Something Missing Read online

  He also recognized how fortunate it was that the toothbrush, bristle attachment included, appeared to be fairly new. Had Cindy Clayton not been so vigilant about changing the bristle attachment, switching it for a new one would have been impossible. Still, Martin would need to compare the new bristles to these contaminated ones before he made the switch, to ensure that they were similar enough to pass for the old ones. He was suddenly appalled to realize that he had failed to factor this in while standing inside the Claytons’ bathroom. This is what happens when rules are broken and work is rushed, he thought to himself as he shifted into drive and made his way out onto Route 3.

  Eliminating Walgreens because of its distance from the Clayton home, Martin refrained from finalizing his decision between Stop & Shop and CVS until the last possible moment, hoping to receive divine inspiration during the eight minutes it took to enter the plaza’s crowded parking lot.

  None came.

  In the end, Martin chose CVS because he knew the store carried electric toothbrushes of some kind, and armed with this bit of information, he made the decision. But in choosing a parking spot, he chose to hedge his bet, landing a spot seven rows deep between the two stores. Throwing the car into park and checking his watch (3:41), Martin uncharacteristically raced toward the pharmacy’s automatic doors.

  Upon entering the store, Martin headed for the back, knowing well that toothpaste, dental floss, and mouthwash were found in one of the back rows of his own local store. As he walked quickly through the magazine aisle, an elderly man pushing one of CVS’s miniaturized shopping carts gave him an odd stare and continued to stare until Martin turned the corner and entered the “Oral Hygiene” aisle.

  “Bingo,” he whispered to himself, standing in front of a large display of electric toothbrushes. Reaching into his pocket, Martin removed Cindy Clayton’s toothbrush for a second time, suddenly realizing that he was still wearing the latex gloves that he had put on before entering the Clayton home. This triggered another realization. He was also still wearing the hairnet that he had put on as well, and because he had apparently lost his hat somewhere between the Clayton home and the pharmacy (Did I take it off in the car? he wondered), he must have looked fairly odd to anyone who had seen him, including the old man in aisle 4.

  Martin quickly removed the hairnet and stuffed it into his coat pocket but kept the gloves on, still loath to make contact with the contaminated toothbrush. Holding it up in front of him, he began slowly moving it from left to right, comparing it with the wide variety of electrics on display. In less than a minute, he had located the brand and type for which he was searching, but much to his horror, could not locate the green color that he required. Navy blue and maroon were present in great numbers, but no green.

  He considered asking a clerk to check the supplies in back, then looked again at his watch (3:45) and determined that trying Stop & Shop would likely be quicker. In less than two minutes, he was once again facing a display of electric toothbrushes, this time in the wider and better-lit aisles of the grocery store, and to his relief, saw the required toothbrush in the required brand and color almost immediately. Grabbing it, he ran toward the register, fearful of the attention that he was drawing with his dead sprint but finding exhilaration in it as well. This type of reckless abandon was something new for Martin, and he could feel every nerve in his body tingle like never before. He was equally pleased to see that while the regular checkout lines were long, the express line (ten items or less) was empty.

  It was as he was placing the toothbrush on the unmoving conveyor belt that he realized he did not have his wallet. He never carried his wallet while visiting clients, considering its presence unnecessary and a potential danger. His general rule was to carry only those things that were required for the job, and he adhered to this rule save one sentimental item that he kept tucked away in his back pocket whenever he worked. Anything extra posed a hazard, and a wallet, capable of identifying him beyond a shadow of a doubt, posed the greatest hazard of all. Instead, he kept his wallet in a small compartment in the Subaru, just below the radio. It was sitting there as the cashier reached to scan the toothbrush.

  “Wait!” he stammered, reaching his latexed hand out and snatching the toothbrush from the cashier’s grasp. “I forgot my wallet.”

  Martin turned and ran for the exit when the cashier’s voice brought him to a stop in front of the automatic doors. “Sir! You can’t take that with you. You haven’t paid for it.”

  The cashier’s voice was loud enough for all around them to hear, and Martin felt a hundred eyes suddenly fall upon him, including those of a bullet-shaped man wearing a striped tie and a gold Stop & Shop name badge identifying him as a manager. The man took two slow steps in Martin’s direction, apparently waiting for Martin’s next move.

  “Sorry …,” Martin said with a smile, suddenly understanding how the situation must appear. A man wearing latex gloves is seen running for the doors as a cashier shouts for him to stop. His haste was causing him to act erratically. This can’t be good, he thought.

  With as much calm as he could muster, Martin sidled his way back to the cashier and handed the toothbrush back to the boy, a teenager of pimples and piercings, and asked that he hold on to it for a moment. “I’ll be right back.”

  Martin then walked out of the store as casually as possible while the eyes around him slowly returned to their prior business.

  Once in the relative anonymity of the parking lot, he burst into a sprint again while simultaneously fumbling for his keys in his jacket pocket.

  Martin did not see the Nissan bread truck pulling away from the curb as he ran directly into its path, causing the truck to come to a screeching halt less than a foot from Martin’s now frozen position. He could see the driver, a man who looked more tough and weathered than Martin could ever hope to be, glaring down at him, the middle finger on his right hand extended in Martin’s direction. Martin bowed awkwardly toward the man in an act of panicked contrition and then resumed his flight to the car. Less than a minute later he was reentering the store, transitioning his sprint to a trot as he made a hard right through the produce section back toward the checkout lines.

  He was pleased to see that since he had been gone, only one person had gotten in line in front of him, a middle-aged lady wearing a ridiculous combination of paisley skirt, fuzzy pink socks, and black patent-leather shoes. She had a purse large enough to house a family of rabbits and was in fact piling celery, carrots, parsley, and oatmeal onto the short conveyor belt, as if planning for the family’s next feast.

  Martin took up his position behind the woman and watched as she scrutinized each item as it was scanned with the concentration of a cellular biologist, eyes buried in a microscope. Twelve items in all, Martin noticed, two over the express-line limit, but since the cashier had scanned the first item (oatmeal, a brand that the Reeds were fond of as well), Martin decided that it would be quicker if he just allowed her to pay and leave.

  The problem was that the woman appeared to have no inclination to pay. While Martin stood ready with two twenty-dollar bills in hand, the woman’s hands were white-knuckled around the handle of her purse, squeezing it shut as if the rabbits inside were attempting a jailbreak. Frozen in place, her eyes shifting from the product being scanned to the computer monitor that illuminated its price, she made no effort to speed up the process.

  Martin glanced at his watch, and as he did, his mind filled with numbers. 3:51. 7 items to go. 4 miles back to the Claytons’ house. 10 minutes through the forest, maybe 5 if he sprinted. 4:30 deadline. 5 items to go. $3.14 for the celery.

  And still the woman hadn’t moved.

  Finally the last item was scanned and bagged, and the cashier announced the total in a voice that sounded as if the boy was battling puberty and losing. “Your total’s $23.58.” Martin watched in shock as the woman still refused to move, standing there for a moment as if she was deciding if the total was acceptable. After an interminable pause, she placed her ba
g down, opened it up, and began fishing through its contents (Martin imagined a pair of withered hands pushing baby rabbits aside), at last removing a thick red wallet. Wallet retrieved, she placed it down, opened it, removed a checkbook (She’s paying by check! he screamed to whoever might be listening inside his head), and requested a pen from the cashier. The boy paused for a moment, looked across his work area, and then found the pen resting atop his keyboard. Slowly, the woman began to write.

  “Is it all right if I make it out for twenty extra?” she asked as she finished filling in the date.

  “Yeah,” the cashier replied. “As long as you have a Stop & Shop card.”

  “Well, I showed you my card before you checked me out, so you know I have it,” the woman shot back, causing her to pause once again.

  “Yes, I know … I just meant… that that’s why I… I mean … you can do it.”

  “What was my total again?” she asked, irritation still lingering in her voice.

  “If I don’t make it back in time,” Martin thought, “it will be because of this ridiculous conversation.”

  Two minutes later the check was finally written. The woman had received her twenty dollars (“Could you please give me three fives and five ones?”). She then began reversing the process. Without surrendering her position in front of the cashier, she recorded the check amount in the check register, closed the checkbook, and returned it to the wallet. She then closed the wallet and returned it to the purse. Finally, she closed the purse and gathered her bags.

  Martin was afraid to look at his watch.

  Toothbrush in hand and $38.14 lighter, Martin started his car and headed for the parking lot exit, only then daring to look at the time: 4:02. This meant that Cindy Clayton was already on her way home.

  When Martin had initially researched the Claytons as potential clients, he found that the final bell at Cindy Clayton’s school rang at 3:50 each day. Children spilled out of the classroom doors, buses pulled away from the building, and about ten minutes later Cindy Clayton would walk across the playground to her car and begin the thirty-minute drive home. In the three weeks that Martin followed her, Cindy Clayton never arrived home before 4:30 and would oftentimes stop to pick up groceries at a small market down the street before coming home, putting her arrival time closer to 5:00.

  Martin desperately prayed that this would be one of those days.

  There were a total of four traffic lights between the store and the Clayton home, and on the way to the store Martin had gotten very lucky, catching them all green. His return trip was not so fortunate. Three of the lights were red, including the light at the intersection before Route 9, which had a line of cars so long that it took Martin nearly four full minutes to get through. As he sat in the car, waiting for it to turn green a second time, staring at the clock in the dashboard (which was synchronized to his watch), he tried to visualize what he would need to do next. By visualizing future actions, Martin had found, he was able to reduce his anxiety and act with confidence. Acting with confidence might mean the difference between success and failure.

  He pictured himself pulling into the nursing home, parking illegally in one of the numbered spots closest to the path, and running as fast as possible to the Clayton home, using the most direct route he knew. Crossing through the hedgerow and across the yard, he would open the back door, leaving the key inside the lock in order to save time. A few precious seconds might end up meaning a great deal, and once inside the house, his only method of egress would be through the rear door, so leaving the key wouldn’t pose a problem as long as he remembered to take it as he left. He made a quick mental note in his head, connecting the key to the Claytons’ bocce ball court. By linking the two in his mind, imagining one literally atop the other, he would automatically remember the key as he passed by the bocce court if he hadn’t already. This was a strategy that Martin had used for most of his life with great success.

  Inside the house, he would make his way to the upstairs bathroom, slowing only to ascend the steps. Once in the bathroom, he would place the new toothbrush in the charger, removing the batteries from the old brush and placing them in the new one. Though part of him was loath to place the contaminated batteries in Cindy Clayton’s new toothbrush, this was a sacrifice that he was willing to make. On a future visit, he would switch the batteries for clean ones, hopefully before Cindy Clayton found the need to change them herself.

  With the toothbrush in place, he would make his exit as quickly as possible, once again slowing only to descend the stairs. Once outside with key in hand, he would cross the backyard, pass through the hedgerow, and step into the relative safety of the woods behind the Clayton home, where he would resume his normal routine. He visualized each moment in his mind, imagining himself carrying out his plan with every possible detail. If things went well, he estimated that he could make it to the Clayton home and be in and out in less than twenty minutes. If he could arrive at the nursing home in the next eight minutes, he might have a chance.

  At 4:13, three minutes behind schedule, Martin’s Outback roared into the Shady Glen parking lot and screeched to a halt in the space marked 73. He was out of his car and running through the forest in less than a minute.

  The first flaw in his plan became evident as he reached the hedgerow guarding the rear of the Clayton property. His watch read 4:22, meaning there was a chance, however slight, that Cindy Clayton was already home. If he reentered the house without knowing for certain that it was empty, he would be placing himself in great jeopardy.

  Without pausing for more than a moment to consider the problem, Martin began moving east along the hedgerow, far enough along to bring the driveway, which was thankfully adjacent to the east side of the house, into view.

  No car.

  Standing behind the hedgerow, trying to force his body to conform to its prickly contours, Martin thought back upon his month of surveillance, trying to recall if Cindy Clayton typically parked her Toyota Corolla in their three-car garage. He couldn’t remember for certain. Considering that the garage doors were on the side of the house and not facing the street, anyone who parked in the driveway would have to walk through the garage or around the house to the front door in order to gain entry.

  Quickly scanning the many windows that faced the backyard and not seeing anyone moving within the house, Martin passed through the hedgerow and maneuvered around the pool toward the garage, keeping low and moving quickly. He came to a stop at a small window that offered a view to the inside of the garage. Flattening his body as close to the vinyl siding as possible, he peeked in and was relieved to see that it was empty.

  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 ba
ck 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.