Dean Koontz
Tick Tock
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    To see what we have never seen,
    to be what we have never been,
    to shed the chrysalis and fly,
    depart the earth, kiss the sky,
    to be reborn, be someone new:
    is this a dream or is it true?
    
    Can our future be cleanly shorn
    from a life to which we’re born?
    Is each of us a creature free -or trapped at birth by destiny?
    Pity those who believe the latter.
    Without freedom, nothing matters.
    -	The Book of Counted Sorrows
    
    
    In the real world
    as in dreams
    nothing is quite
    what it seems.
    -	The Book of Counted Sorrows
    
    ONE
    
    Out of a cloudless sky on a windless November day came a sudden shadow that swooped 
across the bright aqua Corvette. Tommy Phan was standing beside the car, in pleasantly 
warm autumn sunshine, holding out his hand to accept the keys from Jim Shine, the 
salesman, when the fleeting shade touched him. He heard a brief thrumming like frantic 
wings. Glancing up, he expected to glimpse a sea gull, but not a single bird was in sight.
    Unaccountably, the shadow had chilled him as though a cold wind had come with it, but 
the air was utterly still. He shivered, felt a blade of ice touch his palm, and jerked 
his hand back, even as he realized, too late, that it wasn’t ice but merely the keys to 
the Corvette. He looked down in time to see them hit the pavement.
    He said, ‘Sorry,’ and started to bend over.
    Jim Shine said, ‘No, no. I’ll get ‘em.’
    Perplexed, frowning, Tommy raised his gaze to the sky again. Unblemished blue. 
Nothing in flight.
    The nearest trees, along the nearby street, were phoenix palms with huge crowns of 
fronds, offering no branches on which a bird could alight. No birds were perched on the 
roof of the car dealership either.
    ‘Pretty exciting,’ Shine said.
    Tommy looked at him, slightly disoriented. ‘Huh?’
    Shine was holding out the keys again. He resembled a pudgy choirboy with guileless 
blue eyes. Now, when he winked, his face squinched into a leer that was meant to be comic 
but that seemed disconcertingly like a glimpse of genuine and usually well-hidden 
decadence. ‘Getting that first ‘vette is almost as good as getting your first piece of 
ass.’
    Tommy was trembling and still inexplicably cold. He accepted the keys. They no longer 
felt like ice.
    The aqua Corvette waited, as sleek and cool as a high mountain spring slipping 
downhill over polished stones. Overall length: one hundred seventy-eight and a half 
inches. Wheelbase: ninety-six-point-two inches. Seventy-point-seven inches in width at 
the dogleg, forty-six-point-three inches high, with a minimum ground clearance of 
four-point-two inches.
    Tommy knew the technical specifications of this car better than any preacher knew the 
details of any Bible story. He was a Vietnamese-American, and America was his religion; 
the highway was his church, and the Corvette was about to become the sacred vessel by 
which he partook of communion.
    Although he was no prude, Tommy was mildly offended when Shine compared the 
transcendent experi-ence of Corvette ownership to sex. For the moment, at least, the 
Corvette was better than any bedroom games, more exciting, purer, the very embodiment of 
speed and grace and freedom.
    Tommy shook Jim Shine’s soft, slightly moist hand and slid into the driver’s seat. 
Thirty-six and a half inches of headroom. Forty-two inches of leg room.
    His heart was pounding. He was no longer chilled. In fact, he felt flushed.
    He had already plugged his cellular phone into the cigarette lighter. The Corvette 
was his.
    Crouching at the open window, grinning, Shine said, ‘You’re not just a mere mortal 
anymore.’
    Tommy started the engine. A ninety-degree V8. Cast-iron block. Aluminium heads with 
hydraulic lifters.
    Jim Shine raised his voice. ‘No longer like other men. Now you’re a god.’
    Tommy knew that Shine spoke with a good-humoured mockery of the cult of the 
automobile - yet he half believed that it was true. Behind the wheel of the Corvette, 
with this childhood dream fulfilled, he seemed to be full of the power of the car, 
exalted.
    With the Corvette still in park, he eased his foot down on the accelerator, and the 
engine responded with a deep-throated growl. Five-point-seven litres of displacement with 
a ten-and-a-half-to-one compression ratio. Three hundred horsepower.
    Rising from a crouch, stepping back, Shine said, ‘Have fun.’
    ‘Thanks, Jim.’
    Tommy Phan drove away from the Chevrolet dealer-ship, into a California afternoon so 
blue and high and deep with promise that it was possible to believe he would live 
forever. With no purpose except to enjoy the Corvette, he went west to Newport Beach and 
then south on the fabled Pacific Coast Highway, past the enormous harbour full of yachts, 
through Corona Del Mar, along the newly developed hills called Newport Coast, with 
beaches and gently breaking surf and the sun-dappled ocean to his right, listening to an 
oldies radio station that rocked with the Beach Boys, the Everly Brothers, Chuck Berry,