Zealley shook his head sadly. "He must be delirious—" he began, but the evidence was all on my side.
"Shut up!" one of the officers said, grabbing him by the shirt front and jerking him to his feet.
I had started dressing immediately. I wanted to hide the wound in my stomach. It burned, but I kept my face blank.
Zealley was silent now. If I had been just superficially wounded, his bluff would have worked—I'd have healed right there and then. I hadn't, so he had to wait for developments. I hoped I could give him some.
While one of the officers worked to revive the youth—the thug named Steve was already on his feet—I went to the bowl in the alcove and washed the blood off my hands and stomach.
They had the kid upright when I turned around: "Are you hurt bad?" the policeman holding Zealley asked me.
"Not too bad." I managed to keep my voice steady. "I'll be all right until you can send an ambulance."
He stood uncertainly for a moment. "I don't like to leave you alone, but I can put in a call from our cruiser. The ambulance should get here within ten minutes."
"I'll be OK," I said.
The sound of the closing door was the only way I had to know they were gone. For the past half minute, my tight grip on the bed headboard was all that held me erect. Now the starch went out of my body and I crumpled to the floor.