Fury on Sunday by Richard Matheson Page B

moved quickly. Behind him his fingers trembled on the knob of the drawer. Could he grab the pistol in time, could he fire before Vince? Questions muddled through his mind and made his hands shake more. His fingers twitched away from the knob as Vince looked at him.
    Then Jane came into the bedroom carrying a box of gauze, a roll of tape and a bottle of iodine.
    “This isn’t going to do much good,” she said, “not for—”
    “Never mind that,” Vince said, voice shaking. “Bandage my arm. And don’t try anything funny or I’ll shoot you.”
    Stan watched the big black pistol waver with Vince’s nervous movements. Now Jane was between him and Vince. Stan’s hands moved back again and touched the drawer knob.
I can’t fire if she’s in the way
. And, once again his hands jerked away from the drawer.
    “You’ll have to take off your raincoat,” Jane told Vince.
    Stan shuddered at the realization that Jane wasn’t afraid. At least she didn’t sound afraid. He couldn’t understand that. Was she so tired of living that death no longer held any menace for her? He felt sweat break out on his forehead. He had to get the gun. What if she did something foolish? If anything happened to her it would be the end of him, too. No matter what troubles they had, she was life to him. His fingers felt back again and touched the knob.
    Vince was backing away from her. His dark hair had slipped across his forehead and some of the ebony hairs had been plastered to the skin by sweat. His eyes had a wild, frenzied glow.
    “Don’t come close to me,” he warned Jane.
    “How can I bandage you if I don’t come close?” Jane said.
    Don’t talk to him like that!
Stan’s mind felt the stabbing of anguished fear. He tugged with a spasmodic finger contraction and one drawer edge angled out. He heard Vince say, “I mean—while I take off my coat.” He heard the anger in Vince’s voice and knew that Vince was hating her for her logic.
    Now Jane had stepped back and there was a clear line between him and Vince. Stan shuddered once and tried to pull out the drawer further. It was stuck.
    They stood watching Vince as he put the gun on top of the bureau.
Now, now!
Stan tugged harder.
    The drawer squeaked.
    Vince tensed and his hand half reached for his pistol.
    “What are you doing?” he asked Stan, his dark eyes suspicious.
    Stan shook his head in fright. “Nothing, nothing,” he said. “I just bumped into the table. I’m—still half asleep.”
    “Don’t try anything funny,” Vince said grimly, “because I can get my gun in a second if you do try anything.”
    It angered Vince that Jane didn’t show any fright. He liked it when that other girl had been paralyzed with fear. It had given him a warm feeling of power.
    Well, he’d fix Jane soon enough too. She was going to die. As he thought that, he did not let himself notice the curves of her young body pushing against sheer silk.
    Eyes moving from Stan to Jane, quickly, he pulled his right arm out of the raincoat. As he did the left arm tugged a little and he couldn’t stop a gasp of pain from passing his lips. Jane started forward impulsively at the sound and Vince clawed at the pistol and jerked it up.
    “The next chamber has a bullet for you,” he said hurriedly.
    Jane stepped back, feeling as if all the warmth in her body had drained suddenly into the floor. Her arms and legs felt numbed with cold as she stood there, whitefaced, staring at Vince in paralyzed silence. She’d never been that close to death. It was one thing to drunkenly contemplate it. It was another to have someone suddenly point a big black pistol at you.
    Vince waved her back with the gun and set it down, again.
    Stan had started forward, his heart pounding. Now, as he stood motionless by the bed, watching Vince try to take the coat off his left arm, he was amazed to realize that, for a moment there, he had been unafraid. Without a gun, without a knife, without anything, he was going to attack