Something Missing (19 page)

Martin had also been denied the opportunity to say good-bye to the Brandners and achieve the degree of closure that he typically managed to attain when releasing a client. During his final visit to a client’s home, Martin dedicated much of his time to saying good-bye to the people whom he had come to know so well. He spent a few moments in each room of the house, reminiscing about the time he had passed with his clients and reflecting back upon the relationship they had established. It was a short but important bit of time that he always treasured, but upon discovering the Brandners’ newly furnished bedroom, he immediately exited the home, never to return again.

The cancellation of the Brandners had occurred less than two months ago, and part of Martin was still reeling from the suddenness of the situation. This had made the Hughs’ home even more appealing than it would have been normally. It had been nearly perfect in terms of what Martin looked for in a client location. With the exception of a two-car garage, he couldn’t have asked for a better situation, and so the signs of children were a disappointing blow.

Thankfully, the last item on his list buoyed his spirits considerably.

Following a brief stop at The Corner Pug in West Hartford for a lunch of seafood chowder and salad, and a stop at the dry cleaner to pick up pants, Martin turned his attention to the final item on his list:
Alan
.

Though focused on the tasks at hand, Martin had spent much of his day thinking about this final task. He was excited about the possibilities that it might bring but worried about remaining undetected. He would need to be careful. Choose his course of action carefully. Leave no evidence behind.

He ultimately decided upon a library computer located in Newington, a suburban community where he had once lived, just south of West Hartford. The Newington Public Library was located adjacent to the town hall and was well known for its excellent collection of audiobooks, giving Martin reason to frequent the establishment often. The library seemed an ideal location at which to accomplish his final task of the day.

Computers at the Newington Public Library were assigned on a first-come, first-serve basis, and no identification was required to use them. Each computer was also attached to its own printer, and patrons paid for their printing on the honor system, handing over five cents for each copy to the desk clerk upon exiting the building. This allowed Martin to print anything that he needed without the risk of someone seeing it emerge from a public printer in the center of the library or behind the circulation desk. In addition, the Newington Public Library wasn’t equipped with any surveillance cameras, so anything that Martin printed while he was there would be completely untraceable.

In order to avoid the prying eyes of his fellow patrons, Martin typed his letter using Microsoft Word, first reducing the Word window to a two-by-one-inch rectangle so that only a single word or two appeared at any time on the screen. This made composing difficult but not impossible. Once the entire letter was complete, Martin waited until he was certain that no one would pass by his monitor for a moment and then enlarged the window in order to proofread the message in its entirety.

Martin had been composing the note in his head throughout the day, but even with a solid idea of what to say, it took him
more than forty-five minutes and eight separate drafts before he was satisfied with the words that were emerging from the laser printer to the left of his computer. As the paper slid its way out of the printer, Martin extracted a surgical glove from his pocket and surreptitiously placed it on his left hand. Once the printer had spit out its sheet, Martin removed it and placed it inside a manila folder that he had brought along with him, careful to handle the letter and folder with only his protected fingers.

Martin then removed an envelope from the same folder (also with his gloved hand) and placed it into the printer. Prior to driving over to Newington, he had stopped at an office supply store and purchased a box of standard envelopes for this purpose. Using surgical gloves, he had removed an envelope from the box and examined it for any distinguishing marks or code numbers that might link it to his purchase. Finding none, he had placed it into the manila folder, which he had carried into the library.

Changing the program’s settings so that the printer would address his envelope, Martin typed in Alan Clayton’s business address, which he had memorized the previous evening before burning the business card in the fireplace. He took an extra minute to ensure that he had fed the envelope into the printer properly, concerned because he had only brought in one envelope and wanted to avoid a second, more conspicuous trip back into the library. Satisfied, he clicked on the Print icon and was pleased to see that everything was in order.

His work complete, Martin closed Word, clicking the No box when asked if he would like to save changes to each of his documents. He dropped a dime into the basket at the circulation counter and exited the library without anyone taking a second glance, a fact that pleased him immeasurably. Martin was confident that, if they only knew what he had just written, people would be very interested in him.

Martin arrived in Lincoln, Rhode Island, three hours later
and stopped at the first public mailbox that he found, located outside a small retail plaza near a high school. Lincoln had been chosen at random by dropping a die onto a map of southern New England and waiting to see where it might stop. Seeing that it covered parts of the towns of Lincoln and Cumberland, Martin chose Lincoln because of its more convenient access from Route 146, a major north-south highway running through central Massachusetts and Rhode Island.

Parked beside the mailbox, Martin placed two more surgical gloves on his hands and extracted the letter and envelope from the manila folder. It read:

He was pleased with his creation. One of his first drafts had been more than two full paragraphs long, full of unnecessary details and instructions. In the end, Martin had managed to cut back all but the most essential words. He was especially happy with the use of the word “tomorrow
,”
as it added the urgency to his suggestion that Martin felt was so important.

Martin wasn’t sure how Alan Clayton would receive a letter like this, but he was sure that the message would do no harm. With its Rhode Island postmark, he would be unlikely to suspect his wife of sending it herself. And regardless of whether or not Alan Clayton recognized or acknowledged his own flaws, Martin had found that men were generally receptive to advice in the romance department. He might be a bit of a slob, but Martin doubted that Alan Clayton was a fool.

Reading through his letter one final time, looking carefully for anything that might hint at his identity Martin folded it and placed it in the envelope, sealing it with a wet sponge, also purchased at the office supply store and moistened at the rest area on the Massachusetts Turnpike. No DNA left behind. He then affixed a stamp to the top right corner of the envelope (purchased from a vending machine at the rest area as well) and dropped his letter into the mailbox, checking twice to be sure it had slid into the belly of the blue box.

One his way back to Connecticut, Martin treated himself to a strawberry shake from McDonald’s.

He had rarely been more pleased with himself.

If not for an inaccurately marked calendar, Martin might have been able to resume his daily routines without further deviation or incident.

Four days after mailing his letter to Alan Clayton, Martin was visiting the home of longtime clients Daniel and Justine Ashley when he heard a car pull into their gravel driveway.

This was not the first time in his career that a vehicle had pulled into a client’s driveway while Martin was inside the house. More than a dozen times in the past, Martin had been inside a home when a UPS or FedEx truck arrived with a delivery for a client. In each of these instances, the driver either dropped a package at the front door or rang the doorbell and, when no one responded, left the package or a note pertaining to the package at the front door. Although these visits were infrequent, Martin was always cautious when passing by windows and doors at the front of a client’s home, since deliveries were almost always made to the front of the house.

Once, Martin had been forced to cancel one of his clients, Jim and Joanne Bibeault of Coventry, when he discovered that UPS made deliveries to their home almost every day. Despite their secluded location and a house full of potential long-term acquisitions, Martin canceled the couple within a month of taking
them on as clients, deciding that there was too much risk involved continuing to work with them.

Still, the sound of rubber grinding on gravel had always caused his heart to beat furiously, as was the case this time. Though the sound likely signaled a delivery, there was always an outside chance that the client had unexpectedly come home.

Standing in the Ashleys’ pantry, Martin froze, trying to control the panic that immediately welled up inside him. Oddly enough, it was his experience in the Clayton household just days before that allowed him to regain his composure quicker than normal and to act without delay. He had survived the worst situation he could imagine, being trapped inside a home with a client, and his success had given birth to a greater degree of self-confidence than Martin could ever have imagined. His attention to detail and training had paid off, and a sense of invincibility had begun to stir within him.

Returning the digital camera to the bag slung over his shoulder, Martin closed the door to the pantry and headed for the stairway to the second floor. If the Ashleys were home, he couldn’t risk passing through the kitchen to the back door, his normal point of egress, because the side door of the house also opened into the kitchen and served as the clients’ customary point of entry. Although it was very unlikely that the Ashleys were home, it wasn’t a risk worth taking.

Standard operating procedure in these circumstances was simple. Evacuate the house if possible, and if not (as was this case this time), take up a position in a predetermined hiding spot until the client exited the home again. Until his encounter with the Claytons, Martin had never found himself in this type of situation, but the possibility had always remained in his mind. For this reason, Martin had identified at least two hiding spots in each of his clients’ homes in the event of an emergency.
These locations were chosen based upon his belief that they were infrequently accessed by the clients. The Ashleys, for example, had a closet in their basement filled with Christmas decorations, and a walk-in closet in a second-floor guest bedroom that was entirely empty. Martin felt that either location would serve as an effective hiding place in the event that he became trapped in the home.

In the case of the Claytons, Martin had identified as emergency hiding spots a corner behind the furnace in the basement and a closet in their home office that contained financial records from previous decades. But his rush to return the toothbrush to its proper location had prevented him from reaching one of his predetermined hiding spots in their home.

Yet he had escaped unscathed.

As Martin began to ascend the staircase to the second floor, the screen door on the porch swung open with a whining squeak and was followed by the sound of footsteps. Martin was now certain that this new arrival was neither Justine nor Daniel Ashley. Using the front door, which adjoined the screened porch, was not something the couple did with any frequency. Coat hooks, a bowl for keys, and an umbrella stand were all positioned in the kitchen by the side door, making it clear that the Ashleys used this entrance on a regular basis.

Still not taking any chances, Martin continued to move upstairs, stopping only at the sound of the porch door slamming shut. Though the suspected delivery man hadn’t rung the doorbell or knocked on the Ashleys’ front door, Martin wasn’t surprised. He knew that delivery drivers typically maintained the same route, so if he (or she) had delivered packages to the house before (and apparently he had), he would know that the Ashleys were not home during the day. Martin paused, listening intently for the sound of the would-be delivery truck’s engine and was rewarded a few moments later by the expected mechanical
growl. Still, he waited a full three minutes before returning downstairs and resuming his normal activities.

There were less than five minutes left before Martin would need to exit the Ashleys’ home when the phone rang and a message was recorded on their answering machine, words that would eventually cause Martin to deviate from his routine yet again, and change his life forever.

“Hi guys! It’s Laura. Hey, I’m so sorry that I missed the party. I know I said I’d be there, but I got stuck in Philly with my Uncle Bob. He’s still pretty sick, you know. I wish I could’ve been there and I’m so sorry I didn’t call. Things just got crazy, if you know what I mean. Danny, I just dropped off your gift on the way to work. It’s on the porch next to the swing. Hope you like it! I’ll try you again later tonight, okay? Bye!”