Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5. Dean Koontz
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None were in my small inner circle of friends. They didn’t know of my supernatural gift, but many regarded me as a sweet eccentric, to one degree or another, and therefore wouldn’t be surprised by either my unscheduled visit or my questions.
By seeking this information in the presence of bodachs, however, I would earn their suspicion. Once alert to me, they would eventually discern my unique nature.
I remembered the six-year-old English boy who had spoken aloud of the bodachs—and had been crushed between a concrete-block wall and a runaway truck. The impact had been so powerful that numerous blocks had shattered into gravel and dust, exposing the ribs of steel rebar around which they had been mortared.
Although the driver, a young man of twenty-eight, had been in perfect health, his autopsy revealed that he suffered a massive, instantly fatal stroke while behind the wheel.
The stroke must have killed him at the precise moment when he crossed the crest of a hill—at the bottom of which stood the English boy. Accident-scene analysis by the police determined that the lateral angle of the slope, in relationship to the cross street below, should have carried the unpiloted truck away from the boy, impacting the wall thirty feet from where it actually came to a deadly stop. Evidently, during part of the descent, the dead body of the driver had been hung up on the steering wheel, countering the angle of the street that should have saved the child.
I know more about the mysteries of the universe than do those of you who cannot see the lingering dead, but I do not understand more than a tiny fraction of the truth of our existence. I have nevertheless reached at least one certain conclusion based on what I know: There are no coincidences.
On the macro scale, I perceive what physicists tell us is true on the micro: Even in chaos, there is order, purpose, and strange meaning that invites—but often thwarts—our investigation and our understanding.
Consequently, I didn’t stop at any of those houses where the bodachs capered, didn’t wake the sleeping to ask my urgent questions. Somewhere a healthy driver and a massive truck needed only a timely cerebral aneurysm and an expedient failure of brakes to bring it across my path in a sudden rush.
Instead, I drove to Chief Porter’s house, trying to decide if I should wake him at the ungodly hour of three o’clock.
Over the years, I had only twice before interrupted his sleep. The first time, I had been wet and muddy, still wearing one of the shackles—and dragging a length of chain—that had bound me to the two corpses with which I had been dumped into Malo Suerte Lake by bad men of sour disposition. The second time that I’d awakened him, there had been a crisis needing his attention.
The current crisis hadn’t quite reached us yet, but it loomed. I thought he needed to know that Bob Robertson was not a loner but a conspirator.
The trick would be to deliver this news convincingly but without revealing that I’d found Robertson dead in my bathroom and, breaking numerous laws without compunction, had bundled the cadaver to a less incriminating resting place.
When I turned the corner half a block from the Porter address, I was surprised to see lights on in several houses at that late hour. The chief’s place blazed brighter than any other.
Four police cruisers stood in front of the house. All had been parked hastily, at angles to the curb. The roof-rack beacons of one car still flashed, revolved.
On the front lawn, across which rhythmic splashes of red light chased waves of blue, five officers gathered in conversation. Their posture suggested that they were consoling one another.
I had intended to park across the street from the chief’s house. I would have called his private number only after concocting a story that avoided any mention of my recent exertions as a dead-man’s taxi service.
Instead, with a helpless sinking of the heart, I abandoned the Chevy in the street, beside one of the patrol cars. I switched the headlights off but left the engine running, with the hope that none of the cops would get close enough to see that no keys were in the ignition.
The officers on the lawn were all known to me. They turned to face me as I ran to them.
Sonny Wexler, the tallest and toughest and softest-spoken of the group, extended one brawny arm as if to stop me from rushing past him to the house. “Hold on, stay back here, kid. We’ve got CSI working the place.”
Until now I had not seen Izzy Maldanado on the front porch. He rose from some task that he’d been attending to on his knees, and stretched to get a kink out of his back.
Izzy works for the Maravilla County Sheriff’s Department crime lab, which contracts its services to the Pico Mundo police. When the body of Bob Robertson was eventually found in that Quonset hut, Izzy would most likely be the technician meticulously sifting the scene for evidence.
Although I desperately wanted to know what had happened here, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t swallow. Some gluey mass seemed to be obstructing my throat.
Trying unsuccessfully to choke down that phantom wad, which I knew to be only a choking emotion, I thought of Gunther Ulstein, a much-loved music teacher and director of the Pico Mundo High School band, who had experienced occasional difficulty swallowing. Over several weeks, the condition rapidly grew worse. Before he had it diagnosed, cancer of the esophagus spread all the way into his larynx.
Because he couldn’t swallow, his weight plummeted. Doctors treated him first with radiation, intending subsequently to remove his entire esophagus and to fashion a new one from a length of his colon. Radiation therapy failed him. He died before surgery.
Thin and withered-looking, as he had been in his final days, Gunny Ulstein can usually be found in a rocking chair on the front porch of the house that he built himself. His wife of thirty years, Mary, still lives there.
During his last few weeks of life, he had lost his ability to speak. He’d had so much that he wanted to say to Mary—how she had always brought out the best in him, how he loved her—but he couldn’t write down his feelings with the subtlety and the range of emotion that he could have expressed in speech. He lingers now, regretting what he failed to say, futilely hoping that as a ghost he will find a way to speak to her.
A muting cancer seemed almost to be a blessing if it would have kept me from asking Sonny Wexler, “What happened?”
“I thought you must’ve heard,” he said. “I thought that’s why you came. The chief’s been shot.”
Jesus Bustamante, another officer, said angrily, “Almost an hour ago now, some pusbag sonofabitch plugged the chief three times in the chest on his own front porch.”
My stomach turned over, over, over, almost in time with the revolving beacons on the nearby cruiser, and the phantom obstruction in my esophagus became real when a bitter gorge rose into the back of my throat.
I must have paled, must have wobbled on suddenly loose knees, for Jesus put an arm against my back to support me, and Sonny Wexler said quickly, “Easy, kid, easy, the chief’s alive. He’s bad off, but he’s alive, he’s a fighter.”
“The doctors are working on him right now,” said Billy Munday, whose port-wine birthmark, over a third of his face, seemed to glow strangely in the night, lending him the aura of a painted shaman with warnings and portents and evils imminent to report. “He’s going to be all right. He’s got to be. I mean, what would happen without him?”
“He’s a fighter,” Sonny repeated.
“Which hospital?” I asked.
“County General.”
I ran to the car that I’d left in the street.
THESE DAYS, MOST NEW HOSPITALS IN southern California resemble medium-rent retail outlets selling discount carpet or business supplies