Fury on Sunday by Richard Matheson

leaped up at the yell and knocked back the piano bench. As he lunged for the pistol, Jane jumped on him and they both went crashing into the piano.
    Stan started forward, eyes widening, hands snapping into fists.
    Vince screamed into Jane’s face as she drove a fist into his wounded arm. He jerked up the pistol but she shoved it aside and he couldn’t get a grip on the trigger.
    She struck at him again, but missed and lost her balance. Vince felt her soft body against him. From the corner of his eye he saw Stan rushing at him.
    With a strangled cry he ripped the gun up and drove it across her temple. Jane reeled back with a dull cry and fell on her back.
    Stan jolted back as the gun was shoved out at him. He stepped back and almost tripped.
    Vince stood there breathing hoarsely.
    “Trick me, haah?” he gasped.
    He turned toward Jane who lay motionless on the floor. Slowly he turned the pistol on her.
    “
I’m going to blow your guts out
,” he said in a low choked voice.
    Then, suddenly, his breath stopped. He stood there, stomach and chest trembling while his eyes focused on the hallway that led to the front door.
    The doorbell was ringing.

3:40 AM
    The cab pulled up to the curb and Ruth got in quickly.
    “367 West 54th,” she told the driver.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    The driver pulled the door shut and the cab pulled away from the curb. The street was completely silent except for the sound of the motor.
    Ruth shivered as she settled back on the cold leather seat.
God, I hope he isn’t angry when he sees me
, she thought.
What if he knows what I’m thinking; about Jane trying to get him there?
    Her throat moved. Maybe she should go home. Maybe it would be better. Nothing could be wrong. Maybe it was better she just went home to bed and let herself worry. That was better than Bob’s knowing she hadn’t trusted him.
    But it wasn’t a matter of trust, she told herself.
    Oh, it was no use arguing with herself. She might as well clear her mind of everything. She was going and that was all there was to it. She loved him too much to lie awake at home, tossing on the bed and dying a thousand deaths of fear each second. It was no use. If she was going to make a
faux pas
, then she was going to make it. Better that than a nervous breakdown of concern.
    Bob would forgive her when he knew she only did it because she was afraid.
    The cab crossed Twenty-second and, at Twenty-third, turned right and headed toward Lexington.
    “Could you go a little faster?” she asked.
    “Beg pardon, ma’am?”
    “Could—could you drive a little faster. This is rather urgent.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    Rather urgent. Now she really felt silly. She could just visualize all of them together and the cab driver telling them,
So she tells me to drive faster, see?
And then they’d all break into breathless laughter.
    She almost smiled at herself, the scene seemed so real.
    But what if it were true? What if Bob was in danger?
    Time suddenly fell on her like a weight. How far had he gone? Was he at Stan’s apartment yet? She’d had to dress, go downstairs and wait for the cab.
    She leaned forward.
    “I’m sorry to bother you but—do you have the time?”
    “Quarter to four, ma’am,” the driver said.
    “Thank you.”
    “Be there in a jiffy, ma’am.”
    She smiled as she leaned back on the cold seat.
    It was that tightness in her stomach she couldn’t rid herself of. It wasn’t intuition, she knew that. This business about pregnant woman’s intuition was just a lark she’d made up for Bob. No, she was worried, that was all. She couldn’t help it.
    Anyway, she rationalized, how would any woman feel to have her husband called away at almost four o’clock in the morning? How would any woman like to be wrenched from sleep, and watch her husband dress and leave her? Especially when she wasn’t sure why he was going, even
where
he was going. No, pregnancy had nothing to do with it. Any sensitive woman would worry under circumstances like