, lawn borders, and wood chips so as not to leave any tracks.
At the deck, Brian held out his arm to stop Ralf. They peered through the foliage at the back of the house. All the lights inside were on. Through the window, they could see an open-plan kitchen with an island and a large wooden table with leather chairs. There was a broad, open staircase in the corner. The kitchen was as big as the entire ground floor of Ralf’s parents’ place. A man was sitting at the table, making a phone call. He was slim, with a blue polo shirt and slightly wavy hair, and looked very youthful for somebody old enough to be Ralf’s father. A little preppy too—not exactly a man who would offer resistance to an armed and masked intruder. Nonetheless, Ralf’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of Brian’s going inside.
“Put down the fucking phone,” whispered Brian. He kept repeating it, like an incantation. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rolled his neck over his shoulders.
Ralf looked at his friend in alarm. Brian was too jittery, too aggressive. Adrenaline and coke were coursing through his veins. It was worse than usual. Slowly, it dawned on Ralf that this could easily go wrong. He had to get out of here while he still could.
Inside the house, the man put his phone down on the table and stood up. Walked over to the kitchen island, took something from the counter, and pointed it at the TV. Flicked from channel to channel.
“See you later,” he heard Brian say loudly. No more whispering—was he out of his goddamn mind? Brian stepped out from behind the shrubs and headed toward the house.
Ralf watched him dart toward the back of the house like a thin black shadow, pause for a moment, and then push open the door. Vanish through the gap. Close the door behind him.
The man inside was still channel surfing, oblivious to any danger.
Seconds passed.
It was taking too long.
What was Brian doing?
Ralf’s breathing was rapid and shallow. He tried to calm himself. Then he saw Brian enter the kitchen. The man looked up. He said something; Ralf saw his lips move. Whatever it was, it had no effect on Brian. He didn’t break his stride, darting fluidly around the kitchen island. The man hesitated for a second before breaking into a run. He dashed up the stairs and disappeared from view. Brian followed hard on his heels, like a panther.
Ralf heard his pulse pounding in his ears like a drum, and his breathing was noisy and gasping, as though somebody had turned up the volume on every sound in his body.
Minutes went by. The kitchen remained empty. Nobody came down. Was the money upstairs?
What’s happening in there?
Something rustled nearby. Panic-stricken, Ralf swiveled his head. Peered into the darkness. Shadows moved around him, twisting like long arms in a macabre dance. A sudden gust of wind tugged at his jacket. Then he heard a low hum. It grew louder, drew nearer. He listened intently. The noise was coming from the dead-end street leading to the house. A car. The police?
Ralf broke away from the cover of the shrubbery and sprinted back to the bottom of the yard. He barely slowed down by the flower beds, racing across the wood chips until he reached the wall. Launched himself over it as though he weighed nothing at all. Panting, he fought his way through the undergrowth, back onto the embankment.
12
Helen parked her car next to Werner’s Mercedes and got out. The façade of Wildenbergh was dimly lit by a streetlight half-hidden by trees across the way. People said that novelty always wears off, and maybe that was true for them. But every day, Helen felt blessed to live in such a magnificent house. There was a downside, however, which she had come to feel ever more keenly over the last few years. The richer she and Werner had grown materially, the poorer their relationship had become. As though the house, the cars, and the designer clothes were only so much paper over the widening cracks between them. Once upon a time, they had been a team, or at least it had felt that way; lately, however, they had been living parallel lives, Werner always buried in his work. Of course, he could always hire an assistant, but he never did. That’s not my style of management.
She consoled herself with the thought that they weren’t the only couple on autopilot. There were plenty of others who slept in separate beds, had different hobbies and interests, even went on vacation without each other. No arguments, but no passion either. And yet those others had started out as soul mates too, full of shared plans and ideas for the future. Helen’s eyes were drawn toward the sky, where a crescent moon was edging the clouds with silver. When she was four, Sara had looked up in awe and whispered, “Mommy, can you see that? That’s the real moon!” Werner had picked up their daughter and thrown his arm around Helen, and the three of them had stood there, looking up at the sky while Werner told Sara an improvised story about moonmen. It had been a magical moment. Helen had felt connected to her husband and her daughter from the depths of her being.
We still have each other . . .
She locked her car and walked toward the gate, her gym bag in hand. Her eyes had to adjust to the darkness behind the house. Aside from the faint glow from the pool, there had been no lights in the yard for a while now. Problems with the fittings, which had short-circuited a few times. Nobody had gotten around to calling an electrician yet.
She heard something rustling and looked up—a hedgehog? Or had she just imagined it? She instinctively drew her bag closer to her, quickened her pace, and entered the house through the back door.
13
Ralf crawled into the driver’s seat. He tried to put the key in the ignition, but his fingers were shaking so violently that he only managed it on the third attempt. Panting, he pulled off his balaclava and laid his neck against the cool headrest. Tried to get his breathing under control.
The vehicle on the driveway next to the Mercedes was not a police car but a light-colored Fiat 500. The mother had come home. Too e
arly. And Brian was still inside.
Ralf drew a few deep breaths. He laced his fingers together and pushed his palms out until he heard a cracking sound. Did it again. He felt like a coward for running away, but there wasn’t much he could do other than wait. Whatever was happening in there, Brian would find a solution. He was so wired and coked up, not even four grown men would be able to restrain him. Any second now, he’d come storming out and they could get away from here. Then it would all be over. Brian had said he didn’t know exactly how much cash there was in the house, but it would be at least five grand. Twenty percent of the haul was for Ralf. Easy money. A hesitant smile played over his lips.
His thoughts went to his father, who had drummed into him the idea that there was no such thing as a quick buck. Everything has its price, Son. Even when something looks like easy money, the truth is always different. Remember that. Behind every success story, you’ll find thousands of failures. Ralf had taken the lesson with a pinch of salt. His father had spent his entire life working in the same warehouse, starting out as an assistant, before becoming a forklift driver and ultimately ending up in the planning department. That was it, then—his father’s glittering career. Not once had he tried to make a success of himself. And he insisted on calling his boss “the big cheese”—like some kind of goddamn rat.
Ralf watched the house. From this distance, it looked calm. Peaceful.
Soon, the place would be crawling with cops, but he and Brian would be long gone.
14
Werner wasn’t in the kitchen. His newspaper was folded on the counter, and the TV was tuned to National Geographic. Helen put her bag on the dining table and crossed into the living room. It was shadowy and silent. A few spotlights illuminated the white walls and the large modern paintings. Werner sometimes fell asleep on the couch, but the red leather sofa was empty. She opened the door to his office but didn’t have to turn on the light to see that nobody was there.
Suddenly, she heard a thud from upstairs. Helen looked at the ceiling. Was Werner taking a shower? No, she couldn’t hear any water running. It sounded like something had fallen over up there. Then another thud. As though somebody were moving furniture around.
Helen went back through the kitchen and hurried up the stairs. In her mind’s eye, she saw Werner convulsing on the bathroom floor—an epileptic fit, a stroke. She had learned in the hospital that hardworking, apparently healthy men Werner’s age could fall victim to a serious attack of that kind without warning.
She sprinted past Sara’s and Emma’s rooms, leaping over discarded items of clothing and a pile of schoolbooks, and cast a quick glance into the bathroom. It was empty. The noise was coming from the bedroom at the end of the hall. It was the biggest in the house, almost as big as the kitchen, with a high, gabled ceiling lined with exposed beams—when she saw it for the first time, it had reminded her of a chapel.
The bed sat against the right-hand wall, close to the door. A little farther back on the left, directly below the skylight, stood the low bench and the table they had gotten from Werner’s parents.
It took a full second for Helen to grasp what she saw. There was a man in a balaclava squatting next to the bench. In front of him was another man lying facedown on the floor. The intruder was tying his wrists together. Helen noticed dark spots on the victim’s blue polo shirt. Red splashes on the carpet.
“Not so tough now, are you?” she heard the robber hiss. “Maybe I’ll take it all, sucker. Every penny you have.”
Air escaped from her throat. “Werner!”
The masked man leapt to his feet and looked straight at her.
Helen stared back paralyzed, powerless to move.
The intruder widened his eyes so much, the whites became visible—the look of a madman. Slowly, his attention shifted toward the bed. There was a pistol lying on the duvet.
But Helen was closer. Instinctively, she dived, grabbed the gun, and took off.
She sprinted back down toward the staircase. Footsteps thumped close behind. Sniffing noises, cursing. She could hardly take it in—it was like she was running through a long tunnel. Her feet scarcely touched the steps; she half fell, half skidded down the stairs and dashed toward her bag—toward her phone.
15
If you hadn’t heard a gunshot before, you could have easily thought the bang was a firecracker. But Ralf recognized it right away. He pressed his fist against his mouth. There was no mistaking it. After a brief silence came two more shots in quick succession.
That couldn’t have been Brian’s BB. Had he underestimated the man in the house? Ralf flashed to his friend’s response when he’d pointed out that the guy might shoot back. Brian’s contempt, convinced as he was of his own superiority. Are you kidding? Or had Brian lied and taken a second, real gun with him?
Ralf stared feverishly at the house, wishing that he could look through those goddamn walls. What if Brian had blown the people’s brains out? Ralf thumped his steering wheel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”
Suddenly, he realized that if he had heard the shots, then the neighbors would probably be calling the police already. The houses were a fair distance apart, but sound carried a long way.
“Hurry up, bro,” he hissed. “Hurry the fuck up.” Ralf’s legs had started trembling again; his knees tapped against the steering wheel. The muted hip-hop emanating from the speakers suddenly sounded deafeningly loud.
Ralf ripped his flash drive out of the stereo.
He looked back at the house. Not a single door or window opened.
No lights went on or off.
No change.
No Brian.
What the fuck are you doing in there, man?
16
As soon as she reached her bag, Helen realized that she was too late. There was no time to dial the emergency number. There was no time for anything.
She turned around and saw the robber charging toward her. In desperation, she pointed the gun at him and gripped the trigger. “Stop, I’ll shoot!” Her voice was high and shrill.
As a nurse, she had learned how to handle mindless aggression. Patients would occasionally become violent out of nowhere, or friends and relatives would suddenly flip out—often due to an underlying medical problem or an adverse reaction to medication, alcohol, or drugs. So far, she had always managed to get through to the attacker and calm them down.
But that was at work.
Not in her own kitchen.
“Shoot, then! Shoot, you dumb bitch!” The robber took a step forward. He was so close to her that she could smell him—sweat, cigarette smoke, and something chemical. His dark eyes were intense; he stared at her like a madman. He paused briefly, then barreled toward her with a yell.
Reflexively, Helen pulled the trigger. Her hand flew upward, as though somebody had kicked it. The bang left her ears whistling.
The intruder wobbled slightly, but recovered and launched himself toward her again, swearing.
“Stay back!” She aimed the gun again, holding it out in front of her with both hands this time. Tears clouded her vision.
He came closer, seeming not to hear.
“Stay back!” With a scream, she pulled the trigger again. And again. The ear-shattering noise reverberated through the kitchen. An acrid smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils.
Horror-struck, she watched the man totter, a look of shock in his eyes, before he collapsed on the kitchen floor. Blood spattered the double doors of the fridge behind him. Sullied the bulletin board hanging next to it—free tickets to a musical, a pamphlet from the pharmacy, letters from school.
Her arms dropped. The pistol felt as heavy as an anvil; her whole body was trembling. Yet her hand remained clenched around the grip. Panting, she stared at the robber.
He was lying faceup on the tiles in an unnatural position. His hands—small and slim—clawed around him, as though he were trying not to fall into a chasm. He stretched his mouth open and attempted to suck in air. Each breath was accompanied by a deep rattle
from his lungs. His body contracted in spasms. Red bubbles appeared around his mouth, more and more of them, bursting on his skin and on the knitted fabric of his balaclava. He tried to cough. Moisture seeped through his black hoodie. There was a hole there—a wet, glistening hole. The bullets must have penetrated his lungs.
Helen did nothing.
It felt as if this weren’t really happening. She stood and watched, frozen to the spot, incapable of moving.
Paralyzed by fear.
17
Droplets of sweat ran down Ralf’s temples. It was taking way too long down there. Something was definitely wrong.
He was unsure what he should do. Drive away? Wait?
“Where are you, man?” he whispered.
Ralf looked at the clock on the dash. He would wait another ten minutes. If Brian hadn’t emerged by then, he was on his own.
18
The intruder made increasingly desperate attempts to breathe; his eyes wide open, his gloved fingers grasping at his throat.
Helen didn’t stir. She felt as though she had stepped outside her own body and was watching everything from a distance. The man writhed on the floor in front of her, gasping for breath. Scarlet foam around his mouth. His blood on the floor. There was so much, you could smell it. And yet it felt like it had nothing to do with her.
“Helen . . . Helen!”
She looked up.
Werner was sliding down the stairs. Jerkily, without control, and far too quickly. Half on his side, and with his knees tucked up to protect himself, his slim body bounced from step to step. He was holding his head bent forward, and his wrists were still tied together.
Mother Dear Page 3
