Читать книгу Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5 - Dean Koontz, Dean Koontz - Страница 36

LITTLE MORE THAN AN HOUR BEFORE MIDNIGHT, worried about a new day that might bring children in the line of gunfire, I parked the Mustang behind the Pico Mundo Grille.

When I doused the headlights and switched off the engine, Stormy said, “Will you ever leave this town?”

“I sure hope I’m not one of those who insists on hanging around after he’s dead, like poor Tom Jedd out there at Tire World.”

“I meant will you ever leave it while you’re alive.”

“Just the idea gives me hives on the brain.”

“Why?”

“It’s big out there.”

“Not all of it is big. Lots of towns are smaller and quieter than Pico Mundo.”

“I guess what I mean is ... everything out there would be new. I like what I know. Considering everything else I have to deal with ... I can’t at the same time handle a lot of new stuff. New street names, new architecture, new smells, all new people ...”

“I’ve always thought it would be nice to live in the mountains.”

“New weather.” I shook my head. “I don’t need new weather.”

“Anyway,” she said, “I didn’t mean leave town permanently. Just for a day or two. We could drive to Vegas.”

“That’s your idea of a smaller, quieter place? I’ll bet that’s a place with thousands of dead people who won’t move on.”

“Why?”

“People who lost everything they owned at the craps tables, the roulette wheels, then went back to their rooms and blew their brains out.” I shivered. “Suicides always hang around after they’re dead. They’re afraid to move on.”

“You have a melodramatic view of Las Vegas, odd one. The average hotel maid doesn’t turn up a dozen suicides every morning.”

“Bunch of guys murdered by the mob, their bodies dumped in the fresh concrete footings of new hotels. You can bet your ass they have unfinished business and plenty of postmortem rage. Besides, I don’t gamble.”

“That doesn’t sound like the grandson of Pearl Sugars.”

“She did her best to turn me into a card hustler, but I’m afraid I disappointed her.”

“She taught you poker, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. We used to play for pennies.”

“Even just for pennies is gambling.”

“Not when I played with Granny Sugars.”

“She let you win? That’s sweet.”

“She wanted me to travel the Southwest poker circuit with her. Grandma said, ‘Odd, I’m going to grow old on the road, not in a rocking chair on some damn retirement-home porch with a gaggle of farting old ladies, and I’m going to die facedown in my cards in the middle of a game, not of boredom at a tea dance for toothless retirees trying to cha-cha in their walkers.’”

“On the road,” Stormy said, “would have been too much new.”

“Every day, new and more new.” I sighed. “But we sure would have had fun. She wanted me along to share the laughs ... and if she died in the middle of a particularly rough game, she wanted me to be sure the other players didn’t split her bankroll and leave her carcass in the desert as a coyote buffet.”

“I understand why you didn’t go on the road, but why don’t you gamble?”

“Because even if Granny Sugars didn’t play sloppy to give me an edge, I almost always won anyway.”

“You mean because of your ... gift?”

“Yeah.”

“You could see what cards were coming?”

“No. Nothing that dramatic. I just have a feeling for when my hand is stronger than those of other players and when it’s not. The feeling proves to be right nine times out of ten.”

“That’s a huge advantage at cards.”

“It’s the same with blackjack, any card game.”

“So it’s not really gambling.”

“Not really. It’s just ... harvesting cash.”

Stormy understood at once why I’d given up cards. “It would be pretty much the same as stealing.”

“I don’t need money that bad,” I said. “And I never will as long as people want to eat what’s been fried on a griddle.”

“Or as long as they have feet.”

“Yeah. Assuming I make the move into shoe retailing.”

“I said Vegas not because I want to gamble,” she explained.

“It’s a long way to go for an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“I said Vegas because we could be there in maybe three hours, and the wedding chapels are open around the clock. No blood tests required. We could be married by dawn.”

My heart did one of those funny gyrations that only Stormy can make it do. “Wow. That’s almost enough to give me the nerve to travel.”

“Only almost, huh?”

“We can have our blood tests tomorrow morning, get a marriage license Thursday, get hitched by Saturday. And our friends can be there. I want our friends there, don’t you?”

“Yes. But I want married more.”

I kissed her and said, “After all the hesitation, why the sudden rush?”

Because we had sat for a while in that unlighted alley, our eyes were thoroughly dark-adapted. Otherwise I would not have fully recognized the depth of concern in her face, her eyes; in fact, she seemed to be gripped not by mere anxiety but by a quiet terror.

“Hey, hey,” I assured her, “everything’s going to be all right.”

Her voice didn’t quaver. She’s too tough for easy tears. But in the softness of her speech, I could hear a haunted woman: “Ever since we were sitting on the edge of the koi pond and that man came along the promenade ...”

When her voice trailed away, I said, “Fungus Man.”

“Yeah. That creepy sonofabitch. Ever since I saw him ... I’ve been scared for you. I mean, I’m always scared for you, Oddie, but I don’t usually make anything of it because the last thing you need, on top of everything else on your mind, is a weepy dame always nagging you to be careful.”

“‘Weepy dame’?”

“Sorry. I must’ve flashed back to a prior life in the 1930s. But it’s true, the last thing you need is some hysterical bitch always on your case.”

“I liked ‘weepy dame’ a lot better. Listen, I think this guy is maximum sick, he’s ten megatons of blast power with a fast-ticking timer, but the chief and I are on his case, and we’re going to pluck his fuse before he blows.”

“Don’t be so sure. Please, Oddie, don’t be so sure. Being too sure with this guy will get you killed.”

“I’m not going to be killed.”

“I’m scared for you.”

“By tomorrow night,” I told her, “Bob Robertson, alias Fungus Man, is going to be wearing a jail-issued orange jumpsuit, and maybe he’ll have hurt some people, or maybe we’ll have stopped him right before he pulls a trigger, but whatever the situation, I’m going to be with you for dinner, and we’ll be planning our wedding, and I’ll still have both legs, both arms—”

“Oddie, stop, don’t say any more—”

“—still have the same stupid head you’re looking at now—”

“Please stop.”

“—and I won’t be blind, because I really need to see you, and I won’t be deaf because how can we plan our wedding if I can’t hear you, and I won’t be—”

She punched me in the chest. “Don’t tempt fate, dammit!”

In a sitting position, she couldn’t get enough swing behind her fist to land a solid blow. I was hardly winded by the punch.

With as little wheeze as I could manage, I drew a breath and said, “I’m not worried about tempting fate. I’m not superstitious that way.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Well, get over it.”

I kissed her. She kissed back.

How right the world was then.

I put an arm around her and said, “You silly, weepy dame. Bob Robertson might be so psychotic he wouldn’t even qualify to manage the Bates Motel, but he’s still just a mug. He has nothing going for him except sixteen wheels of craziness spinning in his head. I will come back to you with no punctures, no scrapes, no dents. And none of my federally mandated stuffing-identification tags will have been ripped off.”

“My Pooh,” she said, as sometimes she does.

Having somewhat calmed her nerves and partially settled her fears, I felt quite manly, like one of those stout-hearted and rock-ribbed sheriffs in old cowboy movies, who with a smile sets the minds of the lady-folk at ease and sweeps legions of gunfighters off the streets of Dodge City without smudging his white hat.

I was the worst kind of fool. When I look back on that August night, changed forever by all my wounds and all my suffering, that undamaged Odd Thomas seems like a different human being from me, immeasurably more confident than I am now, still able to hope, but not as wise, and I mourn for him.

I am told not to let the tone of this narrative become too dark. A certain 400-hundred-pound muse will park his 150-pound ass on me by way of editorial comment, and there is always the threat of his urine-filled cat.