Dean Koontz - Tick Tock

But the Jaguar didn’t roll over. It came out of the spin, rattling and pinging, lurching like a hobbled horse, but on all four wheels.

Tommy extracted himself from the cramped floor space between front and back seats, scrambled up, and looked out the rear window.

The dog joined him at the window, ear to ear.

As before, the Peterbilt had overshot the intersection.

‘How was that for driving,’ Del demanded.

Mother Phan said, ‘You never get insurance again.’

Beside Tommy, the Labrador whimpered.

Even Deliverance Payne was not going to be able to coax any speed out of the Jaguar in its current debilitated condition. The sports car chugged forward, loudly rattling and clanking, hissing, pinging, pitching and yawing, spouting steam, haemorrhaging fluids - like one of those rattletrap pickup trucks that comic hillbillies always drove in the movies.

Behind them, the huge Peterbilt reversed into the intersection through which they had just been flung.

‘We’ve got at least two blown tyres,’ Del said, ‘and the oil pressure is dropping fast.’

‘Not far,’ said Tommy’s mother. ‘Garage door be open, you pull in, all safe.’

‘What garage door?’ Del asked.

‘Garage door at Quy’s house.’

‘Oh, yes, the hairdresser witch.’

‘She no witch. Just come from Xan River, learn few things when she was girl.’

‘Sorry if I caused offence,’ Del said.

‘There, see, two houses ahead on right, lights on. Garage door open, you pull in, Quy Dai close door, all safe.’

The demon driver shifted gears, and the Peterbilt pulled into the street behind them. Its headlights swept across the rear window, across Tommy.

Scootie whimpered again. He licked Tommy’s face, either to reassure him or to say goodbye.

Facing front, wiping dog slobber off his cheek, Tommy said, ‘How can I be safe? It’s not dawn yet. The thing will see where we’ve gone.’

‘Can’t follow there,’ his mother said.

‘I’m telling you, it’ll drive straight through the house,’ he predicted.

‘No. Quy is one who made doll, called spirit from underworld, so it not allowed hurt her. Can’t enter house if Quy Trang Dai herself don’t make invitation.’

‘With all due respect, Mom, I don’t think we can count on demons being quite that polite.’

‘No, your mother’s probably right,’ Del said. ‘The supernatural world operates on its own laws, rather like we operate under the laws of physics.’

As the inside of the car grew bright again from the headlights behind, Tommy said, ‘If the damn thing drives the damn truck into the damn house and kills me, who do I complain to - Albert Einstein or the pope?’

Del turned right into the driveway, and the car creaked-clanked-clanged, wobbled-rolled-rocked-heaved into the open, lighted garage. When she braked to a stop, the engine coughed and stalled. The rear axle snapped, and the back of the Jaguar crashed to the garage floor.

Behind them the big door rolled down.

Tommy’s mother climbed out of the car.

When he followed her, he heard the shrill air brakes of the Peterbilt. Judging by the sound, the truck had pulled to the curb and stopped in front of the house.

A slender birdlike Vietnamese woman, about the size of a twelve-year-old girl, with a face as sweet as butterscotch pudding, stood at the interior door between the garage and the house. She was wearing a pink jogging suit and athletic shoes.

Mother Phan spoke to this woman briefly in Vietna-mese, and then introduced her as Quy Trang Dai.

Mrs. Dai appeared crestfallen when she faced Tommy. ‘So sorry about mistake. Terrible dumb mistake. Feel like stupid, worthless, ignorant old fool, want to throw myself in pit of river vipers, but have no pit here and no vipers either.’ Her dark eyes welled with tears. ‘Want to throw myself in pit so bad.’

‘Well,’ Del said to Tommy, ‘are you going to kill her?’

‘Maybe not.’

‘Wimp.’

Outside, the Peterbilt was still idling.

Blinking back her tears, her expression toughening, Mrs. Dai turned to Del, looked her up and down, and said suspiciously, ‘Who you?’

‘A total stranger.’

Mrs. Dai raised an eyebrow quizzically at Tommy. ‘Is true?’

‘True,’ Tommy said.

‘Not dating?’ asked Quy Trang Dai.

‘All I know about him is his name,’ Del said. ‘And she doesn’t get that right half the time,’ Tommy assured Mrs. Dai. He glanced at the big garage door, certain that the truck engine outside would suddenly rev... ‘Listen, are we really safe here?’

‘Safe here. Safer in house but…‘ Mrs. Dai squinted at Del, as though reluctant to grant admittance to this obvious corrupter of Vietnamese male youth.

To Tommy, Del said, ‘I think I could find some vipers if you’d be willing to dig a pit.’

Mother Phan spoke to Quy Trang Dai in Vietnamese. The hairdresser witch lowered her eyes guiltily and nodded and finally sighed. ‘Okay. You come inside. But I keep clean house. Is dog broke?’

‘He wasn’t broken, but I had him fixed,’ Del said. She winked at Tommy. ‘Couldn’t resist.’

Mrs. Dai led them into the house, through the laundry room, kitchen, and dining room.

Tommy noticed that the heels of her running shoes contained those light-emitting diodes that blinked in sequence from right to left, ostensibly a safety feature for the athletically-minded who took their exercise at night, though the effect was footgear with a Vegas flair.

In the living room, Mrs Dai said, ‘We wait here for dawn. Evil spirit have to go at sunrise, all be fine.’

The living room reflected the history of Vietnam as occupied territory: a mix of simple Chinese and French furniture with two pieces of contemporary American upholstery. On the wall over the sofa was a painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. In a corner stood a Buddhist shrine; fresh fruit was arranged on the bright red altar, and sticks of incense, one lit, bristled from ceramic holders.

Mrs. Dai sat in an oversize, black chinoiserie chair with a padded seat upholstered in gold-and-white brocade. The chair was so large that the diminutive pink-clad woman appeared even more childlike than ever; her twinkling shoes didn’t quite reach the floor.

Taking off her plastic rain scarf but not her coat, Mother Phan settled into a bergкre-style chair and sat with her purse on her lap.

Tommy and Del perched on the edge of the sofa, and Scootie sat on the floor in front of them, looking curiously from Mother Phan to Mrs. Dai to Mother Phan again.

Outside, the Peterbilt engine still idled.

Tommy could see part of the truck, all of its running lights aglow, through one of the windows that flanked the front door, but he couldn’t see the driver’s cab or the Samaritan-thing.

Consulting her wristwatch, Mrs. Dai said, ‘Twenty-two minutes till dawn, then no one have to worry, everyone happy’ - with a wary glance at Mother Phan - ‘no one angry with friends anymore. Anyone like tea?’

Everyone politely declined tea.

‘No trouble to make,’ said Mrs. Dai.

Again, everyone politely declined.

After a brief silence, Del said, ‘So you were born and raised along the Xan River.’

Mrs. Dai brightened. ‘Oh, is such beautiful land. You been there?’

‘No,’ Del said, ‘though I’ve always wanted to go.’

‘Beautiful, beautiful,’ Mrs. Dai rhapsodised, clapping her small hands together. ‘Jungle so green and dark, air heavy as steam and full of smell of growing things, can hardly breathe for stink of growing things, so many flowers and snakes, all red-gold mist in morning, purple mist at twilight, leeches thick and long as hot dogs.’

Tommy muttered, ‘Lovely, lovely, with all the resur-rected dead men slaving in the rice paddies.’