Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5. Dean Koontz
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this moment, I would never have assumed that Terrible Chester and I would agree on any issue or have anything in common other than our affection for Little Ozzie.
For the first time in my experience, Robertson wore no smile, dreamy or otherwise. Standing in sunshine that the weight of the day had condensed from white glare into honey-gold, backdropped by the forms and shadows of the laurels, he looked as grim as the giant photo of Timothy McVeigh on his study wall.
From behind me, Ozzie said, “‘Oh, God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains.’”
Turning, I found him with a tray on which he offered two glasses of wine and a small plate of cubed cheese surrounded by thin white crackers.
Thanking him, I took one of the glasses and glanced outside.
Bob Robertson was not where he had been.
Risking a dangerous misunderstanding with Terrible Chester, I stepped closer to the window, looking north and south along the street.
“Well?” Ozzie asked impatiently.
Robertson had gone, and quickly, as if with an urgent purpose.
As spooked as I had been to see this strange man at the picket fence, I was still more disturbed to have lost sight of him. If he wanted to follow me, I would submit to being tailed because then I would know where he was and, knowing, would rest easier.
“‘Oh, God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains,’” Ozzie repeated.
Turning from the window, I saw that he had put down the tray and stood now with his glass raised as if making a toast.
Struggling to recover my composure, I said, “Some days are so difficult that if we didn’t let wine steal our wits, how would we sleep?”
“Lad, I’m not asking you to debate the statement, merely to identify its source.”
Still rattled by Robertson, I said, “Sir?”
With some exasperation, Ozzie said, “Shakespeare! I stack the quiz to ensure you a passing grade, and still you fail. That was Cassio speaking in Act 2, Scene 3 of Othello.”
“I was ... distracted.”
Indicating the window, where Chester no longer appeared to be agitated and had once more settled into a furry pile on the deep sill, Ozzie said, “The destruction that barbarians leave behind has a grim fascination, doesn’t it? We’re reminded how thin is the veneer of civilization.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, sir, but my thoughts weren’t running that deep. I just ... I thought I saw someone I knew passing by.”
Raising the wineglass in his five-fingered hand, Ozzie said, “To the damnation of all miscreants.”
“That’s pretty strong, sir—damnation.”
“Don’t spoil my fun, lad. Just drink.”
Drinking, I glanced at the window again. Then I returned to the armchair where I had been seated before the cat hissed so alarmingly.
Ozzie settled down, as well, but his chair made a noisier issue of it than mine did.
I looked around at the books, at the wonderful reproductions of Tiffany lamps, but the room didn’t exert its usual calming influence. I could almost hear my wristwatch ticking off the seconds toward midnight and August 15.
“You’ve come here with a burden,” Ozzie said, “and since I don’t see a hostess gift, I assume the weight you carry is some trouble or other.”
I told him everything about Bob Robertson. Although I’d withheld the story of the black room from Chief Porter, I shared it with Ozzie because he has an imagination big enough to encompass anything.
In addition to his nonfiction books, he has written two highly successful series of mystery novels.
The first, as you might expect, is about a fat detective of incomparable brilliance who solves crimes while tossing off hilarious bon mots. He relies on his beautiful and highly athletic wife (who utterly adores him) to undertake all the investigative footwork and to perform all the derring-do.
Those books, Ozzie says, are based on certain hormone-drenched adolescent fantasies that preoccupied him throughout his teenage years. And still linger.
The second series involves a female detective who remains a likable heroine in spite of numerous neuroses and bulimia. This character had been conceived over a five-hour dinner during which Ozzie and his editor made less use of their forks than they made of their wineglasses.
Challenging Ozzie’s assertion that a fictional detective could have any personal problems or habits, however unpleasant, and still be a hit with the public as long as the author had the skill to make the character sympathetic, the editor had said, “No one could make a large audience want to read about a detective who stuck a finger down her throat and threw up after every meal.”
The first novel featuring such a detective won an Edgar Award, the mystery genre’s equivalent of an Oscar. The tenth book in the series had been recently published to greater sales than any of the previous nine.
In solemn tones that fail to disguise his impish glee, Ozzie says that no novels in the history of literature have featured so much vomiting to the delight of so many readers.
Ozzie’s success doesn’t in the least surprise me. He likes people and he listens to them, and that love of humanity shines out of his pages.
When I finished telling him about Robertson, the black room, and the file cabinets packed with thick case histories of homicidal maniacs, he said, “Odd, I wish you would get a gun.”
“Guns scare me,” I reminded him.
“Your life scares me. I’m certain Wyatt Porter would issue you a permit to carry a concealed weapon.”
“Then I’d have to wear a sports jacket.”
“You could switch to Hawaiian shirts, carry the gun in a belt holster in the small of your back.”
I frowned. “Hawaiian shirts are just not me.”
“Oh, yes,” he said with undisguised sarcasm, “your T-shirts and jeans are such a unique fashion statement.”
“Sometimes I wear chinos.”
“The depth of your wardrobe dazzles the mind. Ralph Lauren weeps.”
I shrugged. “I am who I am.”
“If I purchase a suitable weapon for you and personally instruct you in its use—”
“Thank you, sir, for your concern, but for sure I’d shoot off both my feet, and the next thing I knew, you’d be writing a series about a footless private investigator.”
“It’s already been done.” He sipped his wine. “Everything’s already been done. Only once in a generation does anything as fresh as a vomiting detective come along.”
“There’s still chronic diarrhea.”
He grimaced. “I’m afraid you haven’t the knack to be a popular mystery novelist. What have you been writing lately?”
“This and that.”
“Assuming ‘this’ refers to grocery-shopping lists and ‘that’ refers to mash notes to Stormy Llewellyn, what else have you been writing?”
“Nothing,” I admitted.
When I was sixteen, P. Oswald Boone, then a mere 350 pounds, agreed to judge a writing contest at our high school, from which he himself had graduated some years earlier. My English teacher required each of her students to submit an entry to the contest.
Because my Granny Sugars had only recently died and because I’d been missing her, I wrote a piece about her. Unfortunately, it won