Odd Apocalypse
| Odd Apocalypse | |
| Odd Thomas Novels [5] | |
| Koontz, Dean | |
| Random House, Inc. (2012) | |
| Tags: | Odd Thomas Odd Thomasttt |
over me, silently slashing the air with the hooves of its forelegs, a
creature of such immense power that I stumbled backward even though I
knew that it was as immaterial as a dream. . . .
The woman astride the ghostly mount reaches out desperately, the latest
spirit to enlist the aid of Odd Thomas, the unassuming young fry cook
whose gift—or curse—it is to see the shades of the restless dead, and to
help them when he can. This mission of mercy will lead Odd through
realms of darkness he has never before encountered, as he probes the
long-held secrets of a sinister estate and those who inhabit it.
Once presided over by a flamboyant Hollywood mogul during the Roaring
’20s, the magnificent West Coast property known as Roseland is now home
to a reclusive billionaire financier and his faithful servants. And, at
least for the moment, it’s also a port in the storm for Odd Thomas and
his traveling companion, the inscrutably charming Annamaria, the Lady of
the Bell. In the wake of Odd’s most recent clash with lethal
adversaries, the opulent manor’s comforts should be welcome. But there’s
far more to Roseland than meets even the extraordinary eye of Odd, who
soon suspects it may be more hell than haven.
A harrowing
taste of Roseland’s terrors convinces Odd that it’s time to hit the road
again. Still, the prescient Annamaria insists that they’ve been led
there for a reason, and he’s promised to do his best for the ghost on
horseback. Just how deep and dreadful are the mysteries Roseland and her
masters have kept for nearly a century? And what consequences await
whoever is brave, or mad, enough to confront the most profound breed of
evil? Odd only knows. Like his acclaimed creator, the irresistible Odd
Thomas is in top-notch form—as he takes on what may well be the most
terrifying challenge yet in his curious career.
Odd Apocalypse
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Dean Koontz
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books,
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
A signed, limited edition has been privately printed by Charnel House.
Charnelhouse.com
B
ANTAM
B
OOKS
and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Title page art from an original photograph by Thomas Csizik
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Koontz, Dean R. (Dean Ray)
Odd apocalypse: an Odd Thomas novel / Dean Koontz.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53358-6
1. Thomas, Odd (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Cooks—Fiction. 3. Mediums—Fiction. 4. Family secrets—Fiction. 5. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.O55O28 2012
813′.54—dc23 2012013275
Jacket design: Scott Biel
Jacket image: (man’s face) Florene Caplain
v3.1
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw
.
—E
DGAR
A
LLAN
P
OE
, “Alone”
NEAR SUNSET OF MY SECOND FULL DAY AS A GUEST IN Roseland, crossing the immense lawn between the main house and the eucalyptus grove, I halted and pivoted, warned by instinct. Racing toward me, the great black stallion was as mighty a horse as I had ever seen. Earlier, in a book of breeds, I had identified it as a Friesian. The blonde who rode him wore a white nightgown.
As silent as any spirit, the woman urged the horse forward, faster. On hooves that made no sound, the steed ran
through
me with no effect.
I have certain talents. In addition to being a pretty good short-order cook, I have an occasional prophetic dream. And in the waking world, I sometimes see the spirits of the lingering dead who, for various reasons, are reluctant to move on to the Other Side.
This long-dead horse and rider, now only spirits in our world, knew that no one but I could see them. After appearing to me twice the previous day and once this morning, but at a distance, the woman seemed to have decided to get my attention in an aggressive fashion.
Mount and mistress raced around me in a wide arc. I turned to follow them, and they cantered toward me once more but then
halted. The stallion reared over me, silently slashing the air with the hooves of its forelegs, nostrils flared, eyes rolling, a creature of such immense power that I stumbled backward even though I knew that it was as immaterial as a dream.
Spirits are solid and warm to my touch, as real to me in that way as is anyone alive. But I am not solid to them, and they can neither ruffle my hair nor strike a death blow at me.
Because my sixth sense complicates my existence, I try otherwise to keep my life simple. I have fewer possessions than a monk. I have no time or peace to build a career as a fry cook or as anything else. I never plan for the future, but wander into it with a smile on my face, hope in my heart, and the hair up on the nape of my neck.
Bareback on the Friesian, the barefoot beauty wore white silk and white lace and wild red ribbons of blood both on her gown and in her long blond hair, though I could see no wound. Her nightgown was rucked up to her thighs, and her knees pressed against the stallion’s heaving sides. In her left hand, she twined a fistful of the horse’s mane, as if even in death she must hold fast to her mount to keep their spirits joined.
If spurning a gift weren’t ungrateful, I would at once return my supernatural sight. I would be content to spend my days whipping up omelets that make you groan with pleasure and pancakes so fluffy that the slightest breeze might float them off your plate.
Every talent is unearned, however, and with it comes a solemn obligation to use it as fully and as wisely as possible. If I didn’t believe in the miraculous nature of talent and in the sacred duty of the recipient, by now I would have gone so insane that I’d qualify for numerous high government positions.
As the stallion danced on its hind legs, the woman reached out with her right arm and pointed down at me, as if to say that she
knew I saw her and that she had a message to convey to me. Her lovely face was grim with determination, and those cornflower-blue eyes that were not bright with life were nonetheless bright with anguish.
When she dismounted, she didn’t drop to the ground but instead floated off the horse and almost seemed to glide across the grass to me. The blood faded from her hair and nightgown, and she manifested as she had looked in life before her fatal wounds, as if she might be concerned that the gore would repel me. I felt her touch when she put one hand to my face, as though she, a ghost, had more difficulty believing in me than I had believing in her.
Behind the woman, the sun melted into the distant sea, and several distinctively shaped clouds glowed like a fleet of ancient warships with their masts and sails ablaze.
As I saw her anguish relent to a tentative hope, I said, “Yes, I can see you. And if you’ll let me, I can help you cross over.”
She shook her head violently and took a step backward, as if she feared that with some touch or spoken spell I might release her from this world. But I have no such power.
I thought I understood the reason for her reaction. “You were murdered, and before you go from this world, you want to be sure that justice will be done.”
She nodded but then shook her head, as if to say,
Yes, but not only that
.
Being more familiar with the deceased than I might wish to be, I can tell you from considerable personal experience that the spirits of the lingering dead don’t talk. I don’t know why. Even when they have been brutally murdered and are desperate to see their assailants brought to justice, they are unable to convey essential information to me either by phone or face-to-face. Neither do they send text
messages. Maybe that’s because, given the opportunity, they would reveal something about death and the world beyond that we the living are not meant to know.
Anyway, the dead can be even more frustrating to deal with than are many of the living, which is astonishing when you consider that it’s the living who run the Department of Motor Vehicles.