Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [32]
Cindy Clayton was not yet home.
Moving with more freedom now, Martin made his way across the back lawn, stopping to pick up the cap that had fallen off during his hasty exit from the home. He had completely forgotten about the hat while inside Stop & Shop and had never bothered to check the Subaru for it on the way over to the nursing home. This uncharacteristic carelessness ground away at the confidence that he was so desperately trying to muster. Martin moved to the rear door and opened it, leaving the key in the door as he had planned and taking a moment to replace his hairnet and cap. This was a step that he had forgotten in his visualization exercise, and his near neglect frightened him.
What else might he have forgotten?
Crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him, Martin made his way through the kitchen, past the living room, and toward the stairs, taking a moment to look outside at the street to see if any cars were visible in the cul-de-sac.
None.
As he reached the stairs, he risked a glance at his watch.
4:26.
He had wasted more than two minutes determining if Cindy Clayton was home, and it suddenly occurred to him that he could have called the Claytons on his way through the forest to ascertain this information. Another missed opportunity, and because of it, he had even less time to spare. Moving as quickly as he dared up the stairs, Martin arrived back in the bathroom with a sigh of relief. Almost over. He was about to pull off the most daring stunt that he had ever attempted.
But Martin’s problems were just beginning.
As he removed the new toothbrush from his jacket pocket, he realized with unmitigated horror that the toothbrush was still encased in its plastic container, the type of plastic designed by the communist architects who built maximum security prisons for the North Koreans.
For the first time that Martin could remember, his hands began to shake inside a client’s home.
Examining the plastic that encased the toothbrush, Martin saw a thin dotted line completely encircling the perimeter of the two pieces of plastic that had been fused together around it. Though part of his mind screamed that this dotted line was only a mocking attempt at perforation, Martin nevertheless gripped the plastic with all his might and began pulling, listening for the satisfying sound of popping plastic but hearing nothing. Sweat began to soak his skin like never before. After about thirty seconds of effort, he surrendered, realizing his only choice was to find a pair of scissors and cut the toothbrush free.
Martin paused for a moment, placing the toothbrush on the sink, forcing himself to calm down and think. He had searched the Clayton home many times and should know where they kept their scissors. Unfortunately, however, scissors had never appeared on any of Martin’s acquisition lists (his mother had left him several excellent pairs), so the whereabouts of the Claytons’ scissors had never made an impression in his mind. Martin also knew that scissors were an item that people kept in the most random places possible—sewing baskets, desk drawers, kitchen drawers, junk drawers, tool benches—and that their location often changed following each use.
And then it hit him. Cindy Clayton owned an impressive set of Wüsthof knives that likely included a pair of poultry shears. Though Martin’s mother had forbidden him from ever using cooking shears for anything but food (once reprimanding him for using them to cut paper), he felt that this was an emergency.
Moving at what Martin would have considered an unsafe speed on any other day he bounded down the stairs two at a time and skidded to a stop in the kitchen, finding the shears in the butcher-block knife rack, exactly where he expected them to be.
Unfortunately, he had failed to bring the toothbrush with him, and his watch now read 4:31. Cindy Clayton could be home at any minute.
Grabbing the shears, Martin turned and headed back upstairs for the third time today, faster