Minutes to Midnight (715 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.75 on 17 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Anthony Locascio (View user info) at 2007-05-15 12:22:14 EDT
11:53. Martin Renier checked the time again. He was sure it was correct. The gold Rolex with platinum accents was more than just an expensive piece of jewelry. It also told time damn accurately. He set the suitcase down. It was heavy, stainless steel Samsonite, top of the line, just like everything Renier bought. "Quality pays for itself," was one of his mottos. He strolled methodically, leaning heavily on his mahogany gold-topped cane as he walked. Age was Renier's constant companion, ever reminding him of its presence through his aching right knee, his salt and pepper hair, and the slowly deepening lines around his mouth and eyes.
The subway platform was deserted. It usually was at this time of night, with the exception of the odd metro cop that would stroll along his regular beat. Trash blew along the bare grey concrete as he strolled from pillar to pillar. He checked his watch again. 11:55.
The suitcase in his opposite hand was heavy. Samsonite, stainless steel, securely locked. It had been loaded and secured as he had been instructed through the note. It was warm, and there was little breeze, but he was not sweating. His breath was smooth and even, unchanging even when he slowly turned and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
"So you came."
Renier shrugged noncommittally. "You knew I would."
"Did you bring what I asked you to?"
Renier shrugged again. "You knew that I would."
"And you followed my instructions? No cops, no one following you?"
Renier shrugged a third time. He left off repeating himself again, certain he would be understood. His indifferent reaction aggravated the gun's wielder, a balding, slightly heavyset man wearing a cheap gray trenchcoat and a battered fedora hat, like something out of an awful mid 50s film noir. He didn't laugh. If he had been disposed towards illegal ventures, perhaps he might have dressed the same way, he thought to himself.
The gunner's rounded face tightened in anger. The weapon lifted, now aimed at Renier's face instead of his general direction. "Aren't you afraid, Mr. Renier? What makes you think I won't shoot you dead, right here, right now?"
"I did not come here thinking one way or the other. But I do know now that you won't shoot me."
"Oh really? And what makes you think that?"
"First, you haven't checked the case yet, so you're not sure if I've brought the money. If you're going to shoot me, you'll check it first. Second, if you wanted to kill me for revenge, you had plenty of opportunities before now."
"So you weren't the least bit nervous? Is the great Martin Renier so empty he doesn't feel even apprehension when his life is on the line?"
"No, I was nervous, I will admit. In your phone call, you said to meet you here 'a few' minutes to midnight. Not ten minutes. Not five. 'A few." I had no way of knowing how many minutes that is. If I arrived too early, I risked someone noticing me, and if I arrived too late, I might have missed you."
"That's all it is to you isn't it? Numbers? I've heard that about you."
"It's what I do," Renier replied. The two faced off for several seconds more, the gun slowly lowering to again point only in his general direction.
"Fine then. Enough of the formalities. You know who I am?"
"Yes. Edward Parker Marguilles. Born January thirteenth, nineteen fifty-three, social security number five one two six seven three nine four one. Two hundred and twenty-eight pounds, five foot seven....."
"Enough!"
The sound reverberated through the empty platform. A small plastic bag with a CVS pharmacy logo drifted between them, carried on the light breeze blowing down the subway passages. It rolled down onto the tracks and vanished into darkness.
"You and your numbers. I read that you have an autodidactic memory. I guess it was true."
"Eidetic. Autodidactic means 'self-taught'. I received my doctorate from Stanford, so I'm not self-taught."
"Then what is it?"
"Do you really care? Wouldn't you rather just get on with this?"
The gun raised again. Marguilles took several steps forward, screaming at the top of his lungs. "I'M RUNNING THIS MONKEY FARM NOW, HOTSHOT, GOT IT? I'm the one dictating the terms! I say when, how, who, and why! NOT YOU! Not some judge, not some lawyer, not some public relations mouthpiece! I AM!"
Renier shrugged. "Fine then. I basically have a photographic memory, but only when formed in relation to numbers. Only one in five hundred have an eidetic memory, and my particular type is unheard of. Mozart could recall a musical pitch with perfect clarity, no matter how briefly he'd heard it, or read it on sheet music. I can do the same. With numbers. I know your blood counts, your cholesterol, your resting heart rate, your PSA, your salary down to the penny. I read them all in the files I gathered before the trial began."
"That was eighteen months ago. You must have known then that I was the one that kidnapped your daughter."
Renier shook his head. "No. I had a list of fourteen possible kidnappers, but of them all, I calculated a sixty-four point one percent chance that it was you. I wasn't a hundred percent sure, but I was reasonably certain."
"That's all I am to you, aren't I? A number? Just another helpless number for a CEO to step over?"
"I take it you're referring to my position with Harger Pharmaceuticals. I'm actually the CFO, and my position is only interim. "
"It was you though. You're the one who ran the numbers, because you're the numbers man. Go ahead, tell me the numbers again, Renier. Give me the numbers you read out on the stand when you were justifying how you killed my daughter."
"I didn't kill anyone, Edward. She died. She had leukemia and she died."
"YOUR DRUG KILLED HER YOU SON OF A BITCH! Corticol, the doctor said. Promising new drug for advanced stage leukemia! Miracle at inducing remission! She's dead, you bastard! She's dead and rotting in the ground, the light of my life, because of you and your drug.
"She had a seventy-nine point four chance of terminal results before Corticol, Edward. It was the last, best , and only hope for her."
Marguilles took two more steps forward. The gun was right between Renier's eyes now. He could see the bullet in the huge revolver's chamber.
"Don't you dare, you bastard. Don't you dare refer to her like so many numbers. I'll kill you right here, I swear it, and that's too good a fate for you. Now you tell me right now the numbers of that demon swill you call a drug."
"Approximately one seventh of one percent of Corticol users will experience rhabdomyolysis or cardiac arrest during prolonged use," Renier said evenly.
"One seventh of one percent. Not a number, Mr. Renier. Not a decimal point. My daughter. Dead. Because of you."
"A jury didn't see it that way, Mr Marguilles. A jury determined that she would almost certainly have died."
"You spun their damn heads around with your numbers until they didn't know which way was up. Half of those idiots can't even do their taxes on their own. They just listened to your nonsense and believed it because it sounded fancy."
"Actually, Mr. Marguilles, you should blame your lawyer for the jury selection. He mistakenly thought that young minorities would be a good choice due to their liberal leanings. He didn't know that over sixty percent of Caucasians over sixty-five have a negative view of drug companies. They don't like paying for their medications, you see."
"Numbers. More numbers. How about this gun, Mr. Renier? You have a number for it? Any numbers that will keep me from scattering that magnificent brain on the wall?"
"I can tell you that you're carrying a .480 Ruger Super Blackhawk revolver. It looks like you're using the .475 caliber 400 grain super magnum shells. An expensive gun. Retails for over twelve hundred dollars. Quite a sum for a man who earns precisely twenty-one thousand eleven dollars a year."
"I pawned my wedding ring, Mr. Renier. I didn't need it anymore. My wife left me. Didn't divorce me, just left. She could be alive, or dead right now, I have no idea. She couldn't live with it, you see. She blamed herself. But I blame you, Mr. Renier, because you knew the numbers and you still let that drug out there."
"That drug has saved nineteen thousand...."
"SHUT UP! Fuck your numbers. Open the case. Let's get this over with."
Martin Renier knelt down and flipped the catches on the case. In the black silk-lined interior nestled two neat stacks of bank notes, each with the number 10000 printed prominently at the four corners.
"Ten million dollars. Now there, Mr. Renier, is a number that I like. Close it up."
He snatched the case up, then leaped backward from Renier, pulling the hammer back with his thumb. "So now, big shot? What makes you think I won't kill you now? Or that your daughter is still alive?"
Renier shrugged yet again. "Those are the simplest numbers there are. Either you'll shoot me, or you won't. There's no probability, because this isn't random. You've already made up your mind what to do, I just have to wait to find out. When it comes to my daughter, either she is dead, or she isn't, and you will either turn her over to me, or you won't. Since I don't have any idea which of those options you intend, I will stand here and wait until I find out, which is what I'm doing right now."
Edward Marguilles looked in disgust at the nonplussed executive. Then he glanced down at his own watch, a cheap digital job. "Well you don't have to wait anymore. I said I'd give you your daughter back alive, and I will. Stay there."
Grunting, he knelt down and hopped off the platform, making his way carefully over the third rail and a second set of tracks to the narrow sidewalk on the opposite side.
"You know why I chose this place for us to meet, Renier? It's a maintenance platform. Nobody gets picked up here, even during the day, and there's no maintenance being done at this time of night. We're all alone here, so that I can give you a little number of my own before I leave." He gestured with the pistol to his right, and Renier could see the small red dot of light of an exit sign about a hundred yards down the tunnel. The wind began to pick up, and the screech of wheels heralded that a train was making its way towards the platform.
"Oh yes, Martin Renier, mister numbers, I have a number for you, a good number! A great number!" Marguilles screamed over the approaching train. "Would you like to know what that number is? I'll tell you! You'll love it! You love all numbers, don't you?"
The train cut between them, breaking their immediate line of vision. The ghostly outline of the two men could be seen through the yellowed plastic windows of the cars as they whipped by, the train slowing to a stop. When the graffiti-covered steel doors slid open, Martin Renier was greeted by the sight of his daughter handcuffed to two of the hanging handrails. Her weight was slack - only the cuffs around her bleeding wrists supported her. He went to her directly, lifting her weight, calling her name. Her head lolled loosely on its shoulders, black hair greasy and unkempt from the days of captivity.
"Are you ready for your number, Mr. Renier? Are you ready? It'll be just like Jeopardy, Renier! I give you the answer, you give me the question! It'll be fun! The answer is two hundred and forty micrograms per deciliter! Isn't that a great number? Now tell me Mr. Renier, what's the question to go with it? Think think think, Mr. Renier! Think hard? Do you give up? Because time's up! The answer is...."
"What is the minimum one hundred percent lethal overdose of Corticol," Renier said quietly, ignoring the screaming Marguilles. He checked her pulse. Erratic and slowing. He pried open her eyelids. Dilated and bloodshot.
"And here's one more number just for a bonus, Mr. Renier. The number is eleven, as in eleven minutes, as in the average amount of time it takes to die from a Corticol overdose. You've used up...." He checked his watch. "...six of those minutes chatting with me. It's 12:02. Chances are a good fifty-fifty that you have five minutes left with her."
Renier stared at him through the scratched and yellowed window of the subway. Marguilles laughed maniacally, waving the gun in circles. "No more numbers this time, Renier. I've got them all on my side. It's a hundred yards to the emergency exit, and ten more to an unmarked car I've got waiting. The subway cars are twelve feet high. There's no way you can climb between them without being electrocuted. Even if you could manage to climb on top and get after me, you'll never catch me before I get away, but even if you did come after me, your daughter dies alone, wondering where daddy is. And that's my final number for this evening, Mr. Renier. The number is ONE. As in ONE eye for an eye, and one daughter dying while a heartbroken father looks on."
Renier strode to the window and pulled it back. It opened a crack, not much
"Actually, I have a few more numbers left for you, Edward." He didn't scream, didn't shout so Marguilles could hear him. When he spoke, it was as much to himself as it was to comfort his daughter, who was shivering with the seizures that heralded the onset of a fatal Corticol overdose. He held her hand tightly in his own.
"Oh this should be good. Fine then, Renier, what else do you have for me? A parting threat? A vow of revenge? "
Renier shook his head. "I had a meeting earlier today with George Fischer. You remember him, don't you? City councilman Fischer? I remarked to him that my scheduled stop at Eighth Street was over two minutes behind schedule, and that perhaps he wasn't maintaining the track properly. When you donate a hundred thousand dollars to a man's election campaign, it's pretty easy to call in a favor or two when you need it. The number of favors I asked was exactly ONE. That's the first number. Do you know what a rail grinder is, Edward? Over time, the surface of the rail heads gets pitted and uneven. A rail grinder is basically a locomotive that moves at ninety miles an hour over the track. Two grinding wheels smooth the top of the track down as it goes. They also grind up anything else in the way. It's not uncommon to find mouse or bird parts in the gears when they complete a tour. Your next number is ten fifteen. That would be the time that I heard councilman Fischer dictate to the transportation director when to send the train out. Would you like to know the next number? This one is my favorite." He glanced down at his watch. "The number is twelve oh three. As in the time at which a rail grinder will arrive at this maintenance station from its original dispatch point." Marguilles went pale.
"And I have one last number for you. Eighty-seven. Since you don't have a lot of time to waste, I'll just give you the answer. It's the maximum number of yards you'll make before the grinder arrives."
Marguilles froze for a moment, then looked as though he was going to run back across the tracks before he realized there was nowhere to run - he was every bit as blocked in by the stopped train as Renier had been. The sound of squealing metal began to pick up in the distance, and the breeze began to pick up again. The white plastic bag, lost for awhile in the dark, drifted back towards the other tunnel opening. A moment later, Marguilles broke for it and ran for the exit sign in the distance.
Martin Renier put his arms around his daughter. She would be going in to shock very shortly, and not long after that it would be over. He eased her shivering as best as he could, taking no notice at the massive rush of wind that followed in the grinder's wake, or the momentary change in pitch of the squealing. Renier calculated silently in his mind that Maruilles had made it only forty-eight yards. He had obviously underestimated how out of shape the man had been.
The doors to the maintenance train closed a moment later and the subway car, empty except for father and daughter, slowly accelerated down the tunnel. As they entered the darkness, Renier saw the slowly fluttering bank notes as they settled onto tracks. He thought to himself idly that he would have to leave her eventually - he would have to go and get help, get the police. But he found himself refuting that, defying that fact against all logic. Holding his daughter's stiffening body close to his warmth, he refused to be separated from her.
After all, he reasoned, there was safety in numbers.
User Reviews
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2007-05-16 10:09:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked it in UM, and I still like it now.
I think it was one of the best entries in the whole competition, and said so at the time. Once the writers for that round were announced in JMG's round wrap up, I do believe I credited you personally.
Great stuff.
Submitted by czwij (user info) at 2007-05-16 07:10:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
started out as a commercial for things which are too expensive for me to appreciate (nor care to own).
very intelligent story.
i couldnt help but think that the distraught father/madman looks like the detective in roger rabbit.
Submitted by domenad (user info) at 2007-05-15 16:36:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
It indeed was a UM post, my UM post, and it was the only thing I wrote for UM that I thought was any good.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-05-15 16:33:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Submitted by i_walk_alone (user info) at 2007-05-15 09:57:22 PDT (#)
Ranking: 0
This was an ubermadness post awhile ago ...
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2007-05-15 14:11:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
I agree, a little dry. It was hard to give a crap about any of them.
Well written, though. A really good premise.
Submitted by ticklish_squirrel (user info) at 2007-05-15 13:26:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Loved it!
Submitted by ChaosJester (user info) at 2007-05-15 13:21:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Pretty good, but a little dry with the whole numbers bit.
...Then again, that's probably just me.
Submitted by TigerLilly (user info) at 2007-05-15 13:17:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Marry me?
Submitted by ubetidid (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:57:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Very Good.
Just a suggestion.
Third paragraph. "Samonsite, stainless steel, securely locked."
The Samsonite, stainless steel part comes to close on the heels
of where you used it previously in the first paragraph.
Didn't flow right for me.
Submitted by i_walk_alone (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:57:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
This was an ubermadness post awhile ago ...
Submitted by AlwaysAnEagle (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:53:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesome.
Submitted by messmind (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:50:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
OK!
Submitted by icarus1987 (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:45:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You have a talent, Tony. You really do.
Submitted by FALLEN (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:36:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I DID read it.
you three sould too, It's very good.
Submitted by ajanssen (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:34:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Director (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:27:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by The_Drake (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:25:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Didn't read it.
Submitted by Director (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:27:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by The_Drake (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:25:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Didn't read it.
Submitted by The_Drake (user info) at 2007-05-15 12:25:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Didn't read it.