Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [41]
“Can’t fool you, huh?” Martin said as he admired his handiwork.
Martin’s parents would remain his first and only clients for a long time after that day. Almost a year later, a series of house-and pet-sitting jobs arranged for him by his mother would allow Martin to pick up new clients and expand his business (though these clients had been discontinued long ago). Despite his rising success, Martin found no greater pleasure in those early years than visiting his childhood home and listening to his stepfather retell the story of the day he met Mike Greenwell and had his baseball card autographed. The thought always made him smile.
Martin was still in possession of the original card. He kept it in his back pocket whenever he worked, serving as a constant reminder of the day he was caught by his parents exiting their house, so that he might never find himself in that situation again.
Despite Mike Greenwell’s presence in his back pocket, Martin now found himself trapped behind a client’s sofa, just inches from a man almost twice his size, and in danger of being caught once again. Time was rapidly ticking away and he knew that if he did not find a solution to his predicament soon, Cindy Clayton would finish her exercise regime and make her way downstairs to see if her husband was in the downstairs shower. At that point, he would surely be caught.
Alan Clayton belched, the kind of belch that men release when they are alone or drunk, causing Martin to flinch in surprise. This was followed by the crunching of aluminum and a slight shifting of the sofa, indicating to Martin that his client might be on the move. He listened intently, hoping for a clue as to Alan Clayton’s next destination. The two sportscasters on television, who had finished with tennis and moved on to steroid use in baseball for the last five minutes, had been temporarily replaced by a commercial for underarm deodorant. Martin watched from his crouched position between the sofa and wall as Alan Clayton rose from his seated position and walked out of view, presumably toward the kitchen. He surmised that the man was either heading for the bathroom to begin his shower or getting another beer. Either way, Martin thought this might be his only chance. Moving slowly, he rose from his hiding spot and saw that his client was halfway across the kitchen, heading for the refrigerator, thankfully turned away (the underarm commercial apparently not captivating enough to hold the man’s attention). Now standing in full view, heart thumping, hands balled unconsciously into fists, Martin took two steps toward the stairway when the rhythmic pounding of Cindy Clayton on her treadmill suddenly stopped and Cindy called, “Alan!” Frozen in place by a combination of uncertainty and terror, Martin watched as Alan Clayton paused with one hand on the refrigerator door, turned his head slightly and replied, “Yeah?”
Just three feet from the foot of the stairs but still in plain view, Martin tried to remain as still as possible, afraid that any movement might be picked up by Alan Clayton’s peripheral vision. He listened as Cindy Clayton stepped off her treadmill and began walking around her bedroom, the creaking of a floorboard and her soft footsteps on the carpeted surface sounding like thunder in Martin’s ears.
Should he be spotted by either homeowner at that point, his plan was to exit through the front door (hoping the dead bolt was not engaged) and run as fast as he could down the street,