Ticktock by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online

the desk lamp. It was sitting as before—but the pair of crossed stitches over the spot where a person’s heart would be had snapped and now hung loose on its white cotton breast.
    Tommy Phan didn’t realize that he had dropped the pin until he heard it strike—
tink, tink
—the hard plastic mat under his office chair.
    Paralyzed, he stared at the doll for what seemed like an hour but must have been less than a minute. When he could move again, he found himself reaching for the damn thing, and he checked himself when his hand was still ten or twelve inches from it.
    His mouth was so dry that his tongue had stuck to his palate. He worked up some saliva, but his tongue nevertheless peeled loose as reluctantly as a Velcro fastener.
    His frantic heart hammered so hard that his vision blurred at the edges with each beat, as blood surged through him in artery-stretching quantities. He felt as though he were on the verge of a stroke.
    In the better and more vivid world that he inhabited, Chip Nguyen would have seized the doll without hesitation and examined it to determine what device it contained. Perhaps a miniature bomb? Perhaps a fiendishly clever clockwork mechanism that would eject a poisoned dart?
    Tommy wasn’t half the man that Chip Nguyen was, but he wasn’t a complete coward, damn it. Although he was reluctant to pick up the doll, he gingerly extended one index finger and experimentally pressed it against the pair of snapped sutures on the white cotton breast.
    Inside the dreadful little manlike figure, directly under Tommy’s finger, something twitched, throbbed, and throbbed again. Not as though it were a clockwork mechanism, but as though it were something
alive.
    He snatched his hand back.
    At first, what he had felt made him think of a squirming insect: an obscenely fat spider or a frenzied cockroach. Or perhaps a tiny rodent: some God-awful pale and hairless pink mouse like nothing that anyone had ever seen before.
    Abruptly the dangling black threads unraveled into the needle holes through which they had been sewn, disappearing into the doll’s chest as if something had pulled them from inside.
    â€œJesus!”
    Tommy stumbled backward a step and nearly fell into his office chair. He clutched the arm of it and kept his balance.
    Pop-pop-pop.
    The stitches over the thing’s right eye broke as the cloth under them bulged with internal pressure. Then they, too, raveled into the doll like strands of spaghetti sucked into a child’s mouth.
    Tommy was shaking his head in denial. He had to be dreaming.
    Where the broken sutures had disappeared into the face, the fabric split with a discrete tearing sound.
    Dreaming.
    The rent in the small blank-white face opened to half an inch, like a gaping wound.
    Definitely dreaming. Big dinner, two cheeseburgers, french fries, onion rings, enough cholesterol to kill a horse—and then a bottle of beer. Dozed off at my desk. Dreaming.
    From behind the split fabric came a flash of color. Green. A fierce radiant green.
    The cotton cloth curled away from the hole, and a small eye appeared in the soft round head. It wasn’t the shiny glass eye of a doll, not merely a painted plastic disc, either, but as real as Tommy’s own eyes (although infinitely stranger), full of soft eerie light, hateful and watchful, with an elliptical black pupil as in the eye of a snake.
    Tommy made the sign of the cross. He had been raised a Roman Catholic, and although he had only rarely attended Mass over the past five years, he was suddenly devout again.
    â€œHoly Mary, Mother of God, hear my plea….”
    Tommy was prepared to spend—
happy
to spend—the rest of his life between a confessional and a sacristy railing, subsisting solely on the Eucharist and faith, with no entertainment except organ music and church bingo.
    â€œâ€¦in this my hour of need…”
    The doll twitched. Its head turned slightly toward Tommy. Its green