Free The Key to Midnight by Dean Koontz Page A

you.'
        At first glance, the intruder seemed soft, out of shape. On closer inspection, however, Alex realized that the guy was iron hard beneath the masking layer of fat. A sumo wrestler had the same look in the early days of training, before attaining his gross physique.
        Brandishing the switchblade again, the intruder said, 'Move.'
        'Are you familiar with the English expression "Fuck you"?'
        The stranger moved faster than any man Alex had ever seen, as fluid as a dancer in spite of his bulk. Alex clutched the thick wrist of the knife hand, but with the amazing dexterity of a magician, the dorobo tossed the weapon from one hand to the other - and struck. The cold blade sliced smoothly, lightly along the underside of Alex's left arm, which still tingled from being kicked.
        The stocky intruder stepped back as abruptly as he had attacked. 'Gave you just a scratch, Mr. Hunter.'
        The blade had skipped across the flesh: Two wounds glistened, thin and scarlet, the first about three inches long, the other marginally longer. Alex stared at the shallow cuts as if they had opened utterly without cause, miraculous stigmata. Blood oozed down his arm, trickled into his hand, dripped from his fingertips, but it didn't spurt; no major artery or vein was violated, and the flow was stanchable.
        He was badly shaken by the lightning-swift attack. It had happened so fast that he still hadn't begun to feel any pain.
        'Won't require stitches,' the stranger said. 'But if you make me cut again… no promises next time.'
        'There won't be a next time,' Alex said. He found it difficult to admit defeat, but he wasn't a fool. 'You're too good.'
        The intruder smiled like a malevolent Buddha. 'Go across the room. Sit on the couch.'
        Alex did as instructed, cradling his bloodied arm and thinking furiously, hoping to come up with a wonderful trick that would turn defeat into triumph. But he wasn't a sorcerer. There was nothing he could do.
        The burglar remained in the foyer until Alex was seated. Then he left, slamming the door behind him.
        The instant he was alone, Alex sprinted to the telephone on the desk. He punched the single number for hotel security. He changed his mind, however, and hung up before anyone answered.
        Hotel security would call in the police. He didn't want the cops involved. Not yet. Maybe never.
        He went to the door and locked the deadbolt. He also braced the door shut by jamming the straight-backed desk chair at an angle under the knob.
        Hugging himself with his injured arm so the blood would soak into his undershirt instead of dripping on the carpet, he went into the bathroom. He shut off the taps just as the water was about to overflow the tub, and he opened the drain.
        The bastard hadn't been a burglar. No way. He was someone - or worked for someone - who was worried that Alex would uncover the truth about Joanna, someone who wanted the suite searched for evidence that Alex had already made the link between the singer and the long-lost girl.
        The knife wounds were beginning to burn and throb. He hugged himself harder, attempting to stop or slow the bleeding by applying direct pressure to the cuts. The entire front and side of his undershirt were crimson.
        He sat on the edge of the tub.
        Perspiration seeped into the corners of his eyes, making him blink. He wiped his forehead with a washcloth. He was thirsty. He picked up the bottle of Asahi beer and chugged a third of it.
        The knife man was working for people with good connections. International connections. They might even have a man planted in the Chicago office. How else had they managed to put someone on his ass so soon after he had spoken on the phone with Blankenship?
        The tub was half empty. He turned on the cold water.
        More likely than a plant in Chicago: His hotel phone must be tapped. He had