Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [42]
“Are you planning to shower soon?” his wife asked, her orders once again expertly phrased as a question.
“Yes,” Alan Clayton replied, a hint of irritation sneaking into his voice as he turned his attention back to the refrigerator and opened the door. On the television, Martin could see a Ford pickup bouncing over unreasonably rough terrain while a voice-over announcer proclaimed the vehicle fit for any challenge that nature might have to offer. He watched the light in the refrigerator switch on as his client stuck his bald head back in, searching for his next beer. He heard the refrigerator’s compressor turn on and noticed that the crushed can was now sitting on the kitchen table, even though the trash can was less than five feet away. He heard Cindy Clayton sigh upstairs, drop something on the floor (perhaps a shoe), and shout, “I’m going to shower now, okay?”
“All right,” Alan Clayton replied, head still in the refrigerator.
Holding his breath, Martin began moving again, arriving at the coat closet at the foot of the stairs in less than three steps. As quietly as possible, he swung the door open, turned, and backed in, allowing his body to push the coats and jackets aside to make room. He then slowly pulled the door closed, catching a final glimpse of Alan Clayton’s head as it emerged from the refrigerator just before the closet door carved out all incoming light.
Martin pulled the door almost entirely shut, stopping just short of allowing the latch to click, and breathed an enormous (though silent) sigh of relief. He felt his rapidly beating heart begin to slow, felt the adrenaline that had filled his body begin to recede, and began to relax the muscles of his shoulders and hands. Stepping as far back into the closet as he dared without risking sound, Martin stood completely still and waited. He listened to the water begin to flow in the upstairs shower and the humming of Cindy Clayton, her thin frame presumably standing beneath the warm water. He heard the channel change on the television, from sports talk to the local news. He listened to Alan Clayton belch twice more, laugh once at a remark from a local politician (the kind of sarcastic “Yeah, right” laugh that bespeaks distrust and contempt), and shout a “Goddamn it!” at the news that there was rain in the forecast for the next two days. Martin waited in the darkness, hoping that the man would use his downstairs shower soon, affording Martin an opportunity for escape.
Luck was not on Martin’s side. Shortly after listening to the rain-filled weather forecast, Martin heard the squeak of a faucet turning and heard the sound of running water cease upstairs. Cindy Clayton’s shower was finished. He could picture her standing in the bathroom, towel wrapped around her torso in such a way as to conceal the portion of her body from her breasts to her knees, a maneuver that seemed to magically extend the fabric of the towel beyond its physical dimensions. She was probably standing in front of the steam-covered mirror, another towel wrapped around her long blond hair, preparing to do whatever it was that women did to ready themselves for the world.
Martin waited, debating whether to attempt an escape if and when both clients were upstairs, or if it would be safer to just wait in the closet until they exited the home. He began calculating the odds that either homeowner might open the closet door before they left, and wondered how much room there might be on the floor of the closet for him to hide if necessary.
Cindy Clayton called down to her husband again, inquiring for a third time whether he planned on showering soon. “Just give me a minute, okay?” he replied, and Martin heard the hiss of a beer can opening. It was followed a minute later by the whine of a hair dryer from upstairs.
Martin continued to listen and