But not quickly enough. An instant later his vision dimmed and lost depth, and he realized that one of Toad’s eyes had gone. The other pincers struck; Kevin tried to ward them off, but his thumb had been snipped off before he realized that he could no longer judge distance. Seconds more, and he would be reduced to helplessness. Desperately crooking an arm around the black, angulated carapace, he heaved, straightened his legs, and hurled himself off the edge, taking the killer with him. To the sounds of a contralto singing Mozart filling the air, they tumbled together and landed in the craftworking box behind the seat.
Kevin was on his back in the plastic tray that he had looked down over from the top of the box. Around him were paint tins the size of oil storage tanks, and reels of embroidery thread that looked like drums of marine cable. He righted himself and began clambering over a pile of shiny, hexagonal pencil-logs that rolled and fell, making him lose his footing. The beetle was nowhere in sight, but he could hear scraping sounds coming from the adjacent compartment in the tray.
A pair of steel scissors resting on an edge of the tray offered a convenient ramp. Steadying himself against the dividing partition, Kevin moved cautiously up and peered over. Most of the space beyond the dividing wall was taken up by massive, pipelike pens and brushes. At the far end were several truck-size squeeze-tubes lying on their sides, their ends tapering into cones and capped. The beetle had wrested the cap off one of them, and even as Kevin watched, was maneuvering a gigantic brush—in reality probably about as big as a nail-polish applicator—under the blob of clear goo that was beginning to ooze from the opening. Chemical warfare.
The beetle looked and obviously saw him. Kevin was half blind and had no defense. Yet instead of retreating, he scaled the partition wall and advanced. The beetle turned, brandishing the glue-filled brush, and for a second or two hesitated as if suspecting a trick. Then it came forward and lunged.
Kevin’s left arm was pinned by the first swab, powerless to move against the thick, sticky bond. The next blow caught the right side of his head, and in seconds his neck and shoulder joints were stiffening. The beetle circled at a distance, assessing the effect. Then, evidently reassured, it moved in again and plastered his hips and legs. Kevin felt himself wading slower and slower through congealing molasses, then halting completely. The beetle came closer, and Kevin’s last impression was of almost sensing its operator gloating. . . .
All just as Kevin had intended. It was a diversionary tactic to keep the beetle occupied for just a little longer.
For it was obvious that Toad was done for. But that had ceased to be of relevance, since by the time the beetle closed in to complete its work, Toad was no longer registering anything.
Kevin had switched channels.
Tigger was already on its way.
The man who had come to the front door was small and balding, and wore a lightweight maroon jacket with white shirt and a dark tie. “No, sir, I’m afraid that Mr. Payne is away and not expected back until Monday,” he informed the officers. There were four of them with Corfe now. The gray-and-blue Seattle cruiser had arrived at Payne’s residence accompanied by a white-with-navy-stripe car of the Bellevue police. “Apart from myself and two other members of the domestic staff, the house is empty at present.”
Corfe felt ill. Again there was no sign of the van outside, no beige Cadillac. The two Seattle officers glowered at him, while the one from the local force, who had put the question, looked back at the man in the maroon jacket. “And you are who, exactly, please?”
“My name is Vogl, sir. I’m the house steward.”
“And there haven’t been any callers in the last hour?” the Seattle officer who was called Des said. “We’re looking for a woman in her late thirties, tall, slim, long fair hair, wearing a light blue coat.”
“Nobody has been here I’m afraid. I know nothing of any person of such a description.”