Something Missing

by Matthew Dicks

  This was all Martin needed to proceed. The business cards had been a lucky find, but had they not been there, he was certain that he could have found pay stubs, performance reviews, an employee award of some kind, letterhead from her place of business, a URL bookmarked in her Web browser, or a dozen other artifacts that would have led him to her job site. Though tailing clients had proven to be an effective means of identifying their occupations, the truth was that Martin had already determined many of their jobs long before he ever left his home. As had Laura Green, clients often left mountains of evidence behind indicating their place of employment.

  And if Martin’s guess as to where Laura Green worked was correct, things were looking up.

  As long as he could escape her house alive and undetected.

  Using the digital images as a reference (though he didn’t need them), Martin returned the desk to its original state, the whole time singing his alphabetic melody and committing Laura Green’s place of employment to memory. Normally he might have photographed the business card as well, but memorizing a simple street address was something that Martin was sure he could handle.

  With Laura Green’s desk back in order and the address of her place of employment memorized, it was time to examine his means of escape. He had been holding off on inspecting the windows, fearful of the disappointment that it might bring, but Martin could no longer afford to wait. While continuing his soothing rendition of the ABCs, he examined the room’s two windows, one facing the side yard and the other facing the back. His hope was that one of them would be unlocked. If not, he would be forced to leave one open during his escape or face Cujo once again.

  Neither prospect was at all appealing.

  This time Martin got lucky. The first window, the one above the sofa and facing the side yard, was locked tight, but the other, facing the backyard and obscured by a tall row of hedges, was unlocked. A window fan sat on the floor beneath the window, still plugged in, an indicator as to why the window may have been left unlocked.

  He had found his means of escape.

  Not only was the window unlocked, but it was a large window, tall to be precise, and he thought that, with a bit of crouching, he could probably kneel on the sill in the rectangular space that the bottom pane of glass currently occupied.

  Only one piece of evidence indicating his presence in the house remained. The door to the room in which he was trapped was closed, but it had been open prior to his entry. In order to restore the home to its original state, he would have to open the door before exiting.

  Even with the ABCs, Martin doubted if Cujo would remain still once the door was opened. Though quiet, the dog continued to occasionally whine and growl. But this wasn’t a bad thing. Martin was banking on the dog’s continued anger, and desire to eat him alive, in order to get the door open again.

  First, he raised the bottom pane of glass and examined the area outside. Because Laura Green’s property sloped down toward the backyard fence, the window was unusually high off the ground, perhaps as high as six feet. The bush obscuring the window was nearly flush against the house, promising Martin a prickly but concealed escape. The area beneath the window was free of debris, and the drop to the ground, though farther than he would have liked, was manageable. The bush would probably slow his fall a bit. An electric meter was jutting out of the siding to the right of the window frame, about two or three feet from the ground, but Martin thought it would be easily avoided. With the window now open, it was also clear to Martin that he would be able to jam his crouching body into its space. His knees would be none too happy, supporting his full weight atop the sill, and his head and neck might not appreciate the degree of bending that would be required, but the space was large enough. This would be the first time in his career that Martin used a window as a means of exit, but as he examined his landing zone and the cover that the bush would provide, he felt confident that it would work.

  Next came the dangerous part of his escape plan. Returning to the door, Martin raised the volume of his ABCs as he reached out and grasped the doorknob. His goal was to open the door just enough for the knob to release from the catch without the dog noticing any change. In order to cover the expected click of the knob, he increased the volume of his ABCs even more. Turning slowly, he twisted the brass knob until he felt the door release from the jamb. He then turned the knob back to its original position, hoping that the door would remain unlatched but in place. As he loosened his grip a bit on the knob, it seemed like his plan would work, but the test would be to release the knob entirely; he hoped that the door didn’t swing inward.

  About fifteen feet separated Martin from his escape window. Keeping his right hand on the knob, continuing his passage through the alphabet, Martin positioned himself for a diving leap through the window in the event that the door moved too much and Cujo became aware of his intentions. He envisioned himself leaping over the sill, grabbing hold of the bush, and sliding down.

  He thought it could be done rather easily, albeit painfully, if necessary.

  Taking a final deep, relaxing breath, Martin released the knob and moved backward, watching the door as it opened inward less than half an inch before stopping, still well within its frame. He was already at the window now, ready to jump if necessary, but it appeared that the dog hadn’t noticed.

  Luck continued to be on his side.

  Climbing onto the windowsill, Martin prepared for his escape. Kneeling on the sill, his chin tucked into his chest, he managed to fit his entire body into the bottom half of the window. Martin turned his body so that he was still looking into the room, his eyes affixed on the door, his shins and feet extended outside the house, pressing into the bush. His knees were already beginning to ache, but if things went as planned, he would be on the ground in moments.

  Reaching up, Martin grasped the bottom edge of the window, preparing to pull it closed in front of him, leaving just enough room on the outside of the sill for his knees to remain perched as the window came down. With everything in position, he at last stopped his ABCs on the letter G and waited.

  A moment later the first bark came, followed by another, and a second later the dog scratched on the door once again. This time the door swung halfway open and Martin could see the dog’s eyes brighten, its nose lifting from the floor just inches from where the door had been. Reenergized, the Labrador bolted upright and, upon seeing Martin in the window, surged forward, shoving the door entirely open on his way into the room.

  Martin pulled down on the window, trying to put glass between himself and the dog, and he suddenly wished that he had practiced this final maneuver before he had stopped his singing.

  The window didn’t budge.

  Whether it was stuck or the angle at which he was attempting to close it was creating the problem, the window would not move as the dog reached the wall and launched its front paws onto the sill. Angry teeth snapped at Martin’s exposed knees, forcing him to drop them off the sill and outside the house. As he hung by only his fingertips, Martin’s sneakers scrambled against the siding until he managed to catch hold of the electricity meter with his left foot, halting his fall. His head and shoulders were now just outside the open window, gloved hands still gripping the inside of the top of the frame, his lower torso now below the window, feet perched precariously on the meter. He looked like a man preparing to do chin ups, using the window frame in place of the customary bar.

  With the dog now staring him in the eye, Martin strengthened his hold on the inside of the window and pulled down even harder, with no more success than he had the first time. Sweat beginning to bead up on his forehead, Martin watched the dog’s front paws disappear from the sill just before it leapt into the air, targeting his hands this time. The dog’s jaws snapped shut inches away from his left wrist before disappearing below the sill once again.

  Though Martin could have jumped to safety at any moment, closing this window was critical. Leaving it completely open would surely signal the presence of an intruder
.

  The window had to be shut.

  Martin continued to pull frantically at the window frame as the dog’s paws returned to the sill, its muzzle rising up until he and Cujo were nearly face to face. The dog snapped again, this time almost catching hold of Martin’s chin. Martin leaned back as far as he dared, still pulling with all his might.

  Cujo barked and snapped again at Martin, this time managing to grab hold of the collar of his shirt. With his hands clinging to the window frame, Martin was defenseless as the dog tugged at the fabric, pulling him back into the house, refusing to let go. If he released his hands, Martin knew that he would fall backward into the bush, but it was unlikely that he would be able to climb back up the side of the house to the window again.

  If he let go now, the window would be left open.

  And if the fabric of his shirt was strong enough and the dog didn’t let go (as Valerie had refused to do, so many years ago), Cujo would likely come spilling out of the house as well, atop his prone and defenseless body.

  Despite the hot breath of the dog on his face, its angry growls, and the tug of war taking place between the two of them, Martin suddenly realized that had he simply continued chanting the ABCs until the window was closed, this never would have happened.

  Breaking routine, violating his rules, was continuing to haunt him.

  The dog growled and continued to tug, snapping up more fabric, pulling Martin even closer, and as the neckline of his shirt shrunk, the dog gathering more and more fabric in its jaws, Martin felt his airflow begin to constrict. He wondered if Cujo might choke him to death before the dog ever managed a bite.

  With fear and frustration rising from his belly, Martin lashed out, head-butting the dog in the muzzle with the center of his forehead. The dog let out a piercing whine and released the shirt, tumbling back into the room and out of view.

  Martin’s victory was short-lived, as seconds later the dog made another attempt at his wrist, leaping into the air and coming even closer than before. Realizing that the angle of his pull on the window was likely the problem, Martin used the brief respite in the battle to reverse his hands so that they were grasping the outside of the window rather than the inside. Using the full weight of his body, he pulled as hard as he dared, fearful of ripping the window from its frame, and this time he was rewarded with the rapid descent of the glass. As his hands passed the sill, the dog made one final attempt at grabbing hold of his wrist, and Martin actually felt the dog’s hot breath on his skin just before the window sealed shut, knocking him and the dog back in opposite directions.

  Martin released the window just as it slammed shut, falling backward into the bush behind him. Prickly limbs lashed at him as he descended to the ground, his fall broken by a combination of the bush’s branches and the mulch piled beneath.

  He had survived.

  Feeling more tired than he ever had in his life, Martin marshaled his energy and picked himself off the ground, pushing past the branches until he emerged into Laura Green’s backyard. Free of the house and dog, he expelled a premature sigh of relief.

  “What are you doing?” a voice announced from behind him.

  Martin spun, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, and saw a young, blond-haired girl, perhaps six years old, sitting at the Fisher-Price picnic table that he had mentally inventoried earlier. She was staring up at him, her brows furrowed as if a question mark had lodged in her throat.

  “Hello?” she said, louder this time. She appeared to be friendly but dreadfully curious, and in possession of a distinct accent, English or perhaps Scottish.

  Martin thought about turning and running, getting back to his car as quickly as possible, but instead he stood his ground and replied with a hello of his own, adopting the hitherto-undefined accent of the girl.

  He hadn’t meant to speak in the accent. It just came out that way.

  “Are you still looking for your dog?” she asked.

  “My dog?” Finding Cujo in the backyard was the last thing that Martin wanted to do. And again he had replied in an awkward facsimile of the girl’s accent, as if he’d been suddenly saddled with Alfredo’s verbal limitations.

  “Your dog,” the girl repeated emphatically. “I heard you calling for him a wee bit ago. Andy, right?”

  It took Martin ten painfully long seconds to make sense of what this girl was saying. The only dog that he could think of was Cujo, the one who had nearly strangled him to death just seconds before. But then it came to Martin. In a flurry of words, still mimicking the girl’s accent as best he could, he answered. “Oh, you mean Sandy. Sandy is my dog. Yes, I’m still looking for Sandy. You heard me calling for Sandy, right?” As he spoke the words, he began scanning the backyard, looking for Blondie’s parents. He assumed that they were close by.

  “Is Sandy a boy dog or a girl dog?”

  Remarkably, Martin didn’t know. He had never assigned his fictional dog a gender. He thought about the Sandy in his first-grade reader and couldn’t remember if the author had ever distinguished a gender. So he said the first thing that came to mind. “A girl dog. Sandy is a girl dog. Sandy is my girl dog.”

  “My dad says girl dogs are bitches. I can say ‘bitches,’ but only if I’m talking about girl dogs. Did you know that girl dogs are bitches?”

  Martin marveled at the way this child spoke, using words that he said his entire life but twisted in a remarkably new vernacular. His astonishment over her accent allowed him to relax a bit.

  “Yes, I knew that. But I don’t call my Sandy that word. That wouldn’t be nice.” As he replied, Martin smiled. That was something his mother might have said.

  “But Daddy says it isn’t bad, because it’s grammerly correct.”

  “Where is your daddy?” Martin asked, the inquiry suddenly making him feel like a child molester.

  A child molester with a ridiculous Irish accent.

  “Daddy’s in San … San something. He comes home soon. Me and Mum are staying with Auntie Bea until Thanksgiving. Where do you come from?”

  The scope of the question baffled Martin. Was the little girl asking what town Martin lived in or what country? Did she want to know where he had just been or where he had been born? At that moment Martin realized that he was trapped in an unrehearsed conversation. For so much of his life, probably starting the moment he left the driveway after being scolded by his stepfather, Martin had spent much of his life rehearsing for all future conversations. Practicing them in his mind. Running through word choices, sentence combinations, and possible retorts. Whether it was paying for gas at the Mobil or explaining his latest writing assignment to Jim or visiting with Jillian in the diner, he was prepared for whatever he might need to say.

  But never in his life had he prepared for a situation like this.

  “I come from here,” he finally said. “I live in America.”

  “Oh,” Blondie replied. “You talk funny for an American.”

  He did. Though he was doing a fair job of imitating the words that Blondie was saying, he was guessing at the others, the ones she hadn’t said, and he was certain that those words weren’t sounding good.

  More important, he was talking too much. It was time to move.

  “I have to go. Okay?” And as the words came out of his mouth, he realized how ridiculous they sounded. He was asking a child for permission to leave, and his question hadn’t been rhetorical. Had Blondie answered in the negative, told him to stand his ground with a “Stay put, buster,” he might have done just that. Without a rehearsal, Martin had no way of gaining control of the conversation, making it more important for him to leave now.

  “Where’s your daddy?” the girl asked.

  This was perhaps the most unrehearsed question of Martin’s life.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered with blind honesty. Martin’s mother and father had divorced when he was in second grade, and though he had visited his father quite frequently for a year or two after the divorce, their communication had become less
and less frequent as his mother became more publicly involved with the future stepfather who had broken up the marriage. He wasn’t even sure how he had finally ended all contact with his father. The Sunday afternoon visits to the apartment behind the liquor store evolved into Christmas Day drop-bys and second-rate birthday parties with just Martin, his father, and an occasional girlfriend sitting around a table, eating cake and searching for something to say. Eventually even these visits faded until one day Martin had stopped seeing his father entirely. It wasn’t a conscious choice, at least on his own part, but in fairness, he couldn’t remember clamoring to see his namesake either. Though Martin could recall missing his father for quite a while, he also knew that in his heart he had allowed his new father to replace the old. He had embraced the new life that his stepfather had brought into the household, a life of slightly fewer arguments and slightly more money. More presents under the tree and a new pair of sneakers whenever needed. Martin despised his father for leaving as only a seven-year-old could, and blindly pledged his allegiance to his father’s usurper, unaware of the man’s potential for cruelty and selfishness. Eventually Martin learned that his stepfather had purposefully kept him away from his father, wielding his influence as a psychiatric social worker to reduce his father’s visitation rights, hoping to eliminate the influence that the man might exert on his son. But Martin had apparently made it easy.

  Had barely put up a fight.

  For that reason, Martin hadn’t seen his father in years. Even after Martin’s stepfather had left his mother for a younger woman, two or three years prior to her death, Martin made no attempt to reconcile with his father. A healthy dose of guilt and remorse, combined with the awkwardness that two decades apart can create, had kept them apart.

  Of course, Martin’s career had a lot to do with their continued separation as well.

  In addition, Martin was still angry with his father. Though he was willing to accept some of the blame, he also knew that, for whatever reason, his father had let him down as well. Martin could not remember even a single time when his father had fought for his right to see his son. Though Martin had allowed a strange man to fill the shoes of his father, his father had allowed it to happen without so much as a peep.