Free Now You See It by Richard Matheson Page A

angle to it, the heel of the angled foot touching the toe of the first.
    “The same, but with the angled foot a step forward in the direction it points.”
    Look out, Max
, I was thinking anxiously. Harry’s arms were rigid as he pressed down on the armrests, preparing himself to lurch up. How could Max not notice?
    “Never more than three steps at a time,” Max was saying, transported, words falling quickly from his lips. “Quick steps. Slow. Exaggerated strides.” He demonstrated each with delicate precision. “Details, always details.”
    Harry was leaning forward now, muscles quivering.
Any moment now
, I thought.
For God’s sake, Max, wake up!
    “How to take applause,” Max said. “Never beg for it, but never bully either. When to stifle it. When to encourage it. Never let it die completely as you bow.”
    Max, that’s fascinating information, but don’t you see that Harry is drawing in quick, strengthening breaths?
    Apparently not. He kept on speaking, demonstrating.
    “The art of taking bows. Face front for small ones. Eyes on the audience, never missing anyone.”
    Max!
Harry’s body was starting to rise.
    “They will increase their applause if you look at them directly,” Max said, all unaware. “Bow to the center. Bow to the left. Bow to the right.”
    Harry’s gaze was fixed on the magician. My gaze ping-pong-balled between the two of them.
    “Bow from the waist for loud applause,” Max said. “‘Thank you! You are very kind!’” His eyes were positively glazed.” ‘I’m very pleased to—’”
    Three things happened simultaneously (four, if you count the painful leap of my heart).
    Harry jumped up from the chair and started quickly for the desk.
    I heard the sound of the front door closing in the entry hall.
    And Max, brought back abruptly from his dreaming state, saw Harry and moved quickly to the desk, grabbing up the pistol. If I was not already slumped, I would have slumped.
    Harry froze in his tracks, staring at my son.
    Footsteps moved across the entry hall: the giveaway clack of a woman’s heels.
    Harry opened his mouth to cry out.
    The sound strangled in his throat as Max extended the pistol toward him, his expression threatening.
    “Damn!” whined Harry, in an agony of frustration, I believe. Should he cry out anyway? Risk being shot?
    He couldn’t. He was too afraid.

    Both men stiffened (I did too, albeit unnoticeably) as the doorknob turned and someone tried to enter.
    “Max?” said a voice—Cassandra.
    Max did not respond, and, from his menacing look and gesture, he made it clear to Harry that he was not to speak either.
    “Why is the door locked?” Cassandra asked.
    No response. (Least of all from me.)
    “What’s going
on
in there?” Cassandra demanded, voice rising.
    Max cleared his throat. His voice was calmly affable.
    “Nothing’s going on,” he said. “Come back in a few minutes. I’ll have something interesting to show you.”
    Moments passed. Despite his dread, Harry almost spoke. Only Max’s repeated brandishing of the pistol stopped him.
    “All right,” said Cassandra.
    Her footsteps moved away.
    Max smiled (not the kind of smile I’d like directed at me). “Something interesting to show you,” he repeated.
    The masking smile fell away.
“Your lover’s corpse,”
he finished.
    He walked toward Harry, pistol still extended.
    “You’re not going to shoot me,” Harry said with unconvincing bravado.
    “I’m not?” said Max. “I don’t—”
    He broke off as Harry’s gaze leaped to one of the other windows. My gaze did likewise; the only part of me that
could
leap. Max whirled, reacting.
    Cassandra was standing at the window looking in, an expression of shock on her face.
    Suddenly, she turned away and rushed out of sight.
To call the Sheriff?
I wondered.
To get a pistol she owned?
    Max turned back.
    “Well, dear Harold,” he said, “it’s about that time.”
    “She’ll call the police,” Harry warned.
    “The Sheriff,” Max