Now You See It by Richard Matheson Page B

was closed.
    Only one detail deprived the room of orderly appearance.
    Still in the same position, crumpled and immobile, lay the body of Cassandra Delacorte.

    This I did not understand at all.
    Not that I truly understood the reasons for Max’s brutal actions.
    But this was downright confusing.
    Why commit a double murder, hide one body, clean up all the evidence, then leave the other body untouched?
    It made no sense.
    But then, very little of what happened that day—what had already taken place and what was about to take place—made sense.
    At which point—with me utterly perplexed—the lunacy resumed.
    In the entry hall, the doorbell rang.
    There was no response.
    Where is Max?
I wondered.
    The doorbell rang again.
    No response.
    Then, as though the person at the door felt that the doorbell wasn’t loud enough, he (or she) began to knock.
    No answer.
    The knocking grew louder.
    Soon became a pounding.
    Causing a response.
    My nerve ends (what was left of them, at any rate) jumped as Cassandra made a feeble sound.
    My eyeballs rolled with startled speed.
    Her right hand was stirring on the floor.
    Now wait a second
, said my mind.
    The pounding on the front door stopped.
    Cassandra moaned a little. Turned her head.
    My eyeballs rolled again. (They were to get a real workout that afternoon, let me tell you.)
    Outside the house, a man had appeared.
    He was in his middle fifties, stocky, dressed in the hat and uniform of the local constabulary, a holstered pistol belted at his portly waist.
    He peered into the room, shading his eyes with his left hand.
    At first, he only looked around TMR, a frown of curiosity on his thick features.
    Then he started, mouth gaping in surprise, as he caught sight of Cassandra.
    Immediately, he charged back toward the front door.
    Cassandra opened her eyes.
    Confusion reigned in me. She wasn’t dead—or even incapacitated that I could see.
    She had pushed up on one elbow.
    As she did, the front door of the house was flung open, crashing against the entry-hall wall.
    Cassandra gasped in startlement and looked around.
    There was a rapid fall of boots across the entry-hall floor.
    Cassandra twitched in alarm as the door was thrown open and the heavy man came bursting in.
    He ran to Cassandra and knelt beside her hurriedly.
    She stared at him in bewilderment as he helped her to a sitting position.
    “Who are you?” she asked. I noticed that her voice was thick, the words slurred; an aftereffect of whatever drug had been on the dart, I assumed.
    “Easy,” was all the man replied.
    He assisted Cassandra to her feet, where she evidenced some difficulty with her balance and the focus of her eyes. “Easy, easy,” said the man.
    “Who
are
you?” she persisted.
    “Sheriff Plum,” he answered.
    “Plum?” She stared at him for several moments, then pulled away; she immediately began to stagger.
    Plum made a sudden move to prevent her fall.
“Easy,”
he said.
    She blinked her eyes, grimacing, clearly struggling to regain the use of her senses. She swallowed, and it made a dry sound in her throat.
    Disengaging herself once more, she stumbled toward the bar and fell against it, clutching at the top for support.
    She stared at the bottles of chilling champagne as though the sight of them was baffling to her.
    Then, shaking her head, she moved around the bar, holding on to its top to keep from falling.
    Reaching the sink, she turned the faucet arm; cold water splashed down into the stainless-steel basin. Holding on to the sink’s edge with her left hand, she cupped her right beneath the fall of water, caught some, and began to wash her face.
    At this point, Sheriff Plum, glancing around the room, caught sight of me.
“Oh
, my God,” he reacted.
    Cassandra, face dripping, looked over at him hurriedly.
    “Good afternoon,” the Sheriff greeted me.
    “He can’t answer,” Cassandra told him. “He’s like a vegetable.” (What did I tell you?)
    “A
vegetable?”
asked Sheriff Plum in a