His eyes shifted toward the door. He was wondering if he should break for it. I was still staring dumbfounded, my eyes flashing back and forth from the killer to the body of Timothy Colt. Not five seconds had passed since the kid had pulled the knife. The fountain of blood burbling out of Colt’s midsection grew weaker. His white shirt was now soaked scarlet. As I fought to grasp the fact of the reporter’s death, the bellboy made up his mind. He came for me. It was an expert approach. He moved in, crouched low, the knife gripped lightly, held close to his side. He kept his intense eyes trained on my chest, like a basketball player watching for the fake. I tried to rouse myself. I was dull with hangover and shock. I glanced at the door to gauge the possibility of escape. The killer thought with me. He circled around me as he came on until he had blocked the path to the exit. I had two ways to go and a second to choose. I could either retreat into the bathroom and fight cornered, or move out into the room and keep away from him as best I could.
