Fury on Sunday (12 page)

“What are you going to do?” Jane asked, “make us
wait
?”

“You’ll wait. As long as I say,” Vince told her.

“What if we don’t
want
to wait?” she said.

His throat moved.

“You’ll wait as long as I say.”

She sank back against the cushion. Was it possible it was as simple as that? Just a matter of instilling a negative reaction in his fevered mind? It did seem to work.

So long as she didn’t trip, so long as she didn’t fall over a block in his mind, it might work.

Bob had caught it too. At first when Jane had spoken he had stiffened and thought,
Good God, she wants him to kill me
. But then he
realized it was the only way. Buying time, tricking Vince into thinking they didn’t
want
to wait so he would make them wait.

But how long could it last? Bob’s throat moved convulsively and his mouth felt dry and hot. How long before Vince would suddenly tire of waiting, rise up, on impulse, and fire his gun?

Bob’s muscles tightened involuntarily. Did he dare make a jump at Vince? Was it possible that Vince would be so shocked by the move he couldn’t fire in time?

The thought made Bob shiver. What if he
wasn’t
too surprised to fire?

It seemed impossible, this moment of melodrama. Just a few hours before he’d been sitting with Ruth on the living room couch listening to Ravel, everything lethargic and peaceful. Now this.

That was the trouble, he realized with sudden alarm. Now that the first shock was over he couldn’t really bring himself to believe that anything was going to happen to him. He was nervous, yes, but the very core of him revolted at the thought that, in minutes, he might be killed.

How could he make himself jump at Vince when he couldn’t quite believe, in his own flesh, that Vince would really shoot him? And if that were so, then jumping would bring on the very thing he wanted to avoid.

Stan sat by his wife, never moving, tense and ready. If he had to, he was telling himself, he’d shield her body with his. He knew that life would be meaningless without Jane.

But his stomach was shaking and he had the horrible feeling that if the moment came he would be so petrified with fright he couldn’t budge to save her.

The room became so silent that they could even hear the slow buzzing of the electric clock in the kitchen. Soon now, Vince told himself, I’m going to shoot him. There’s no point in waiting.

Bob looked nervously at his watch.

“Never mind what time it is,” Vince said. “It doesn’t matter to you anymore.”

And yet Vince could not repress the sensation that time
did
matter, the feeling that if he didn’t shoot soon the whole thing would be impossible. As if every second were throwing up a barrier around Bob and Stan and Jane and, if he didn’t fire soon, they would be encircled, inviolate.

It was as if they were all in a play and when the moment came to shoot Bob, when the cue was given, he had to shoot or the chance was over. And he felt his throat moving. What if the time had already passed?

That was stupid!

But he found himself straining forward in the chair, his heart pounding in fright. In his mind he saw the completion of the play; the men in white bursting into the apartment and grabbing him, dragging him away screaming and kicking. And Ruth was there in the last scene too, laughing as the curtain fell.

No, that
was
stupid. He threw all those thoughts away.

He stood up again restlessly.
What are you waiting for
, the voice filled his mind.

Suddenly he stopped walking and a rattling sound filled his throat.

They were all looking toward the front hall.

The doorbell was ringing again.

Bob felt his muscles tighten. For some reason the sudden idea had occurred that it was Ruth at the door. But it couldn’t be her, it
couldn’t
.

He looked back. Now they were all looking at Vince.

Vince’s throat moved and he stood there with a restless, nervous stance. What was the
matter
with the world? Why was everything so complicated? He wanted to kill the world.

“Nobody’s answering it,” he told them. “The first one who makes a sound…”

He trained the gun on each of them, moving his hand in an arc from Bob to Stan to Jane and back again.

“They’ll see the light under the door,” Jane said.

“No,” Vince said.

“What if it’s the police?” Jane said. “You’d better get out the back way.”

“It’s not the police.”

A bolt of fear had exploded in Vince’s chest at Jane’s words. No, it couldn’t be the police! His job wasn’t done yet. He needed time,
time
!

His throat moved and the gun shook as it pointed at Bob.
At least I can do this
, he thought.

The doorbell ringing, someone knocking loudly on the door now. Bob started up, then sank down nervelessly as Vince extended his right arm and the dark barrel pointed at Bob’s head.

“Vince, you’d better go out the back way,” Jane said. “If it’s—”

“Shut up!”

“But if it’s the police.”

“It’s not!”

“It might be, Vince,” Stan had added hurriedly.

“What if it
is
the police?” Bob suddenly joined in. Scare him, he thought, drive him away.

Vince’s eyes jerked from one to the other.

Now they were all suddenly still, dead still, and Bob felt his heart hammering.

For, in the front hall they could hear the pounding on the door; but above the pounding, a voice calling.

“Bob!
Bob!
”

Bob jumped to his feet.

“
Ruth
,” he muttered, his face bone white, a hundred frightened thoughts tearing through his brain.

Vince felt his heartbeat skip and his muscles tighten. A sudden smile lit up his gaunt, sweat-greased features.
Ruth!
She’d come to him!

He started for the hall.

“No,” he suddenly heard Bob gasp and, before his startled eyes, Bob broke into a run for the hall.

“Ruth!” Bob yelled, “Ruth, get away!
Get away!
”

“Stop it!” Vince screamed.

Bob didn’t stop.

“Ruth, get away!” he shouted, “Ruth, get…!”

The thunder of the gun explosion drowned out his words. Bob suddenly went lurching against the wall and bounced off, landing on one knee, a surprised expression on his face.

Vince pulled the trigger again but nothing happened. Outside, in the hall, he heard Ruth scream out Bob’s name. He broke into a run for the door. Bob tried to reach up and grab his leg but Vince kicked the feebly outstretched arm and Bob toppled over on his face with a rattling gasp. As Vince leaped over his body he noticed blood, slick and red across the leather of Bob’s jacket.

“Vince,
don’t
!” Jane screamed as she ran toward Bob. Stan stood by the couch, immobile with shock.

Vince jerked open the front door and Ruth recoiled with a breathless cry, her eyes suddenly wide with horror.

Vince grabbed at her, forgetting the gun, and the barrel cracked across her forearm, driving a numbing bolt of pain up her arm.

Vince thrust the gun into his waistband and grabbed Ruth’s arm.

“Come
in
here!” he gasped.

Wordless, staring, she was dragged into the apartment and the door slammed behind her. Then, as she was spun around, she saw Bob half in the living room, half in the hallway, crumpled on the rug with Jane kneeling over him.

“Bob!”

The shock was so great she could hardly speak. Instinctively, she started forward, but Vince jerked her back. She turned for a moment and looked at him with a startled, confused expression. Then she turned again and her voice broke.

“Bob, Bob,” she mumbled. “I’m—”

Vince pulled her against him and, as in a nightmare, she saw his white face loom before her and felt his cold lips brush across her cheek as she twisted away instinctively.

“Ruth,
Ruth
…” Vince’s voice was husky and shaking. It was Ruth, his Ruth; she had come to him. Ruth felt his lean body press into hers and she thought she was going to scream. Over Vince’s shoulder she saw Bob lying there on the rug and Jane looking up now, her face white.

Jane saw that Vince’s back was turned. Abruptly she pushed up from the floor. Stan jerked out his hand and caught her wrist.

“What are you doing?” he whispered in fright.

“Let
go
!” she hissed back.

She tore from his grasp and started for the bedroom. Stan jumped up, his face slack, and ran around the couch edge. He reached the door a second before she did.

“Don’t be insane!” he begged her in a hoarse whisper. “You saw what he did to Bob!”

“God
damn
you!” Her voice was a crackling mutter of hate.

Her eyes fled to the hall. Then, suddenly, she turned and ran dizzily across the living room, her head aching. Stan started toward her but she reached the phone first and jerked up the receiver.

Dead
. She’d forgotten the living room phone was only an extension from the bedroom connection; the one Vince had ripped out.

Suddenly all the fury and hate exploded in a scream that tore from her lips.

“I’ll
kill
him!”

With a wrenching sob she shoved aside Stan and started running for the kitchen.

In the hall, Vince heard her scream and, suddenly, he shoved Ruth aside. She crashed into the wall with a gasp and Vince grabbed his gun. He raced past Ruth into the living room, jumping over Bob’s motionless body.

Ruth pushed away from the wall and moved on trembling legs toward her husband.

Jane was pulling out a kitchen drawer as Vince came in. Without a thought he jumped toward her and pushed her against a cabinet. She whirled with a sob, a carving knife clutched in her right hand.

“I’ll kill you!” she screamed in his face.

The gun clattered to the floor unheeded as he grabbed for her wrist.

“
Vince!
” he heard Stan cry from the kitchen doorway.

Vince’s mind erupted. The world was trying to trap him! For a moment he and Jane strained against each other. Then, with a vicious snarl, he drove his knee up into Jane’s stomach and she doubled over with a retching gag. The knife went skidding across the cabinet top and clattered into the sink.

Then, as Vince whirled, he saw Stan on his knees grabbing at the gun.

With a grunt he brought up his knee again, this time into Stan’s face. Stan went flailing back onto the linoleum, striking his head against the bottom of a cabinet door.

Vince grabbed up the gun, pointed it at Stan’s chest and pulled the trigger. There was only a clicking sound as the hammer hit. Vince pulled the trigger again, again.

Empty.

With a howl of berserk fury he flung the gun with all his might at Stan; but his aim was bad and the gun bounced off the cabinet door and skidded across the linoleum.

Vince scuttled back until he banged against the sink cabinet. His left arm was pinned against the edge and he gasped at the pain.
Gritting his teeth, his shaking fingers moved into the sink and drew out the long knife.

He stood there shaking, looking down at the two of them writhing on the floor. His thin chest shuddered with breaths and he could feel warm drops of blood running down his arm again.

Jane half sat, half lay against the sink cabinet, her legs drawn up, her hands pressed into her stomach. Her face was white, her open mouth gasping for breath. Little sounds of gagging agony sounded in her throat as she writhed in pain. A cough burst through her lips, racking and dry.

Stan struggled to his knees, moaning from the pain. It had been like a spike driven into his brain. For a moment he had blacked out and thought he was going to die. Then the sounds and sights of the kitchen had flickered back to him again—Vince leaning against the sink, panting, the long knife sticking out from his right hand, Jane lying there and…

Stan started up.

“
Jane
,” he mumbled in a thick voice.

“Get up,” Vince gasped. “Get up.”

As Stan stood on wobbling legs, Vince backed into the living room. He lowered the knife until he held it at his side, pointing at Stan.

Then Vince glanced over to where Ruth was kneeling by Bob, sobbing and trying to stop the bleeding with her fingers.

“Get to you in a—in a minute,” Vince gasped.

He turned to Stan. Stan was trying to help Jane to her feet but she couldn’t get up. Vince’s head whipped around. What was he going to do? There were too many people to keep track of; he had to make them go away. He wanted to be alone with Ruth.

The bathroom.

“You…” he said, forgetting Stan’s name for a moment, “you…
Stan
. Take her in the bathroom.”

Stan looked at him with sick, frightened eyes.

“What?” he asked, a break in his voice.

“Get her in the
bathroom
, I said!” Vince said loudly. Why didn’t anyone
listen
to him?

Stan leaned over Jane.

“Honey,” he said brokenly. “Honey. We—”

Vince watched him, trembling with anger when nothing happened.

“God damn it, get her up!”

He started toward the kitchen, then looked at Ruth again. She was looking at him, her face white and drawn.

“Vince,” she murmured, “help…”

He raised his right hand to let her know he’d be with her in a second. He saw the knife blade pointing at her and drew it down quickly.

“I’ll, I’ll, I’ll—” he stuttered nervously and almost felt as if he were going to cry. Everything was so complex and nerve-wracking.

“
Vince!
” Ruth begged.

He didn’t hear her. He was looking at Stan.

“Damn it!” he cried furiously, “
get her up!
”

Stan tried to, but Jane’s legs were curled up to keep the pressure off her stomach.

“Get away,” she groaned. “Get away.”

Tears of pain ran down her cheeks.

“Honey, we’ve got to…”

He gasped and jolted to the side as he felt something cold and thin jab into his shoulder. He stood against the sink trembling, feeling blood trickle down his back and the wild sensation of pain in his right shoulder.