Something Missing

by Matthew Dicks

  There was not a moment to waste.

  At the landing, Martin paused to look up the stairs. The second floor was dark. There were bedrooms to the left and right of the stairway and a bathroom directly opposite the stairs. He could still hear the faint sound of a male voice, emanating from the left of the landing, leading him to believe that the door to the Pearls’ bedroom was probably closed.

  This was both good and bad.

  A closed door meant that Martin’s ascent of the stairs would likely go undetected, but it also meant that surprising the intruder would be much more difficult. Had Martin been able to creep into the darkened bedroom undetected, he could have landed at least a couple of good blows on Darrow’s head before the man had a chance to respond. But if he had to open the bedroom door first, his opportunity for surprise would be seriously compromised.

  Martin ascended the stairs as slowly and quietly as possible, regardless of the probable closed door. As he took each step, he desperately tried to formulate a plan. In his entire life, Martin had been in exactly one fight, and he had won. When he was in ninth grade, several seniors had grabbed him and another kid named Paul, brought them into an empty classroom, and instructed them to fight like two roosters in a cock fight. Martin had thought that their demand was lunacy and refused until one of the larger seniors, Eddie Meeres, landed a punch in Martin’s gut, knocking the wind out of him for a full minute. “Fight or we beat you up ourselves,” Martin was told. Not wanting the same treatment, Paul lifted his fists and charged at Martin, swinging in desperation. Martin dodged the first few punches until Paul managed to land a right hook on Martin’s jaw. He could remember seeing stars for a moment as he wobbled back and forth, marveling at the reality behind what he had previously seen only in cartoons. An instant later, a rage that Martin had never known consumed him, and he charged at his opponent with fists flying. Eventually it took three seniors to pull Martin off the boy whose nose and lips were bloody and raw.

  Martin still regretted that momentary loss of control, born from fear and anger, and since that day he had never committed another act of violence. Now he had a piece of lumber in one hand and a knife in the other, and the only question was how he was going to use them.

  It was Martin’s near disastrous fall that brought him the answer.

  Three steps from the top landing, with his mind consumed in thought, Martin missed a step. Rather than coming down on the next stair, his foot caught the front of the step and slipped back down, causing him to stumble backward. Reaching out with the hand in possession of the knife, Martin managed to grasp the wooden railing, but as he did, the knife momentarily slipped from his grasp. He reached out and was able to pin the blade between his palm and the railing, preventing it from falling, but in doing so he was forced to grab hold of the sharp side of the blade, slicing through the surgical glove and cutting his palm open down the middle.

  With his adrenaline at epic heights, he barely felt any pain.

  Once steadied, Martin froze, listening for any signs that his near fall had been heard inside the bedroom. He could still hear a man’s voice, speaking on and on but in what sounded like whispers. Threatening, ominous whispers. And he could hear something else now too. Whimpering. The soft, quiet cry of a woman in trouble.

  It was at that moment that Martin, suddenly recalling Jim’s lateral-thinking puzzle about the burglar who fell down the stairs and broke his leg in the midst of a robbery, knew exactly what needed to be done.

  As quietly as possible, he regained his grip on the knife and ascended the final three stairs. Once on the top landing, he confirmed his suspicion. The bedroom door to the left of the landing was closed. Directly across from the stairs, the bathroom’s door was open. Martin entered and placed the knife in the sink, knowing that he would no longer require it. He then slowly closed the bathroom door, stopping just before the latch engaged with the jamb. Holding it in this position, as he had done the day he’d been caught in Laura’s house with Cujo, Martin turned on the bathroom light, hoping that the high carpeting in the hall would block any residual light filtering into the bedroom through the base of the door. He wanted to give his eyes time enough to adjust to the light before executing his plan. If the light was off in the bedroom (as Martin suspected it was, since no light had shown from any of the upstairs windows), this meant that he might be able to get Darrow to step out of near total darkness into light, which might temporarily blind him.

  Martin needed every advantage he could get.

  He allowed his eyes thirty seconds to adjust, for his pupils to fully contract. He then opened the bathroom door and moved quietly to the back wall, farthest from the stairs. Positioning himself so that he was facing the stairs, he lifted the log and held it out in front of his chest like a battering ram, and began.

  “Sherman? Sophie? Is anyone home? I thought I heard noise.” Martin spoke these words in an airy whisper, attempting to make it sound as if the noise was coming from downstairs. He also spoke in his strange version of Blondie’s Irish accent, for reasons he didn’t understand. It hadn’t been a conscious decision. It just came out that way.

  At the sound of his voice, the low tones of Clive Darrow suddenly ceased and Martin heard a louder, inarticulate whine, the type of sound that someone might make if trying to scream through a pillow. This was followed by several thumps and then silence.

  He waited.

  To calm his exploding nerves, he began running through the ABCs in his head.

  A, B, C, D, E, F…

  On G, Martin heard the door open. He stopped breathing entirely.

  A second later, he saw a hand appear, moving into the frame of the bathroom door, carrying an object that Martin didn’t recognize.

  A gun? No, not a gun… flashed through his mind.

  A moment later the body of Clive Darrow filled the bathroom doorway, facing away from Martin, peering down the stairway, pointing whatever object he had into the darkness.

  It was time.

  Martin moved. Plunging forward as fast and hard as possible, he used four running strides to exit the bathroom and collide with Clive Darrow’s body. Darrow must have realized that something was wrong a second before the log struck the back of his head. The intruder had begun to turn, perhaps realizing that the light he had seen was spilling out from behind him or perhaps hearing Martin’s feet on the bathroom tile. But the intruder only made it far enough around to catch his right cheek and nose on the log as it came crashing into his head.

  Before his attack, Martin had already decided that he would finish this job no matter the cost. Leave no room for error. He knew that the log might not be enough, so following the collision of wood on skull, Martin released the log from his grasp and leaped into the air, maintaining his forward progress and bringing his arms around the powerfully built man. Martin’s forward momentum, combined with Clive Darrow’s wobbling legs, thrust the two of them down the stairs and into darkness. The two men toppled over and down the steps like rag dolls, body parts colliding with the stairs, railing, banister, the log (which had become entangled between them), and each other. Martin’s body ended up passing over Darrow’s, turning Martin backward and upside down as he struggled to maintain his grip on the intruder. His forehead struck the railing violently and he felt his right knee come crashing down on the edge of a step, followed by the sickening sensation of something popping inside. A moment later, Martin’s body connected with the floor below, just ahead of Darrow’s body, and he felt at least one of his ribs crack. Still maintaining his hold on the man who was now falling toward him, Martin had the awareness to use the leverage of his now prone body to fling the intruder over him and into the wall opposite the stairs. He heard an awful smack and a squishing sound as the man’s face was whipped into the wall with incredible force before coming to rest beside Martin’s.

  For a moment, everything was silent.

  Martin lay still beside the motionless man, barely able to catch his breath.

  Then Martin
heard the whimper again, coming from the upstairs bedroom. It sounded as if Sophie Pearl had been gagged but was trying to communicate through the binding. Still on his back, with pain beginning to fill his head, knee, and chest, Martin called out, “It’s all right, Mrs. Pearl. It’s over. Your husband’s unconscious but alive. And Darrow’s …”

  Martin realized he had no idea of Clive Darrow’s condition. Pulling himself to a sitting position, he examined the man beside him, looking for signs of life. He was still breathing, but his respiration sounded wet and labored. A large gash stretched from the top of his forehead to the base of his nose, which was clearly broken. Blood was pooling in his eye sockets and spilling down his cheek. His left leg was contorted at a horrific angle, and his pants appeared to be moistening with blood in the area of the fracture. “Compound fracture, you evil son-of-a-bitch,” Martin whispered to the man. “Not good. Just ask that stupid burglar in Jim’s story.” Lying beside his leg was the weapon that Clive Darrow had been carrying: a Taser, which Martin assumed had probably been used on Sherman Pearl.

  Even if the man regained consciousness, Martin was sure that he would be immobile and harmless. “Darrow’s down and out, Mrs. Pearl. Don’t worry. Can you free yourself?” The pain in Martin’s chest was increasing, making it more difficult for him to speak or even breathe without wincing.

  Martin heard a muffled response that he took for a no.

  “Okay,” Martin gasped. “I don’t think I can make it back up the stairs. I got banged up too.” Despite the blossoming pain throughout his body, Martin suddenly realized that his anonymity was still intact. His DNA might be strewn about the house, with blood on the railing, the knife, and Lord knows where else, not to mention hair and skin, but Sophie Pearl had not yet seen him. Even though he had his doubts about being able to climb up the stairs with his knee on fire as it was, he realized that ascending them would be foolish anyway. The Pearls were safe. Best to call the police from the first floor and exit the house before they arrived.

  “Mrs. Pearl, do you know where your phone is?” Martin asked, forgetting about her condition for the moment. He heard her attempt to respond through the gag and cut her off. “Sorry. That was stupid. My head isn’t very clear. Listen. I’m going to see if I can find the phone down here. If not, I’m going to go to my car and use my cell phone. It’s becoming difficult for me to speak, cracked ribs I think, so you might not hear me again until the police arrive. Okay?”

  He heard a whimper of ascent from upstairs and then silence.

  Martin managed to pull himself to his feet, though his right knee was now a raging ball of pain. Barely able to put any weight on it, he hopped over to the leather couch and scanned the room more thoroughly. A moment later he spotted the antenna of the cordless phone on the Steinway, poking out from behind a photograph of the Pearls standing on a beach on some tropic isle.

  A far cry from their current state, Martin mused.

  Martin picked up the phone and hopped into the kitchen. Almost any movement caused him to wince in tremendous pain, from both the bleeding gash on his head and the tenderness of his rib cage. But his knee was by far the worst, and it was becoming more painful by the second. Standing beside the back door, Martin called out one last time. “Mrs. Pearl, I’ve got the phone. I’m calling the police now!”

  Martin dialed 911, waited for an operator to answer, and then placed the phone, with the line still open, on the counter. Regardless of what he might or might not say, he knew that the police would be on their way in minutes.

  Exiting the house, Martin forced himself to put as much weight down on his knee as he could bear, ambling across the lawn and to the Subaru as quickly as possible. He wanted to be out of the parking lot and on the road before the police had time to respond. Throwing the car into drive and using his left leg to operate the gas and brake, Martin exited the parking lot just as the flashing blue lights of a police cruiser appeared in front of the Pearl’s home.

  Sophie and Sherman Pearl would be fine, and, with luck, Clive Darrow would spend the rest of his life in prison.

  Martin had never felt better in his life.

  Martin was diagnosed in the emergency room with a concussion, three broken ribs, and a broken patella.

  “I’ve always been such a klutz,” he said to the nurse as the doctor stapled the gash in his forehead closed. “No more midnight snacks for me.”

  Martin had told the hospital staff that he had tripped on a cat toy and fallen down the stairs head over heels, which in fact wasn’t far from the truth. Including an exposed nail on the railing to explain the cut in his palm, his story seemed to be consistent with his injuries. No one had doubted his account.

  In the past three hours, Martin’s head, chest, and knee had been X-rayed several times. After examining the films and putting him through a physical examination, the doctor explained to Martin that he was fortunate in that his patella fracture was nondisplaced, meaning that he would not require surgery. Martin was shocked. As he hobbled into the emergency room, he had been sure that his entire leg would need to be amputated. By the time he had arrived at Hartford Hospital, the knee had swollen to three times its normal size and the pain was near blinding. Almost immediately following his arrival, doctors inserted needles into the knee to drain the building fluid, thus exponentially reducing the swelling and the amount of pain that it was transmitting to his brain. The doctor, a balding, seemingly disinterested man in his fifties, explained that Martin would be fitted for a knee immobilizer that he would need to wear for at least four weeks.

  As for the broken ribs, these would heal on their own. “As long as you’re not coughing up blood,” the doctor explained, “there’s not much that we can do for your ribs. Just be careful and have them rechecked in a few days.”

  The nurse had told Martin that, as a result of his concussion, he would not be allowed to drive home and would need to call someone for a ride. He was surprised when he found himself giving his father’s phone number to the nurse.

  Martin Railsback, Sr., arrived at the hospital just after 4:00 a.m. Having been a police officer, he was familiar with the workings of an emergency room and found his son rather quickly. The doctor was handing Martin prescriptions for pain medication and antibiotics, in order to ward off any potential infection from the open wounds on Martin’s head and palm. The padded immobilizer was already strapped onto Martin’s leg.

  “Fell down some stairs, huh?” his father asked with a combination of suspicion and humor on his face.

  “Yeah. Not very smart, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  A minute later the doctor shook Martin’s hand and left the two men alone.

  “Thanks for coming,” Martin said as he reached for the crutches that the doctor had left propped against the wall. “I’m sorry about this.”

  “No problem, son. I’m glad you called. Let’s get out of here.”

  As they ambled down the hallway toward the exit, Martin found himself feeling more normal than he had in a long time. He was hurt, had been treated in the emergency room, and his father had come to pick him up. Just a week ago, Martin would’ve had to call his best friend, Jim, for a ride, and though Jim would have come without complaint, it wasn’t your best friend whom you wanted in these moments. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Martin had a father when one was needed most. Despite his injuries, he couldn’t help but feel great as he hobbled toward the automatic doors of the emergency room, side by side with his dad.

  Ten minutes later, Martin was sitting in the front seat of his father’s truck, crossing through the Frog Hollow section of Hartford and into West Hartford. Even with the medication that he had already been given, every bump in the road caused Martin’s chest and knee to flare up in pain.

  The two men had been silent for most of the ride, but as the truck crossed over the Hartford–West Hartford town line, Martin’s father finally broke the silence.

  “This has something to do with your friend, right? The
one in trouble?”

  “Yes,” Martin answered, feeling like a little boy for the second time today.

  “You didn’t call the police, did you?”

  “No. I planned on calling but things happened faster than I thought.”

  “They always do,” his father said with a sigh. “Is your friend still in trouble?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “You took care of it yourself?” his father asked, taking his eyes off the road to look his son in the eye.

  Martin nodded.

  “Do you foresee any problems for yourself? Legally, I mean.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay,” his father said. “Then that’s that.”

  The two men drove the rest of the way to Martin’s house in silence. Rather than parking in the empty driveway, Martin’s father pulled along the curb in front of the house, leaving the engine running. “If you can get inside on your own, I’d rather drop you off here. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this place, and I’m not ready to go inside.”

  “Sure, Dad,” Martin answered, feeling relieved. The tension between the two men had become more than he could bear. “I can manage.”

  “You need a ride to the hospital tomorrow? To pick up your car? To get your prescriptions?”

  “I don’t know,” Martin answered, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe.”

  “If you do, call me.”

  Martin gathered his crutches and the plastic bag containing enough pain medication to get him through the night, and gingerly climbed out of the truck. He didn’t know what else to say to his father, so, without any pleasantries, he turned up the cobbled walk and began hobbling.

  “Son!” Martin’s father shouted through the descending passenger-side window.

  Martin turned and waited. It seemed as if his father was debating whether or not to say anything at all. After a moment, he began. “Listen. I don’t know exactly what happened tonight, but I’ve dealt with enough criminals to know you ain’t one. At least not tonight. You got pretty banged up, but if your friend is out of danger, I’m guessing that you were some kind of a hero tonight. And there’s probably some other guy out there looking worse than you. If that’s the case, son, I’m proud of you.”