Saint Odd. Dean Koontz
Читать онлайн книгу.
all their supervillains. Some psychopath who used to be satisfied raping and murdering, these days he thinks that he should be in a Batman movie, he wants to be the Joker or the Penguin.”
“No real-life bad guy wants to be the Penguin,” I assured him.
“Norman Bates was happy just dressing up like his mother and stabbing people,” Chief Porter said, “but Hannibal Lecter has to cut off their faces and eat their livers with fava beans. The role models have become more intense.”
“I’m not sure it’s the role models,” Ozzie said. “Maybe it’s more related to the pace of change in recent years. Centuries-old ways of looking at the world, centuries-old rules, are jettisoned seemingly overnight. Traditions are mocked and banished. A man—or woman—with an unstable mind sees things falling apart. ‘The center cannot hold; / mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.’ To a psychopath, anarchy is exciting, the chaotic world reflects his chaotic interior life, confirms his conviction that anything should be allowed, that he can rightly do whatever he wants.”
Chief Porter finished the cold coffee in his mug and grimaced either at the bitterness of it or at the subject under discussion. “For those of us with our boots on the ground, it doesn’t matter what the causes. We’re too busy dealing with the effects.” He looked as weary as anyone I’d ever seen when he said, “Oddie, what should I be doing to stop whatever’s coming? What do you need from me?”
“I don’t know yet, sir. We just learned they’re planning this for May, possibly this week.”
“‘We’?” The chief looked puzzled. “You have a new posse?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Other law enforcement?”
“Not exactly.”
“When do I meet them?”
“At the right time. You’ve got to trust me on this, Chief. I don’t like keeping anything from you, but that’s how it has to be right now.”
“This is my town to protect, son. I don’t tolerate vigilantes.”
“No, sir. That’s not what this is.”
We engaged in a staring contest, after which he sighed and said, “If I can’t trust you, I can’t trust myself. Forget your posse for now. What more do you know about the bad guys?”
“All I have is three names. Wolfgang, Jonathan, Selene. Those might not even be their real names. I never saw their faces. I’ll let you know the moment I have any kind of useful lead.”
Having presented his theories of societal collapse, Ozzie now addressed the buttered sweet roll rather than the chief or me—“Lovely”—and set about devouring it.
“Where are you staying?” Chief Porter asked.
“Not with any old friends in town. I won’t put them at risk.”
“Karla misses you, son. She’d love to see you.”
Karla was the chief’s wife, a kind and gracious lady who treated me far better than my real mother ever did.
“I’d love to see her, too, sir. We’ll get together soon. When this is over.”
My words drew Ozzie’s attention from the cinnamon roll. “So you didn’t come home to die.”
I could have said to them that the prospect of my death wasn’t what brought me home to Pico Mundo, but that were Death to find me in the course of this mission, I would have no regrets and, more to the point, would go through that dark door with more gratitude than fear. They might interpret those words as proof of a suicidal disposition. I was not suicidal, however, only full of longing for the girl whom I’d lost. No need to worry my closest friends.
And so I said, “No, sir. I came home because I’m needed here—and because she’s here.”
In spite of my assurances, Ozzie appeared no less worried. “Her ashes, you mean.”
“Yes. And in a way, her, too. All my memories of her are here.”
My surrogate fathers exchanged meaningful looks, but neither of them said anything. I figured they would be on their phones with each other by the time they left the park for the state highway.
We packed the chafing dishes and plates and utensils and leftover food in boxes and coolers, and we loaded them into the spacious trunk of Ozzie’s customized Cadillac.
“Not the remaining strawberries,” Ozzie said, taking possession of that bowl at the last minute. “A weary traveler needs a snack to see him through a tedious journey.”
“You’ll be home in fifteen minutes, sir.”
“By the most direct series of streets, yes. But I may choose to take the scenic route.”
“You didn’t have to do all this,” Chief Porter said to him. “A box of doughnuts would have been enough.”
Ozzie pursed his lips and frowned in disapproval. “Doughnuts for a police officer would be such a cliché. I make an effort to avoid clichés in my life every bit as much as I eschew them in my books.”
Although he was a warm-hearted man, Wyatt Porter had never been as much of a hugger as Ozzie Boone. He wanted a hug anyway.
I said, “Be sure to tell Karla I love her, and tell her not to worry about me.”
“It’s good to have you back, son. I hope your days of wandering are all behind you.”
I watched them drive away.
My attention was drawn to the lake by a sudden thrumming of wings and a chorus of low hoarse croaks. Eight or ten migrating egrets touched down where beach met water and spread out along the shore, each respecting the other’s hunting grounds. More than three feet tall, white but for their yellow bills and skinny black legs, moving slowly and with solemn deliberation, they stalked the shallows for their breakfast. They speared small wriggling fish from the water and tilted their heads to let the catch slide, still alive, down their long, sleek throats, and I wondered if even in the small brain of a little fish there might be a capacity for terror.
THE NIGHT BEFORE MY RETURN TO PICO MUNDO. The seaside cottage where I and Annamaria and young Tim slept in separate rooms. Windows open for the sea air. Borne on that faintest of breezes came the lulling susurration of the gentle surf breaking on the shore.
In the still and ordered cottage, I endured a dream of chaos and cacophony. Shrill screams of terror, screams of glee. Through smears of light that blur my vision, faces leer, loom, but then swoon from me. Hands pulling, pushing, plucking, slapping. Through it all the eerie tortured wail and bleat and churr and howl that might have been what passed for music in an alien world without harmony.
Although I’d never been drunk in my life, I seemed to be drunk in the dream, reeling across ground that yawed like the deck of a storm-tossed ship. Wrapped in my arms, held to my chest: an urn, a mortuary urn. I heard myself calling Stormy’s name, but this was not the urn that held her ashes. Somehow, I knew this urn contained the remains of dead people beyond counting.
Ribbons of darkness suddenly wound through the whirl of blurring light, so that I feared that blindness would overcome me. The booming of my heart grew louder, louder, until it exceeded in volume the hundred other sources of dissonance combined.
Out of the seething crowd, out of the light and the darkness, came Blossom Rosedale, the one and only Happy Monster, which was a name that she had given herself, not because she loathed the way she looked but because she was truly happy in spite of all her suffering.
Without realizing that I had staggered