Read Online Now You See It by Richard Matheson - Free Book Online Page B

brains exactly then.
    It was a compounded fury I was feeling at that loathsome toad of a man. The crimes?
    One, a snarling admission that he’d gone to bed with Cassandra.
    Two, a casual dismissal of the incident.
    Three, a weaseling out from all responsibility. It was
her
fault, her desire, her demand. All he’d done was accommodate the bitch.
    Four, the final insult, mocking my son as impotent.
    Kill him
, I thought.
    But Max did not respond as I did. Did not raise the pistol to fire. Merely gazed at Harry in regret. (Regret!)
    “The irony of ironies,” he finally said, “is that I trusted you completely, considered you my friend.”
    “That was your mistake,” said Harry. I saw him flinch as though in shock at his suicidal reply.
    Still, he couldn’t stop himself. “If you’re looking for an apology, forget it,” he added.
    Madness
, I thought.
    I myself flinched as Max raised the pistol, aiming it between Harry’s frozen eyes.
    “There is only one thing I’m looking for,” Max said. “That is revenge. And I am about to exact it.”

chapter 10
    Harry braced himself. Death was coming now. He was certain of it; I could see it in his face.
    And yet, instead—maddeningly now!—Max said, “You never understood me for a moment, did you? Never understood the endless time and work I expended to perfect my skill.”
    What tangent now?
I thought.
Is he going to shoot Harry or not?
    Harry was clearly wondering the same thing. He stared at Max uncertainly, anticipating death, yet wondering at the same time when it was due.
    “I have been the best,” Max was saying. “As my father was before me. The
best
.
    “And
why?
Because I saw to everything.
Everything
. Consistency of attitude. Consistency of detail.”
    In an eerie way, it was like hearing myself speak. Max and I resembled one another. Our voices (when I had one) were alike.
    And certainly the words he spoke, I had spoken—if not word for word then, surely, feeling for feeling.
    “Consistency of detail,” he repeated. “Speaking clearly to the last row as to the first. Speaking to my audience as though the words are coming for the first time instead of being repeated verbatim as they’ve been for twenty years.”
    Dear Lord, an echo of my own repeated declarations
.
    “Preparing monologues not only for the audience to hear,” said Max, “but for myself to
think
as well. Soundless lines for me to think
between
the words I speak aloud. Details.”
    Was I smiling? Surely not; I couldn’t. But inside I was. Inside I felt a warmth of sweet nostalgia.
    Max had lowered the pistol now and begun to pace again. I saw Harry watch him with suspicion. And knew that he was thinking,
Now what?
—for I was thinking it as well, despite my pleasure at the words my son was speaking.
    “Details,”
Max said, gesturing with his left hand.
    “You must not surprise an audience. You must ‘stage-surprise’ them. An audience loathes to be
truly
surprised, because it is unexpected, therefore unenjoyable.”
    The inner smile again. These words, like benedictions from the past. I wonder if he knew the pleasure they were giving me.
    “The ‘stage-surprise’ is different,” he continued. “Openly announced in advance. The magician declaring: ‘My friends, I am going to surprise you. Are you ready? Prepare yourself carefully. Here it comes.’ “
    I was not a hunching cabbage in a wheelchair now, not a worthless lump of detritus. I was back in the world I knew and loved, and Max, my son, had taken me there.
    “Details,”
he said again.
    “The choosing of a volunteer. One who will cooperate. Bright outfit, never drab. Eye-catching. Preferably female.Not overly attractive, though. If she’s too attractive, she’ll draw excess attention from the act.”
    Quite so
, I thought;
absolutely right
.
    “If a male,” said Max, “someone with a physical oddity—skinny, fat, protruding ears, whatever. Someone to amuse the audience. Distract it.
    “And look
before the