I blanked out, but only for an instant. The kid had fallen with me and my hands clutched his ankles as I fought to stay conscious. I stood up, still holding his ankles. Putting everything I had into the effort, I swung him around and sent him crashing into Steve, who was just rounding the foot of the bed. They went down together.
I gasped in air, clutching the gash in my stomach with hands that were sticky and wet with blood. I turned toward Zealley. He was still seated in his chair, still smiling. One hand, resting negligently in his lap, held a snub-nosed pistol.
He could have killed me any time before this, but he had wanted the fun of watching me fight for my life. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it abruptly as someone pounded at the door.
"Come in!" I shouted through the froth in my mouth.
"Damn you," Zealley said softly. He wiped the pistol on his trousers and slid it across the floor away from him.
The door burst inward.
"These men tried to kill me," I told the two police officers.
Zealley's bland features simulated surprise. "I?" he asked. "I heard noise in here as I was passing in the hall. I came in to see what the trouble was."
"He's lying," I said as the policemen turned inquiringly toward me. "He's with them."