Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5. Dean Koontz

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СКАЧАТЬ a block and a half on smoking tires, so fast that we almost seemed to have teleported, before I had the breath to say, “Call the chief.”

      She had a cell phone of her own, and she entered Wyatt Porter’s home number as I gave it to her. She waited as it rang, said, “Chief, it’s Stormy,” listened, and said, “Yeah, it does sound like a weather report, doesn’t it. Odd needs to speak to you.”

      I took the phone and blurted, “Sir, if you send a car to St. Bart’s real quick, you might catch that Robertson guy trashing the sacristy, maybe more than the sacristy, maybe the whole church.”

      He put me on HOLD and made a call on another line.

      Three blocks from St. Bartholomew’s, I pulled the Mustang off the street, into a Mexican fast-food franchise.

      “Dinner?” I asked Stormy.

      “After all that in the church?”

      I shrugged. “The entire rest of our lives will be after all that in the church. Personally, I intend to eat again, and the sooner the better.”

      “It’s not going to be the equal of my tower feast.”

      “What could be?”

      “I am starved.”

      Holding the phone to my ear and driving with one hand as if that were still legal, I swung the Mustang into the line of vehicles waiting to get to the drive-up service window.

      When Chief Porter came back, he said, “Why is he vandalizing St. Bart’s?”

      “Don’t have a clue, sir. He tried to trap me and Stormy in the church belfry—”

      “What were you doing in the belfry?”

      “Having a picnic, sir.”

      “I suppose that makes sense to you.”

      “Yes, sir. It’s nice. We have dinner up there a couple times a month.”

      “Son, I don’t ever want to catch you having dinner on the courthouse flagpole.”

      “Maybe just hors d’oeuvres, sir, but never dinner.”

      “If you want to come by here, we can still feed you two from the barbecue. Bring Elvis.”

      “I left him at the Baptist church, sir. I’m with Stormy—in line to have some tacos, but thanks just the same.”

      “Tell me about Robertson. I have a man watching his house in Camp’s End, but he hasn’t gone home yet.”

      I said, “He was down in the graveyard, saw us up in the belfry. He gave us the rude number one with lots of emphasis and then came after us.”

      “You think he knows you were in his house?” the chief asked.

      “If he hasn’t been home since I was there, I don’t see how he could know, but he must. Excuse me a second, sir.”

      We had reached the menu board.

      “Swordfish tacos with extra salsa, fried corn fritters, and a large Coke, please,” I told the sombrero-wearing donkey that holds the order microphone in its mouth. I looked at Stormy. She nodded. “Make that two of everything.”

      “Are you at Mexicali Rose?” the chief asked.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “They have fantastic churros. You should try some.”

      I took his advice and placed a double order with the donkey, which, as before, thanked me in the voice of a teenage girl.

      As the line of cars crept forward, I said, “When we gave Robertson the slip in the church, he must’ve been angry. But why he decided to take it out on the building, I don’t know.”

      “Two cars are on the way to St. Bart’s, no sirens. They might even be there now. But vandalism—that doesn’t measure up to the horrors you said he’s going to commit.”

      “No, sir. Not close. And there’s less than three hours till August fifteenth.”

      “If we can park his butt in jail overnight for vandalism, we’ll have an excuse to poke around in his life. Maybe that’ll give us a chance to figure out the bigger thing he’s up to.”

      After wishing the chief luck, I pressed END and returned the phone to Stormy.

      I checked my watch. Midnight—and August 15—seemed like a tsunami, building height and power, racing toward us with silent but deadly force.

       CHAPTER 21

      WAITING TO HEAR FROM THE CHIEF THAT they had nailed Robertson in the act of vandalism, Stormy and I ate dinner in the Mexicali Rose parking lot, with the windows of the Mustang rolled down, hoping to catch a breeze. The food was tasty, but the hot night air smelled of exhaust fumes.

      “So you broke into Fungus Man’s house,” Stormy said.

      “Didn’t smash any glass. Just used my driver’s license.”

      “Does he keep severed heads in his refrigerator?”

      “I didn’t open his refrigerator.”

      “Where else would you expect to find severed heads?”

      “I wasn’t looking for any.”

      She said, “That creepy smile of his, those weird gray eyes ... First thing I’d look for is a collection of knickknacks with ears. These tacos are fabulous.”

      I agreed. “And I like all the colors in the salsa. Yellow and green chiles, the red of the chopped tomatoes, the little purple flecks of onion ... sort of looks like confetti. You should do it this way when you make salsa.”

      “What—you were bitten by Martha Stewart, now you’re a walking-dead lifestyle guru? So tell me what you found if you didn’t find heads?”

      I told her about the black room.

      Licking corn-fritter crumbs off her elegant fingers, she said, “Listen to me, odd one.”

      “I’m all ears.”

      “They’re big, but they’re not all of you. Open them wide now and hear this: Don’t go in that black room again.”

      “It doesn’t exist anymore.”

      “Don’t even go looking for it, hoping it’ll come back.”

      “That never even crossed my mind.”

      “Yes, it did,” she said.

      “Yes, it did,” I admitted. “I mean, I’d like to understand it—what СКАЧАТЬ