Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [16]
But standard procedures were put aside that first day at the Grants’ home as Martin made his way toward the source of the unexpected greeting. In those few moments of unplanned movement through the house, thirty-four spontaneous steps in all, Martin felt more alive and more terrified than at any other time in his career. With warning bells sounding off in his head, urging him to leave immediately, he pressed on, through a frightfully unmapped living room and into a foreign kitchen of black-and-white tile and suspended pots and pans. To the east (though he didn’t know it was east at the time, forgoing the use of his compass in favor of speed) was a wide hallway lined with several closed wooden doors, and to the west were four stone steps that descended into a paneled den. At the far end of the den, perched atop a wooden post that resembled a coat rack, was a bird more than a foot tall. Covered in shades of gray feathers with a bright red tail and a solid black beak, it turned its head in Martin’s direction as he came into view, made eye contact, and squawked, “Gimme kiss.”
Martin froze for a moment, unsure what to do. The bird wasn’t confined in a cage, and it didn’t appear to be tethered to the post. For all he knew, it could attack at any moment. The warning bells began sounding again in his head, insisting that he leave at once.
But Martin maintained his ground, staring the bird down for more than a minute before slowly descending the stairs into the dimly lit den. The bird followed his progress, ruffled its feathers once, causing Martin to pause, and then repeated, “Gimme kiss.”
With no intention of obeying the bird’s command, Martin began surveying the room, automatically returning to familiar routines. About fifteen feet long and ten feet wide, the room was carpeted in olive green shag and dominated by a gas fireplace centered on the south wall. A small, well-stocked bar was positioned at the foot of the stairs, and a couch and several plush chairs were situated around the room. Without a conscious thought, but keeping the bird in his periphery, Martin removed the fine-point pen from his right ear, lifted the clipboard into a writing position on his hip, and began diagramming the room, noting smaller details as his eyes scanned the space. Photos of the couple lined the fireplace mantel, as well as a son and daughter at various ages and wedding photos for both. Built-in bookshelves filled the entire east wall, crammed with leather-bound novels and a complete Funk & Wagnalls encyclopedia, all of which appeared more decorative than utilitarian. The room was wallpapered in a simple floral pattern, and the curtains in the two large windows along the north wall were dusty (a confirmation of no maid service) but stylish. A teardrop-shaped coffee table with a glass top was positioned in front of the couch, covered by a round, wide vase of silk daisies (also dusty) and a neat stack of magazines, topped by Martha Stewart’s Living. As his eyes took in these details and many more (the texture of the ceiling, the wattage of the bulbs in the overhead lamp, the temperature at which the thermostat was set), he returned his attention to the bird and noticed a small souvenir license plate nailed to the post just below the perch, the kind you find revolving in racks at shops in the airport or along the boardwalk, seemingly filled with every name but your own. The state represented was Connecticut; a blue background with raised