Read Online Fury on Sunday by Richard Matheson - Free Book Online

Vince. Because the gun was pointed at Jane, at his wife.
    It was incredible that, after all she’d done to him, he was still instantly prepared to lay down his life for her.
    But the sudden loss of fright had passed too. He was back against the table, not sure whether he should try to get the pistol or not. The sudden emergence of fear that followed blind courage left him trembling.
    The arm was badly hurt. Vince tried but he couldn’t stop the whimpering entirely. His body shook terribly as he drew the raincoat down off his shoulder. The sleeve was sticking to his arm around the wound.
    He had to put down the pistol again.
    “I swear to God,” he said, “don’t try anything or I’ll shoot you both. I’ve already…”
    No, he mustn’t tell them about Harry.
    “We—” Jane started to say something but couldn’t finish. She stood there shivering.
    The pistol was on the bureau again. Stan felt his body edging back involuntarily.
Stop, stop
, he muttered in his brain.
The drawer
will stick, I’ll drop the pistol, the pistol will jam, Vince will fire first
… He could think of a million arguments against trying to open the table drawer and grabbing the pistol.
    Vince had clenched his teeth to stop off any cries that might come pulsing up from his throat. Like a rigid stalk of nerves he stood there struggling with the coat.
    It wouldn’t come loose. Blood had glued it to his arm. He stood there helplessly, watching them as he struggled. Every time he tried to pull the dark raincoat loose, the movement sent a barb of pain up his arm and into his body, making him shudder. He felt the sobs working up through his chest. Trapped—he was trapped again. No matter what he did he couldn’t get his arm loose. Blood dribbled down across his wrist.
    His eyes jerked up at them suddenly, his lips trembling.
    “Help me!” he yelled furiously. “It
hurts
!”
    They didn’t move. “You said you’d shoot us,” Jane said, “if we came close to…”
    Vince didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all. Not to be confounded and presented with the flaws in his own reason.
    “I said you’d help me,” he muttered in a gasping voice. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll—”
    A groan flooded from his throat. He pulled up the pistol again. It seemed to be getting heavier.
I’m weakening!
The thought sent a bolt of panic through him. No, he had to keep his strength! He had to get to Bob’s apartment! He had to save Ruth.
    “Come here, damn it,” he told Jane in a low voice.
    Jane started slowly toward him, eyes never leaving the pistol.
    “Don’t shoot,” she said. She hated herself for begging. But she was afraid; she didn’t want to get killed.
    “I’m not going to hurt you,” Vince said huskily. “Not if you do what I say.”
    Stan stood trembling by the bed watching his wife approach Vince. She shouldn’t go near him. What if he loses hold and shoots her? Vince was capable of violence. Stan knew what violence Vince was capable of. He’d seen it often. And so he reached back for the drawer again. He began working it out minutely, eyes fixed on Vince.
    Jane stood before Vince, her eyes pale, reflecting no emotion.
    “Take my coat off,” he told her, “and don’t try anything.”
    “I’m not going to try anything,” she said, unable to keep the coldness from her voice because it had become the way she spoke to men.
    Oh God!
Stan thought,
don’t talk to Vince like you talk to me!
    His fingers fumbled at the drawer. He had to save her, he had to. Now there was a space of about three-quarters of an inch. He felt his fingers sliding in. He straightened up as Vince looked over. I mustn’t bend over so much. He tried to stare back at Vince. But Vince wasn’t interested then. Vince’s eyes were clouded with pain.
    “It’s going to hurt,” Jane said in a flat, toneless voice. “Don’t point the gun at me or it’ll go off when I pull off your sleeve.”
    “Don’t tell me what to do!”
    Stan jerked