“I don’t know. Minutes.”

“What can we do?”

Karen King said, “How are your reflexes?”

“Shot.” He held out his hand; it was shaking.

“What’s your idea?” Amar said.

“Do you have any of the spider silks we worked on?” For about six months, Amar and Karen had been synthesizing spider silks with various properties-some were sticky, some strong, some flexible like a bungee cord. Some could turn from smooth to sticky from the addition of a chemical at one end.

“I have several, yes,” Amar said.

“Okay, you see that plastic tube beside the cage, closed at one end?”

“It looks like it’s part of a little water dispenser.”

“Right. That’s the one. Can you grab that tube with sticky silk and hoist it up?”

“I don’t know,” Amar said doubtfully. “It probably weighs an ounce or two. We’d all have to help haul it up-”

“That’s fine because we all have to help, anyway. To open the cage.”

“Open the cage.” The top of the krait cage was a double piece of glass; one slid over the other. “I don’t know, Karen, that means shifting the glass piece.”

“Just an inch or so. Just enough-”

“To lower the tube.”

“Right.”

“Peter, are you following this?” Amar said.

“I am, and it sounds impossible.”

“I don’t see an alternative,” Karen said. “We have only one shot at this, and you can’t miss.”

Amar had opened up a plastic case, which he’d had in his pocket, and he was already uncoiling his sticky silk from an armature in the case. He lowered the silk over the edge, and hooked the plastic tube. It was surprisingly light. Amar and Rick Hutter were able to raise it easily.

They tried sliding the glass plate to get it open, but that proved to be a much greater challenge. “We have to be coordinated,” Karen said. “Everybody on the count of three, one…two…three!” The glass moved, just a few millimeters, but it moved. “Okay, again! Hurry!”

And the krait was becoming more active. Whether from seeing all the little people walking around on top, or because the volatile was wearing off, the snake began twisting and coiling, moving toward Peter, getting ready to try another approach.

“Get that thing down here,” Peter said. His voice was tremulous.

“Lowering it now,” Amar said.

The thread scraped over the glass edge, making a strange squeaking sound.

“That going to be okay?” Karen said. “Will it hold?”

“It’s strong,” Amar said.

“Come lower, a little lower,” Peter said. “Okay…Hold it there.” The tube was chest-high. He stood behind it, holding it in position with both hands at the back. But his hands were sweating, slippery. His grip unsure.

The snake was moving. Hissing through the leaves and sawdust.

“What if it strikes from the side?” Peter said.

“Adjust,” Karen said. “ ’Cause it looks like-”

“Yeah, it is-”

“Here it comes, damn it-”

“Oh shit,” Peter said. The snake struck with blinding speed-unimaginable speed-unthinking, he swung the tube to meet it-the full impact of the krait’s head slammed against his chest-the silk snapped, and Peter fell backward, with the krait on top of him, writhing and coiling angrily, pinning Peter’s body down. But the krait’s head was lodged tightly inside the tube, and it would be difficult for him to get free.

“How did you do that?” Karen said, her voice full of admiration. “The snake was so fast.”

“I don’t know,” Peter said. “I just…reacted.” It had all happened faster than thought. Now, Peter struggled to push the snake away. So close to him, the smell of the animal was nauseating. Finally he kicked free, and staggered to his feet.

The snake stared up at him with baleful eyes. It shook the tube hard, and banged it repeatedly against the glass, but did not dislodge it. Its furious hiss was magnified, reverberating inside the tube.

“That’s great,” Rick said. “But we better get you out of there.”

Vin Drake gritted his teeth. Mirasol, the receptionist, was beautiful but she was an idiot. The muscular man in the blue uniform standing before him was not a cop but a Coast Guard ensign; and what he wanted was information about ownership of Eric’s Boston Whaler, because the boat yard wanted to move it to another location, and they needed permission of the owner to do that.

“I thought the police were still inspecting the boat,” Vin said irritably. He might as well try to get some information from this numbskull.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” the ensign said. The police hadn’t come to see him, he explained; it was the boat-yard owner.

“I heard they were looking for a phone.”

“Not that I’m aware. I think the police have finished their investigation.”

Drake closed his eyes, gave a long sigh. “Christ.”

“At least,” the ensign said, “as soon as they complete their inspection of his office.”

Drake’s eyes snapped open. “Whose office?”

“Jansen’s office. His office here, in this building. He was vice president of this company, right? I know they went to Jansen’s apartment today, and that they’re coming to look at his office here-” the ensign glanced at his watch-“any minute now, actually. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t already shown up.”

“Christ,” Vin Drake said.

He turned to Mirasol. “The police are going to be arriving soon,” he said, “and someone needs to show them around.”

“Should I page Ms. Bender?”

“No,” Vin said. “Ms. Bender will be-she will be busy working with me. I have some lab work to ship out. It can’t wait.”

“Who should I call?”

“Get Don Makele, the head of security,” he said. “He can show the officers around. They’ll want to see Mr. Jansen’s office.”

“And wherever else he worked,” the ensign added. He was staring fixedly at the receptionist.

“And wherever else he worked,” Drake repeated. Cars were pulling up in the street outside. He repressed an urge to bolt, and instead calmly shook the ensign’s hand. “You’re welcome to go along with the police,” he said. “And Mirasol, why don’t you accompany the officers, see that they get coffee, whatever.”

“All right, Mr. Drake.”

“I believe I will stay,” the ensign said.

“Then you must excuse me for the moment,” Drake said. He turned and walked down the hallway. The moment he was out of sight, he began to run.

Alyson Bender sat in her office and bit her lip. The monitor on her desk showed the reception area; she could see Drake talking to the uniformed kid, and see Mirasol flirting, fussing with the flower in her hair.

As usual, Drake was impatient, quick, aggressive in his movements. Almost hostile, really. Of course he was under pressure, but seeing the way he moved-no words, just the body language-made it clear how angry he was. He was an angry, angry man.

And he was going to kill all of those kids.

It was only too clear what he intended to do. Peter Jansen had trapped him, and Vin was going to escape the only way possible, by leaving no witnesses. Seven young people, bright students with their lives before them, he didn’t seem to care. It didn’t seem to matter to him.

They were merely in the way.

It frightened her. Her hands trembled even when she pressed them flat against the desk. She was afraid of him, and terrified of the situation she found herself in. She could not confront him directly, of course. He’d kill her if she did.

But she had to stop him from killing those kids. Somehow, she had to do that. She knew what she had done. She knew her involvement in Eric Jansen’s death, knew it only too well. Making those calls to the trigger phone. But to be involved in the murder of seven more people-no, eight, including the Nanigen employee who’d had the bad luck to be in the control room when Drake came in-she wasn’t sure she could do it. It would be homicide on a grand scale. But she might have to do it…to save herself.

On the monitor, Drake was telling the receptionist what to do. The ensign was grinning. Drake would soon leave.