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.
Vince bent over Jane and stuck the point of the knife to her throat.
“Get up, get up!” he ordered, his voice shrill in the tiny kitchen.
“Vince, don’t…” Stan sobbed.
Jane looked up at Vince, her mouth still open, gasping for breath.
Suddenly Vince grabbed her hair with his left hand. A bolt of pain raged up the arm and he let go with a gasp. Still holding the knife, he grabbed Jane’s dark hair with his other hand and tried to drag her to her feet. She’d get out of here if he had to drag her out himself!
A breathless cry of pain twisted Jane’s lips as Vince pulled her up.
“Get up, I said!”
Vince backed away as she stumbled into the sink with a sob of pain and Stan caught her around the waist with one trembling arm. The two of them stood there shaking without control, driven and afraid. All subtleties had gone from their minds; the
y were two hurt, frightened animals; the eyes they watched him with were dumb and uncalculating with fright.
“Get in the bathroom,” Vince said.
He backed into the living room but they still stood there as if they didn’t understand him.
Hot tears flew from Vince’s eyes as he leaped forward with a gagging curse.
“God damn it!” he screamed at them. “Are you—”
“Don’t hurt us!” Stan begged.
Vince backed away, shivering, while they came stumbling out of the kitchen, Jane bent over clutching her stomach, Stan, eyes wide and dumb, staring at Vince.
Ruth gasped as they came out. She couldn’t understand it; it was like a senseless, incredible dream. From the moment she’d seen Vince, then Bob lying on the floor, her mind wouldn’t function. Thoughts jumbled one on top of the other.
“Stan,” she muttered, “Jane…”
She knelt there, looking first at them, then at Bob’s white face, at the blood running across the leather jacket and around his still body to the floor.
“Go on, go on,” Vince snapped in a jaded voice.
Vince’s mind felt numbed now. Too many things had happened. He didn’t want to think; it was too painful. There was only one thing he wanted to worry about. Ruth and him going away and…
“I’ll be right out,” he told Ruth in what he thought was a comforting tone.
She stared at him unbelievingly.
Then, with a gasp, she stood and ran for the hall. I have to get help! The words burst in her brain, the first coherent thought she’d had since Vince had opened the door.
She turned in numbed surprise as Vince grabbed her coat and pulled her back.
“You’re not going away?” he asked, surprise in his voice, incredulous surprise.
For a second she stared at him blankly.
“I—I have to get help,” she said feebly. She didn’t understand.
“No,” he said as if he were reasoning with her. “No, Ruth. You and I…”
She still didn’t understand. She tried to pull away but he held on to her. She stared at him, face still expressionless, eyes wide and uncomprehending.
“Ruth, you and I…” he started again.
“But I have to get help!” she suddenly burst out. “My husband is hurt!”
She recoiled as his face twisted angrily.
“You’re not going anywhere!” he snapped, “I killed him for you and—”
“You!”
She backed into the wall with a shudder.
Vince’s throat moved. He wouldn’t let himself believe that look of horror on her face. He grabbed at her wrist.
“Get in there,” he said.
She froze against the wall, staring at him.
“I said get in there!”
His voice broke and he almost started crying. Why wouldn’t she do what he asked? What was the matter with her? It was obvious that he’d only killed Bob to help her.
Her body shuddered as Vince half dragged her into the living room. Stan and Jane were still there, Stan leaning against the bedroom door and supporting Jane, who still bent over, hands clutched over her stomach.
“I said get in the bathroom,” Vince ordered.
He pulled Ruth back from Bob.
“He’s hurt!” she cried out at him.
“He’s dead! Leave him alone!” Vince cried back at her.
Her white hands pressed into her cheeks.
“No.”
Stan moved across the bedroom staggering because he had to almost carry Jane.
Vince pulled Ruth into the bedroom.
“No,” she muttered in a dead voice. “No, he isn’t.”
“He is, he is,” Vince insisted, then looked at Stan. “Get in there!”
He pushed Ruth toward a bed.
“Sit there,” he said.
She tried to rush for the living room but he stood in her path and drove his left hand across her cheek. They both gasped at the same time, she from surprise, he from pain.
She backed away with a whimper.
“Sit down, Ruth,” he said.
Her brain wouldn’t work. She stood there staring at him, her heart pounding in great, body-shaking beats.
“Sit down.”
Vince wanted to cry because nobody would do what he asked. He wanted to be nice to her and make her happy. What was wrong with her?
Now he heard the sound of the toilet cover in the bathroom being knocked down.
Vince moved across the bedroom and flicked on the bathroom light. He saw Jane sitting down and Stan turned, blinking, his face very white.
“Close the door,” Vince told him. “Lock it.”
“Huh?”
Vince pulled the door shut. As he waited he looked toward Ruth.
“Don’t move,” he told her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He turned back.
“Lock it!” he yelled.
He heard the door being locked. Then he looked around and found a chair. He propped the back of it underneath the knob and kicked it in tight.
There. They were out of the way.
He turned for Ruth.
4:35 AM
The two maiden ladies came marching up the steps, obdurate, thin-lipped with puritanical ire. They wore their robes up to the top of their necks, their respectability to the tops of their heads.
“I think we’ve had just about enough from the Sheldons,” said one, her voice acid with a righteous disgust.
“It’s time their parties were reported to the authorities,” said the other.
“Parties indeed!” the other woman joined in. “More like…”
She looked over her shoulder lest someone be found trailing them. Then she looked back at her sister.
“Orgies.”
Her lips framed the word; she dared not speak it aloud.
“Wouldn’t be surprised.” said the other, “not a bit. That lady he married. She’s just a…”
Her eyes too moved over one shoulder.
“Hussy,” she finished, satisfied that no one lurked behind, taking notes.
The two of them reached the top of the flight and moved across the hall toward the door.
“Almost five in the morning,” said one of them, “and still they’re at it; banging on the piano and knocking over furniture and breaking bottles and screaming at the top of their lungs. It’s a disgrace, I tell you, a disgrace.”
“They’re probably just having a little fun,” snapped, the other.
“Uh,” was all her sister replied.
They stood before the door and one of them pushed in the doorbell button.
They stood there waiting for someone to answer.
“He’ll probably be drunk when he comes to the door,” one predicted ruthlessly.
“I hope it’s not her,” said the other. “I don’t even want to look at her.”
“Hussy,” murmured the first.
No one came to the door. Inside, they thought they heard a cry, then only silence.
“I’m sure you’re having a good time,” said the one addressing the revelers she imagined within, “but we’re not leaving here until you open the door.”
They both nodded once, sternly in agreement.
Silence inside. The two maiden ladies shuffled blue and pink mules on the cold hall floor. Each held the same posture, each held the top of her robe shut at the throat with a clenched right hand. Each seethed with indignation.
“Well, of all the…!” one finally snapped angrily.
“I never…” said the other.
“Probably too busy to answer.”
The first held her finger against the bell.
“Well, you’ll answer,” she said sharply to the sybarites she envisioned in every corner of the apartment.
“You’ll answer if we have to—to ring your brains out!”
They both nodded once. They liked the phrase. Ring them out. Toll out the evil and the blackness, burn out the…
“Who’
s there?” they heard a voice inside.
The turkey throat of the first woman moved.
“Kindly open the door, Mr. Sheldon,” said the woman.
“Who is it?”
The first looked at the second. Her lips framed the words, “That’s not Mr. Sheldon.”
“We’re from apartment 7C,” said the second woman. “We live in the apartment below and you’re keeping us awake with your party.”
The way she said party made them both nod vigorously. Whoever it was inside could not fail to recognize, they knew, the acidity in the pronunciation of the word.
“There’s no party,” they heard the voice inside say.
“We would like to speak to Mr. Sheldon.” said the first maiden lady, “We feel—”
“He’s sick,” interrupted the voice, “He can’t see anyone.”
Sick. The first framed the word with her lips and the second nodded with a bitter smile. They knew what sick meant.
“I’m sorry but we must demand silence,” said the second woman, taking the reins in her hand. “We cannot—”
“Go away!”
“Oh!”
They stood there trembling with outrage.
“Very well,” said the first. “Perhaps we’ll just call the police then and—”
“Don’t!” cried the voice inside.
The old ladies smiled and nodded to themselves. There, that had put the fear of God in him.
But the door stayed shut.
“Maybe he thinks he’s having a great laugh on us,” one muttered to the second, visualizing the man inside doubled over with scornful laughter.
The other one spoke, supposedly to her sister, but, actually, directly at the door.
“Well, come along, Nell,” she said, “I guess we’ll just have to call the police then.”
They stood there a moment longer. Then with a firming of lips, a stiffening of backs, they moved slowly away from the door.
“Well, did you ever?” muttered the first as they reached the steps.
“No, I never,” responded the other.
“Should we call the police do you think?”
“I—think we should.”
But they weren’t sure. They didn’t want to get involved in any trouble. They lived a simple, cloistered life and they didn’t want police asking them questions. Especially on the Sabbath.
As they started down the steps one of them stopped.