Fury on Sunday Read Online Free PDF Page B

would remember. She wouldn’t tell anyone. She’d treasure this experience because it was romantic. No, he hadn’t touched a hair on her head. That’s because he wasn’t insane. He’d just tried to kill his father, that was all. Anyone might try to kill his father.
    ***
    He stopped at the head of the subway steps and looked around.
    There was no one following. As he had surmised, the girl hadn’t screamed for help when he left. She was probably lying there and dreaming of the handsome man who had kissed her and stolen her raincoat. He smiled a smile of tragic acceptance and moved slowly down the steps.
    Halfway down he stopped, the sense of poetry gone suddenly with the realization that he had no money. He stood there looking blankly down the steps.
This is absurd!
The words exploded in his mind.
    His hand tightened on the gun butt. He wasn’t going to let a ridiculous thing like this stop him. He walked down past the white tiled walls. He glanced at a seal balancing rye bread on its nose on one of the posters.
Gust of the bizarre
. That’s what Saul would say. Vince wondered where he was, wondered if it were possible that someday they could get together again and get Vince back into concert work. Vince didn’t like to admit it to himself sometimes, but he
did
miss the piano. He could tell himself that nothing mattered but Ruth, and the piano was unimportant. But why did his hands always move over the keys even though he hadn’t been near one in… how long?
    Oh, what difference did it make where Saul was? Their lives were parted forever. Ever since that day in the penthouse. Vince remembered the rain; he remembered Saul backing away from him.
For the love of God, are you mad? Vincent!
    It was the only time he could ever remember his father calling him by his name.
    He pushed again. Then he looked down curiously and saw that he was shoving futilely against the wooden turnstile. Red flared up in his cheeks. Then he glanced hurriedly toward the change booth and saw that the man was looking at him.
    Vince drew in his breath. The man started to open the door of the booth, and suddenly, Vince ducked down and darted underneath the turnstile. What if no train comes! He ran down the sloping floor, heart beating in fright.
    “Hey, come back here, you!”
    Vince reached the steps and jumped down them two at a time. The shouts of the man from the change booth echoed after him in the silent station.
    “Come back here!”
    Vince reached the platform and his eyes raced up and down the length of it. It was empty. He looked back up the steps to see if the man was following him. Then he leaned over the edge of the platform and looked out into the blackness to see if the train was coming. There was nothing. He looked up and saw that he was looking for the train that was going uptown. He moved for the other side of the platform, glancing at the stairs again.
    “You ain’t gettin’ away, buddy!”
    Vince gasped and his head twisted suddenly. He saw the man coming down the steps. He turned around and started runningalong the grey concrete. He heard the clatter of the man’s shoes behind him. It was an older man with white hair, wearing a black coat sweater.
    “You stop or I’ll use this gun!” threatened the voice behind him.
    Vince looked back over his shoulder and saw that the man held a small pistol. He started to whimper under his breath. The trapped feeling was coming over him again, starting from his stomach and spreading out with hot, twisting fingers.
    “You want me to shoot you?”
    Vince felt the gun banging against his leg as he ran.
    He saw the wall ahead of him.
    “Now, you’re caught!” said the man.
    Something filled Vince’s brain with night, because he wasn’t aware of what happened then. He didn’t even feel himself jerk the gun from the raincoat pocket. He hardly heard the explosions that almost coincided, that of his pistol and that of the man’s. He felt someone strike him on the arm and knock him