Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [34]
To Martin’s right was a six-foot stretch of hall that ended with the entrance to the master bedroom. To his left were two guest bedrooms and an office. He moved into the guest bedroom closest to the stairs, careful not to make a sound, and pressed himself against the wall adjoining the door. There he listened and waited.
Downstairs Martin heard a refrigerator open and close, heard liquid being poured, and heard the refrigerator door open and close again. This also pleased Martin. He knew that Cindy Clayton was not the type to leave the refrigerator door wide open while pouring a drink. Everything that he might have guessed about the woman was so far correct.
Confidence began to replace fear.
Martin then heard steps and listened as Cindy Clayton moved through the kitchen, across the living room, and began ascending the stairs toward him. Again he was relieved. Had she spent too much time in the kitchen, she might have noticed the missing shears. Had she gone into the backyard, she would’ve seen his key sticking in the lock. Martin had left a great deal of evidence behind, but so far his luck had held out.
At the top of the stairs, Cindy turned left toward her master bedroom.
This would be Martin’s opportunity to make it down the stairs undetected. Only six feet of hallway to cross before the first stair. But the problem was that Cindy Clayton’s master bedroom was at the very end of the hallway. If she were standing in the center of the room, she would be able to see into the hall as Martin made his move.
Quickly, he brought to mind the layout of the bedroom, a room he had been in dozens of times. Closets to the far left of the room, well out of sight of the hallway. The bed in the center of the room, facing the hall, with bureaus flanking it along the back wall. A hope chest and rolltop desk on the far right wall. The television just to the right of the door, positioned for ideal viewing while lying in bed. A treadmill off to the right, also far out of view.
If Cindy decided to watch television, he would be trapped. She would probably be sitting or lying on the bed in order to do so. If she changed her clothing and opened one of the sliding closet doors, Martin would likely hear the door move on its track and could move then. He waited, listened, and hoped.
A muffled thump. Probably a bureau drawer. A period of silence. Another thump. An exhale. And then the television. Oprah Winfrey’s voice. She was talking about some kid in West Virginia who had saved his dog’s life, or maybe the other way around. Martin’s shoulders sagged.
He was trapped.
As he began considering the possibility of hiding under the bed overnight and waiting until Cindy and Alan left for work the next morning, a loud humming emerged from the bedroom, followed by the rhythmic thumping of feet. Cindy Clayton had stepped onto her treadmill. Oprah was keeping her company on her walk to nowhere.
Without wasting a second, Martin moved into the hallway with confidence, knowing that as long as he heard the thumping of feet, he would be clear of Cindy’s view. He moved to the stairway, staying as far left as possible, worried that Cindy might be able to see the edge of the stair from her treadmill if she was leaning over at all. He paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, took a deep breath, and began walking down, slowly and silently, his feet registering no sound on the carpeted surface. Though he felt the irresistible urge to run, a feeling similar to the one that he had experienced as a child when ascending the stairs from a basement that frightened him badly, he fought the urge and remained calm.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs and began turning right into the living room, feeling home-free, he heard a toilet flush in the downstairs bathroom, just feet from where he was now standing.
Alan Clayton was also home.
Unlike his wife, Alan Clayton did not believe in closing the bathroom door while urinating, nor did he feel