Warren Murphy: Midnight Man

"That sounds interesting," said one of the other

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who was the trustee for his parents' estate and asked him how much money was left.

"Nothing," the man answered.

"Nothing?" Elmo said. "How can that be? There's a mistake." Please lei there be a mistake, he thought.

"I'm sorry, Elmo, but I saw a chance to increase

"I didn't authorize any investments," Wimpler snapped.

"I know," said the banker, sounding huffy over the phone. "But I knew you wouldn't mind. So I put your money in gold."

"And gold dropped from eight hundred to six hundred an ounce. I should have something left."

"No," the banker explained patiently. "I bought on margin. The two-hundred-dollar drop wiped you out. Sorry about that."

"My house," said Wimpler. "I can mortgage it. What can I get?"

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"Too late. You really should have called me last week. I mortgaged your house."

"Damn," snarled Wimpler.

"Well, if you let me know once in a while what's on your mind . . ." the banker said. "I can't read minds, you know. Anyway, if I can be of any more . . ."

Wimpler hung up.

He was broke.

Ruined.

And hungry.

But there was no food in the house. Nothing but dry cereal and powdered milk, and he gagged just thinking about it.

He fell into a chair, holding his head between his hands. What could he do now? He had no family, no friends to turn to for help. He could starve to death and no one would know. Here he had this great invention worth millions. Imagine all the things that could be made invisible. Tanks. Airplanes. An army. Policemen. Burglars.

Wait a minute.

He sat straight up in the chair and reran everything that had just gone through his head until he found the one he wanted.

Burglars.

Could he do it? Did he have the nerve?

Was anything worse than starving to death?

He began to walk to his bedroom, slowly at first, then with more determination. He tripped over his cat. The cat spat. Elmo Wimpler apologized.

From his closet he took an old shirt and slacks and his only other pair of shoes.

He hung them on the back of a door and began

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to spray the clothing. He sprayed the shoes black and put them back into the dark closet. As the paint dried, the shoes disappeared.

He began to get excited at the prospect of playing the invisible man. He ran to the kitchen, again tripping over the cat. This time he did not apologize. From a plastic wrap and an old baseball cap, he fashioned a face screen with a thin slit he could see through. He took it back to the bedroom and sprayed the whole aparatus black.

He put on the costume, then drew the blinds and old drapes in the room. He stepped in front of the full length mirror on the back of his bedroom door in the dark room and there he was.

Or wasn't.

He was invisible.

He felt a thrill like he'd never felt before, not even when he was watching Phyllis' bottom as she gardened next door. He felt fantastic.

And scared.

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CHAPTER TWO

His name was Remo and he feared nothing.

All men's fears were based on one thing alone— breathed into her ear. "Show me around later?"

the fear of dying. It was what terrified an embez- His hand touched her back and did something to

zler; afraid he might be found out, and afraid he

would have to take his own life. It explained the ter- cushion.

ror of a child in the dark, or a grown-up hearing the sound of rats inside a wall. Every fear translated

into the fear of dying. "Sure- Sure-"

And Remo no longer had that fear. He no longer

worried about being killed, but only about whom he e later'

would kill and when.

He was an assassin, and knowing that he had power over life and death for others had given him a kind of peace he had never known before.

He felt that peace as he slipped into the hospital, strolled with a casual wave past a guard's desk, and

nodded to a middle-aged nurse, who took one look This was number one-

at the slim, thick-wristed, dark-eyed man and

wished that he belonged to her. nose rebelled at the smdl and his brain at the

Remo whistled peacefully as he rode in the eleva-

tor up to the intensive care unit on the third floor burned beans- Then he sat across from the other or'

and found a linen closet. Inside, a simple change of ^; , „„ , , ,

clothes made him an orderly. You the man? he asked.

He loaded his arms up with a pile of towels, walked into the intensive care ward and said to the young peppermint striper there, "How's it going to-

Remo asked. 14

night?" "What pool?"

The young woman took one look into his intense, dark eyes and felt the same shiver the nurse downstairs had felt.

"Quiet as a mouse," she said. "You're new here, aren't you?"

"Yup," he said. He leaned over her desk and, as he checked the list of patient names in the ward,

her that made her squirm on the orange plastic seat

Sure," she said, and then in case he had misunderstood her statement or its intensity, said again,

Swell," he said, removing his hand. "Meet you

Still carrying his towels, he found the orderlies' lounge down the hall. Inside was a tall, dark-haired man, drinking coffee and studying a typewritten sheet. When Remo entered, he hurriedly put the sheet away, but Remo had already recognized it: it was the patient list from intensive care.

Remo poured himself some unwanted coffee. His

thought of drinking a mud created from boiling

"Huh?" the dark-haired man said, his eyes nearly watering behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

'You know what I mean. You running the pool?"

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"C'mon, pal," Remo said, "I've got to get back on duty. Who's on the list? Mrs. Grayson? What days you got left?"

The thin man blinked several times behind his liJce a squared.off stack of hay

glasses, then said slowly, "Twenty-first and twenty-

fifth-" "Gone," Remo said. He looked up from the list.

"Hell," Remo said. "She'll go before that but give me the twenty-first."

"It'll cost you fifty," the orderly said.

"Got it right here," Remo said, reaching into his pocket. But of course his cash was in the pocket of his black chinos, underneath the white hospital trousers he was wearing. So he drove his fingertips through the bottom of the empty pocket, ripping the fabric, then reached through the hole into his chino pocket and brought out a roll of bills.

As he pretended to count off fifty dollars, Remo said, "I've heard that some of you guys are pulling the plugs on these patients. That doesn't seem fair."

The thin orderly grinned. "Everybody's got the same chance. If Mrs. Grayson lives to your day, and you pull the plug on her and nobody notices and she conks, well, then you're the winner." He grinned. "It's simple. Everybody's got an equal chance to get the pool."

Remo held fifty dollars toward the man, who ex-

tended his hand for it. killing patients.

went back into the room. He sat at the table with the sheet flattened out before him.

Another orderly entered the room. He was a squat blond, whose bristled haircut made him look

'Where's Arnie?" he asked Remo.

"What day you got?''

"Nineteenth." The man poured himself a cup of coffee. "How much we collect so far?" he asked.

"Look for yourself," Remo said. He pushed the sheet across the table. The man reached for it and Remo said, "Arnie's dead."

"Dead? How ..."

"I pulled his plug," Remo said. "Like this." The husky blond saw Remo's hand start to move, but he never saw it reach him, never saw the fingers flip out from the coiled fist, never felt them slap away at his throat, deftly removing his Adam's apple and windpipe with no more effort than if Remo had been flicking a saudfly from his wrist.