IN SUCCESSIVE FOLDS, HE began turning back the Persian rug, working from one edge toward the stone slab table. First the rug, then the pad.
An hour remained. Only an hour before he must close up the house, draw the drapes, lock the door, set the alarm, test it, get in the Cherokee, drive to the airport. The hardware store hadn’t opened until ten minutes after ten o’clock. When the proprietor had finally arrived, ten minutes late, he’d—
Yes, there it was: the polyfoam rug pad, stained with her urine. He gritted his teeth, drew a last long, deep breath, then folded the rug one final time, draping it over the coffee table. Revealing—yes—the bloodstains on the pad, already darkening. He stepped clear, grasped the pad, doubled it back over the rug—
—revealing two corresponding stains, darkening the oak floor beneath the pad: one stain the blood, one the urine.
Quickly, he unwrapped the flimsy plastic drop cloth he’d bought at the hardware store. He folded the drop cloth, refolded it, covered the stains on the floor. A moment later the pad was back in place, and the rug, covering it. He reached for the bottle of 409 Spray Cleaner and began spraying the two stains.