With the pistol sight, Tommy followed the creature, but he wasn’t able to track it closely enough to justify squeezing off one of his remaining shots.
The thing disappeared behind the sofa.
Buoyed slightly by his adversary’s retreat, Tommy dared to hope that the .40-caliber round had done some damage after all, at least enough to make the little beast cautious. Seeing the mini-kin run from him, he regained a degree perspective regarding the indisputable advantage of size that he enjoyed. A modest measure of his lost confidence returned to him.
Tommy eased across the room to peer around that big piece of furniture. The far end of the sofa still touched the wall, and it was built to the floor, so the space behind it was a V-shaped dead end, yet the mini-kin wasn’t there.
Then he saw the torn flaps of fabric and the ragged hole in the upholstery. The creature had burrowed into the sofa and was now hiding inside it.
Why?
Why ask why?
From the moment the stitches had pulled out of the doll’s face and the first monstrous eye had blinked at him through the tear in the cloth, Tommy had been beyond all the why questions. They were more suitable for a sane universe where logic ruled, not for this place in which he currently found himself. The main issue now was how—how could he stop the beast, how could he save himself? And he also had to ask what next? Even if the utter irrationality of these events made it impossible to anticipate where the night would lead before dawn, he had to try to puzzle out the purpose behind the doll, the course of the plot.
THE DEADLINE IS DAWN.
He didn’t understand that message at all. What deadline, for God’s sake? Who had established it? What did he have to do to meet the deadline?
TICKTOCK.
Oh, he understood that message well enough. Time was running out. The night was passing as fast as the rain was falling outside, and if he didn’t get his act together, then he was going to be toast before sunrise.
TICKTOCK.
Toast for the hungry mini-kin.
TICKTOCK.
Munch, munch. Crunch, crunch.
His head was spinning—and not simply because he had thumped it hard against the floor when he’d fallen.
He circled the sofa, studying it as he moved.
Fire. Maybe a roaring fire could achieve better results than a bullet.
While the creature was building a nest—or doing whatever the hell it was doing in there—Tommy might be able to sneak down to the garage, siphon a quart of gasoline out of the Corvette, grab a pack of matches from a drawer in the kitchen, and return to set the sofa on fire.
No. No, that would take too long. The repulsive little creepozoid would realize that he was gone, and when he came back, the thing probably wouldn’t be inside the sofa any more.
Now the mini-kin was quiet, which didn’t mean that it was taking a nap. It was scheming at something.
Tommy needed to scheme too. Desperately.
Think, think.
Because of the light-beige carpet, Tommy kept one can of spot remover downstairs and another upstairs in the master bathroom, so he would be able to attack an accidental spill of Pepsi—or whatever—before it became a permanent stain. The can contained approximately one pint of fluid, and in bold red letters the label warned highly flammable.
Highly flammable. That had a pleasant ring to it. Highly flammable, hugely flammable, spectacularly flammable, explosively flammable—no words in the English language sounded sweeter than those.
And on the hearth of the small fireplace in the master bedroom was a battery-sparked butane match with which he could light the gas under the ceramic logs. He should be able to leave the office, grab the spot remover, pluck the match off the hearth, and return here in a minute, maybe less.
One minute. Even as clever as it seemed to be, the mini-kin probably wouldn’t realize that Tommy was out of the room for that brief time.
So now who’s going to be toast?
Tommy smiled at the thought.
From deep in the mysterious creature’s upholstered haven came a creaking and then a sharp twang.