The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [106]
“But.…”
“And you still don’t get it, do you? Right now you’re wondering if it is because of your pathetic little affair with Karin. Oh yes, I know. But that’s not why. Don’t you realize? You nearly killed Aleksander. You had to give him the kidney he needed. You would take care of everything. Because God forbid anyone should know. You nearly killed Aleksander because you didn’t want my father to know that you couldn’t give me a child. This marriage was always more about my family than about me, wasn’t it? My father was the one you really wanted. Well, fine. You can have him. But I’m getting out.”
Jan heard the words, but they didn’t really register. He saw the Lithuanian let go of Aleksander. The boy gave a sob and ran to Anne, who put her arms around him without noticing that the blood from her wrist smeared his fair hair.
“Pick it up,” ordered the Lithuanian. “Put it back into the envelopes.”
It took a moment before Jan realized that the order was meant for him. His whole body felt alien to him, as if everything was dissolving, inside and out. He took a step forward, not toward the money but toward Anne. He saw the man raise the gun, but it had ceased to matter. Even when he saw the flash from the barrel and felt the impact to his chest, it still didn’t really matter.
THE DANE FELL heavily, across the money. Jučas turned and raised the gun again, this time to aim at the wife. But she was gone. He could hear her running footsteps somewhere, in the hall perhaps. And, of course, she had taken her son with her.
He glanced down at the man to decide whether he should shoot him a second time, but he looked like a goner, and right now it was more important to get the wife and the kid before they succeeded in calling for help. Shooting the boy would be no fun at all, but he knew it was necessary now. He had to do some house cleaning here, make sure there was no one left who could identify him. The little one he could take with him, seeing that Barbara was so keen on it, but the older boy had to go. He had eyes in his head, he would be able to remember and tell others what he had seen. Jučas didn’t want to wake up one morning in Krakow to find the police pounding on his door.
Four or five quick strides brought him to the door. The hallway was empty, the front door still closed and locked. Where had they gone? He opened another door and found a huge kitchen with shiny white cupboards and black marble work tops. But no woman and child. He withdrew to the hall again and wondered whether they had fled down the stairs to the garage. A good thing he had sabotaged the gate; they wouldn’t be able to get out in a hurry.
Then he heard a soft bump overhead. Excellent. Now he knew where to look. He headed up the stairs to the second floor.
The first room was a bedroom, probably the parents’. He switched on the light and looked under the bed. Checked the bathroom. Nothing. He continued along the landing to a sort of feminine office, with a blonde-wood desk and a small chintzy sofa by the window. Also empty.
In quick succession, he opened two more doors. A bathroom and a boy’s bedroom. He had to spend precious time opening wardrobes and knocking over a playhouse shaped like a medieval castle, but still no sign of the woman or the boy. Then he attempted to open the second to last door along the landing.
It was locked.
He raised the Glock and aimed at the lock. The shot rang in his ears but did less damage to the door than he had expected. Despite his temporary deafness he heard a muted cry, but it sounded as if it came from above. Possibly he was shooting at the door to the attic stairs? He fired one more round, and this time the door began to give way when he put his shoulder against the woodwork. One more shot ought to do it.
At that moment, something hit him from behind. Something heavy, sharp-edged