Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [118]
For a moment, everything was silent.
Martin lay still beside the motionless man, barely able to catch his breath.
Then Martin heard the whimper again, coming from the upstairs bedroom. It sounded as if Sophie Pearl had been gagged but was trying to communicate through the binding. Still on his back, with pain beginning to fill his head, knee, and chest, Martin called out, “It’s all right, Mrs. Pearl. It’s over. Your husband’s unconscious but alive. And Darrow’s …”
Martin realized he had no idea of Clive Darrow’s condition. Pulling himself to a sitting position, he examined the man beside him, looking for signs of life. He was still breathing, but his respiration sounded wet and labored. A large gash stretched from the top of his forehead to the base of his nose, which was clearly broken. Blood was pooling in his eye sockets and spilling down his cheek. His left leg was contorted at a horrific angle, and his pants appeared to be moistening with blood in the area of the fracture. “Compound fracture, you evil son-of-a-bitch,” Martin whispered to the man. “Not good. Just ask that stupid burglar in Jim’s story.” Lying beside his leg was the weapon that Clive Darrow had been carrying: a Taser, which Martin assumed had probably been used on Sherman Pearl.
Even if the man regained consciousness, Martin was sure that he would be immobile and harmless. “Darrow’s down and out, Mrs. Pearl. Don’t worry. Can you free yourself?” The pain in Martin’s chest was increasing, making it more difficult for him to speak or even breathe without wincing.
Martin heard a muffled response that he took for a no.
“Okay,” Martin gasped. “I don’t think I can make it back up the stairs. I got banged up too.” Despite the blossoming pain throughout his body, Martin suddenly realized that his anonymity was still intact. His DNA might be strewn about the house, with blood on the railing, the knife, and Lord knows where else, not to mention hair and skin, but Sophie Pearl had not yet seen him. Even though he had his doubts about being able to climb up the stairs with his knee on fire as it was, he realized that ascending them would be foolish anyway. The Pearls were safe. Best to call the police from the first floor and exit the house before they arrived.
“Mrs. Pearl, do you know where your phone is?” Martin asked, forgetting about her condition for the moment. He heard her attempt to respond through the gag and cut her off. “Sorry. That was stupid. My head isn’t very clear. Listen. I’m going to see if I can find the phone down here. If not, I’m going to go to my car and use my cell phone. It’s becoming difficult for me to speak, cracked ribs I think, so you might not hear me again until the police arrive. Okay?”
He heard a whimper of ascent from upstairs and then silence.
Martin managed to pull himself to his feet, though his right knee was now a raging ball of pain. Barely able to put any weight on it, he hopped over to the leather couch and scanned the room more thoroughly. A moment later he spotted the antenna of the cordless phone on the Steinway, poking out from behind a photograph of the Pearls standing on a beach on some tropic isle.
A far cry from their current state, Martin mused.
Martin picked up the phone and hopped into the kitchen. Almost any movement caused him to wince in tremendous pain, from both the bleeding gash on his head and the tenderness of his rib cage. But his knee was by far the worst, and it was becoming more painful by the second. Standing beside the back door, Martin called out one last time. “Mrs. Pearl, I’ve got the phone. I’m calling the police now!”
Martin dialed 911, waited for an