Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [36]
“When are we leaving?” the man shouted.
“In an hour or so,” his wife replied. “I’m going to run for another twenty-five minutes and then get ready, okay?”
“Fine,” Alan replied in a cheery voice but then growled so that only Martin could hear, “Then why the hell did I need to be home by five?”
“Did you need to shower?”
Even without a wife, Martin recognized this statement for what it was. Cindy Clayton was telling her husband to shower, framing the command as a question.
“Yeah, I’ll shower,” Alan Clayton replied without much enthusiasm, and Martin breathed an infinitesimal sigh of relief. With one homeowner on the treadmill and another soon to be in the shower, his opportunity to escape was likely near.
The sound of the television, the voice of two men arguing about the state of American tennis, followed by the billowing of the fabric covering the rear of the sofa, caused Martin to quickly rethink this assumption. Though there might be a shower in his near future, Alan Clayton was settling in for some television, less than three feet away from Martin’s prone position. In fact, in turning his head and looking up, Martin could see the back of Alan Clayton’s bald head, almost within arm’s reach. The two men were literally inches apart.
Martin’s situation had suddenly become even more dangerous. Though his hiding spot had made it difficult for anyone ascending the stairs to see him without looking back, someone coming down the stairs and turning into the living room would undoubtedly spot the strange man crouching behind the sofa. If Cindy Clayton came down the stairs to check up on her husband before Martin was able to move, he would almost surely be spotted.
Violence was the first, albeit uncharacteristic, solution that entered Martin’s mind. With the element of surprise on his side and a relatively large, metallic lamp within reach, Martin felt that he could probably knock the considerably larger man unconscious and escape before Alan Clayton ever knew what hit him. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that it was possible. He envisioned himself reaching over and silently unplugging the lamp from its socket (thankfully it was off), rising to his knees, head down, gripping the lamp’s thin stalk with both hands, and then swinging in one swift, violent motion. If his aim were true, the base of the lamp would connect with Alan Clayton’s skull and, if not render him unconscious, certainly stun the man long enough for Martin to effect his escape.
Martin was not an aggressive man and had only once in his life committed any act that might be considered violent, and so his decision to spare Alan Clayton’s skull was likely the result of his natural aversion to violence. But what finalized this decision was twofold.
First, despite his precarious position and potential for discovery, Martin continued to think of Alan Clayton as a client rather than an adversary, and so harming him in any way was unacceptable. After all, the client had done nothing wrong. Though it was probably his fault that the upstairs toilet lid had been left open that day, Alan Clayton was acting like any client should. Martin knew that the man was expected home by five o’clock that day, and so he had simply complied with his kitchen calendar. His actions were both scheduled and predictable, so if anyone was to blame for Martin’s current predicament, it was himself alone. Martin knew that it had been a mistake to reenter the house in the first place. He had violated one of his most important rules. There was no reason for Alan Clayton, a loyal and dependable client for years, to suffer as a result of Martin’s failure. Though a bit of a slob and not the kind of guy Martin would normally befriend, Alan Clayton was also the man who wrote to his mother in Nevada at least once a week and always included a $100 check with