Matthew Dicks

by Something Missing (v5)

  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:

  Alan

  Bring your wife a single red rose tomorrow. Follow it up

  with a dozen more next week. It will mean more than you

  can imagine.

  Trust me.

  A friend

  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 s
ick, 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!”

  As the answering machine beeped, indicating the end of the recording, Martin wasted no time in moving to the front of the house. Standing beside the living room window, he peeked through drawn curtains onto the enclosed porch. Sure enough, a long tubular package was resting against the swing, wrapped in colorful paper.

  Standing there, staring at this unexpected surprise, Martin felt the same urge that he had first sensed inside the Claytons’ coat closet return. It was the feeling of opportunity, of obligation.

  The Ashleys owned a gourmet catering service in their hometown of Southington and kept some of the longest hours of any of Martin’s clients, rising before five each morning (Martin always checked the setting on a client’s alarm clock in order to determine the time that they awoke) and arriving home well after seven each evening. This rigorous schedule, combined with the success of their business, had made the Ashleys excellent clients.

  Three months ago, Daniel Ashley had attended a conference for the American Bakery Association in Houston, Texas, leaving his wife at home for almost a week. During that time, Justine Ashley, a petite, no-nonsense spitfire of a woman, had transformed their home into Surprise Party Central (actually sticking a Post-it to the dining room doors with this very title). Taking advantage of his absence, Justine Ashley began planning for her husband’s fortieth birthday party in late October. During the week a guest list was created, invitations ordered, favors purchased and assembled, and bands interviewed.

  Evidence of her plans littered the dining room, kitchen, and office. Copious notes on the various bands that she had interviewed were kept on a clipboard that migrated throughout the house during the week, with a large red circle eventually drawn around a band named “The Degenerates.” Clay pots containing miniature putting greens, complete with turf grass and tiny flags and cups (presumably the party favors) were scattered about a makeshift assembly line on the dining room table, eventually disappearing at the end of the week, presumably to the home of a friend or relative for safekeeping. The guest list, tacked to a corkboard above the kitchen sink, expanded and shrank until it finally numbered 156 invitees. Most important, Martin had seen the invitation proofs indicating the date, time, and location of the party, five days from today, on Saturday, October 27, at the Water’s Edge Resort in Westbrook, Connecticut. Martin had marked the day on his calendar as well, knowing that Justine Ashley had also planned a surprise golfing and fishing trip to Marco Island in Florida immediately following the party, allowing him unrestricted access to his clients’ home for just under a week.

  But somehow a woman named Laura, presumably a friend of the couple, had marked the date incorrectly in her calendar and thought that the party had already taken place. If Daniel Ashley were to come home and find the gift on his front porch or listen to the message on the answering machine, all of his wife’s work would be ruined.

  Martin found himself with an unexpected choice: attempt to help Justine Ashley while risking his anonymity, or ignore the situation and allow the surprise to potentially be ruined.

  Had Martin not seen the single red rose standing in a thin crystal vase (one that he had inventoried long ago) on the Claytons’ dining room table earlier that morning, during his scheduled visit to their home, he might not have felt compelled to act on Justine Ashley’s behalf. But the flower had been there, along with a card that read:

  I sometimes forget to tell you how much I love you.

  Forgive me.

  No large-scale acquisition had ever brought Martin more joy than the image of that flower and the words on the card, scrawled in the hand of a man who loved his wife but had too often forgotten to tell her. His apparent success with the Claytons had brought Martin a remarkable feeling of attachment and goodwill for the couple, and he now felt compelled to come to the aid of Justine Ashley and her cause for the same reason.

  In fact, as Martin considered helping his client, he also began to wonder if he hadn’t been placed in the Ashley home at that particular moment by fate, in order to hear the answering machine message and take action. Even before Laura’s message, Martin had begun to speculate as to whether his career choice had actually been meant to be a vehicle to a higher calling. During visits to the Archambauts and Owens earlier that morning, he had begun envisioning himself as an agent for good, entering his clients’ homes in order to make a living, but perhaps to improve their lives as well.

  Perhaps Martin had been meant to help his clients all along.

  The logical and calculated side of Martin dismissed this notion immediately, and not surprisingly. In the more than sixteen years that he had been in this business, Martin had never entertained any such thoughts. His methodical approach to business had earned him his success, and he was well aware of that fact. Involving himself unnecessarily in the lives of his clients would have been the last thing he might consider. But that rose, and those two simple sentences written on a card from husband to wife, had begun to make him wonder.

  And now he wondered if he was somehow meant to help the Ashleys as well.

  Without much fanfare, Martin decided that he would try. The only question was how much action he dare risk.

  The first decision that Martin made, while still standing in the living room and staring at the gift through the window, was not to allow anything he might do to jeopardize the Ashleys as clients. Helping the couple made sense to him only if it did not place his relationship with them at risk. Whatever he might choose to do, it had to be done without uncovering his identity or his reason for being inside their home.

  Next he looked at his watch. 12:35. The Ashleys wouldn’t be home until at least 7:00, so he had more than enough time to act. It would mean eliminating scheduled visits to the Sullivans and the Pearls, but those visits could be made up later. This emergency took precedence.

  Martin moved to the Ashleys’ kitchen and sat down at the butcher-block table, concealed by drawn shades and a dirty window, and began running through his options. The simplest solution would be to erase the message from the machine and confiscate the gift. This would eliminate the immediate danger to Justine Ashley’s surprise, but doing so would also leave evidence of his presence in the Ashley home. When Laura and the Ashleys spoke (later that night in all likelihood), the gift and phone call would certainly come up in conversation, and it would quickly become apparent that someone had been in the home.

  Even if Martin chose to forsake the Ashleys as clients in favor of protecting Justine Ashley’s hard work, erasing the message and confiscating the gift failed to eliminate the danger to the surprise entirely. According to her message, Laura was planning to call later that evening, and if Daniel Ashley answered the phone, the surprise would surely be ruined, even if the message and gift had been eliminated.

  Martin saw his options as very limited.

  Option #1 was to eliminate the evidence (the message on the machine and the gift) but also to alert Laura to her error, so that she would not call about the party later that evening. He would have to do this without endangering his anonymity, which meant that even if he managed to find and contact the woman, he would have to inform her of the error in a way that would keep his identity a secret and explain how he knew of her error in the first place.

  Not an easy task in Martin’s immediate estimation.

  After some thought, he briefly considered calling Laura (provided that he could find her phone number), posing as the Water’s Edge banquet manager. He would tell her that he was calling to confirm her meal choice for Saturday night, claiming that their computer had crashed and the meal choices for the Ashleys’ guests had been lost. Martin had seen the invitations (and had even photographed one), and he knew that Justine Ashley had offered her guests three different meal ch
oices. He could even go back to the digital record to determine which three options were available, if necessary. Upon receiving the call, Laura would be alerted to the actual date of the party and would undoubtedly call Justine Ashley and admit to her error, giving Justine enough time to get home and eliminate the message and gift before Daniel found either.

  This idea initially appealed to Martin, but in the end he decided that it would not work. A phone call from a banquet manager to a guest would be highly unorthodox and suspicious (and questions as to how the banquet manager acquired Laura’s phone number would inevitably arise), but more important, Justine Ashley was likely to see or speak to the banquet manager again before or at the party. Grateful to him for averting disaster, she would likely thank him for the phone call to Laura, explaining how his call had unwittingly preserved the surprise. The banquet manager would deny making the phone call, and Martin would be forced to cancel the Ashleys as clients, since questions as to who made the phone call would necessarily follow.

  It was in the midst of this train of thought that the alarm on Martin’s watch began to vibrate, signaling the prescribed end to his visit. Only once before had Martin been inside a client’s home for longer than he allowed, and that was during his recent Clayton visitation. Though the vibration of the alarm initially sent a shot of panic through his system, Martin focused on his success in the Claytons’ home and forced himself to return to the task at hand.

  Option #2 was to alert Justine Ashley to the phone message and gift and have her intercept both before her husband could. Again, this would have to be done without exposing his identity to the client and without telling her how he knew about Laura’s error. While this option also seemed impossible, Martin developed a plan in which he would call Justine Ashley at work, claiming to be a UPS driver who was attempting to drop off a gift at the home. He would explain that the screen door to the porch was locked and would ask where he should leave the brightly colored gift. Alerted to the presence of a gift at the home a week before the party, Justine Ashley might then find a reason to go home ahead of her husband, in order to determine why a gift had arrived so early. She would then hear the message on the answering machine and be able to eliminate the evidence before her husband arrived home.