I hadn’t actually looked inside of his car. He might’ve been lying in the back seat, but if you heard kids trying to pick the lock to break into your house, would you really hide in your car?
If he was in the house, I was pretty sure he was down in the basement.
I didn’t want to descend into the basement. But I had no choice. Too bad for me.
I went back into the kitchen. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the door that I assumed led to the basement was ajar. I very, very, very slowly opened it wide enough for me to get through, then took one step down.
There was a light on down there. Not a bright one—probably just a small lamp.
I took another step down.
I could hear something.
I took one more step down, which was as far as I could go before my feet became visible. I listened carefully.
Mr. Martin was talking to somebody.
“I know, I know,” he said. “Sometimes it’s just so hard. You know what I mean? I feel like I’m burning up inside. Have you heard of spontaneous human combustion? It’s when you burst into flames. Your whole body gets consumed by fire and turns to ashes, but it doesn’t mess with the things around you. You could be sitting on a wooden chair and they’ll just find your ashes on it. Not a mark on the wood. I’m not saying I believe in this—I don’t—it’s just how I feel, like I’m going to burst into flame.”
Nobody else spoke. He was either talking on the telephone or talking to himself.
“I’m not going to,” he said. “I want to but I’m not going to. It would be stupid. I think about it all the time, though. When I’m on the job, swinging a hammer or something, you’d better believe that I’m fantasizing about it.” He laughed, then sniffled. “Nah, if I do that I’ll just lie awake. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in I don’t know how long. It’s like I see stuff moving around on the ceiling. I can’t tell if I’m awake or in the middle of a nightmare. I can’t wait to be able to move away from here. Start over. Maybe a big city. The kind where kids disappear all the time. I don’t want to get help. Stop saying that.”
I didn’t know the optimal moment to reveal myself. It was unlikely that I’d be fortunate enough to find him looking in the other direction, allowing me to sneak right up on him, so it might be best to do it while he was engaged in a phone conversation. But I also didn’t want him to shout for the person on the other end to call the police.
“Hold on,” he said.
I stopped breathing.
“Hello?” he called out.
I just stood there, feeling like he could hear my heart pounding.
He was silent for a moment.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Paranoia, probably. But I’m entitled, right? Hey, I just want you to know that I really appreciate you talking to me like this. Helps keep me sane. Without an outlet, things would be a lot worse than they are. Yeah, yeah, I know you’re happy to do it, but you still have better things you could be doing. Like sleeping. What time is it? I don’t even know. Oh, okay, that’s earlier than I thought.”
I had to make my move. I couldn’t creep down the stairs, because if he was facing that direction, I didn’t want him to watch me slowly descend and have time to retrieve his trusty axe. This pretty much had to be a “Surprise!” moment, though I would not actually shout that.
I hurried down the stairs, making sure the gun in my hand was clearly visible.
Mr. Martin had a fully furnished basement, like a downstairs living room. It was actually cozier looking than his upstairs. He was seated on a recliner, legs up, a blanket on his lap, a few empty bottles of beer on the side table next to him. He held a black telephone receiver to his ear.
“You know what, I have to go,” Mr. Martin said into the phone. “Tell Mom I love her.”
He placed the receiver back on its cradle.
“Toss the blanket away,” I said. “Do it with one hand.”
Mr. Martin tossed the blanket to the floor. He was wearing the same robe as when I’d bothered him on Halloween.
“Lower your feet.”
He pulled the handle on the side of the recliner, lowering the footrest.
“Can I get you a beer?” he asked.
“Stand up,” I told him.
“Jeez, you’re pretty bossy tonight.”
“I said, stand up.”
Mr. Martin stood up. “Anything else I can do for you? Want me to get down on my knees and put my hands behind my head? Make it nice and easy for you to execute me?”
“What you can do for me is stop talking unless I ask you a question.”
Mr. Martin put his hand to his chin, as if giving deep contemplation to what I’d said. “Hmmm. Are you the kind of person who would murder me for talking? I’m not sure. You do look pretty angry right now, but I think that deep inside, your heart is in the right place. I think I can talk without you killing me. I guess I’ll find out, huh?”
“I bet you’d sober up if I shot you in the leg,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Alcohol would spray out of the bullet hole instead of blood. Why are you here, Curtis? If you’re here to kill me, kill me. Blow my head off and get it over with. Or shoot my eyes out.” He tapped his right eye with his index finger. “Bring the barrel of your gun right up here and pull the trigger.”
I said nothing. He lowered his hand. After a moment of silence, his shoulders slumped and he looked truly, deeply sad.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“You’re taking me to Todd’s body.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I didn’t ask if you would take me to his body.
