Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5. Dean Koontz

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       CHAPTER 46

      AT THE TAKUDA HOUSE ON HAMPTON Way, no bodachs were in sight. The previous night, they had been swarming over the residence.

      As I parked in front of the place, the garage door rolled up. Ken Takuda backed out in his Lincoln Navigator.

      When I walked to the driveway, he stopped the SUV and put down his window. “Good morning, Mr. Thomas.”

      He’s the only person I know who addresses me so formally.

      “Good morning, sir. It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

      “A glorious morning,” he declared. “A momentous day, like every day, full of possibilities.”

      Dr. Takuda is on the faculty of California State University at Pico Mundo. He teaches twentieth-century American literature.

      Considering that the modern and contemporary literature taught in most universities is largely bleak, cynical, morbid, pessimistic, misanthropic dogmatism, often written by suicidal types who sooner or later kill themselves with alcohol or drugs, or shotguns, Professor Takuda was a remarkably cheerful man.

      “I need some advice about my future,” I lied. “I’m thinking of going to college, after all, eventually getting a doctorate, building an academic career, like you.”

      When his lustrous Asian complexion paled, he acquired a taupe tint. “Well, Mr. Thomas, while I’m in favor of education, I couldn’t in good conscience recommend a university career in anything but the hard sciences. As a working environment, the rest of academia is a sewer of irrationality, hatemongering, envy, and self-interest. I’m getting out the moment I earn my twenty-five-year pension package, and then I’m going to write novels like Ozzie Boone.”

      “But, sir, you always seem so happy.”

      “In the belly of Leviathan, Mr. Thomas, one can either despair and perish, or be cheerful and persevere.” He smiled brightly.

      This wasn’t the response I expected, but I pressed forward with my half-baked scheme to learn his schedule for the day and thereby perhaps pinpoint the place where Robertson’s kill buddy would strike. “I’d still like to talk to you about it.”

      “The world has too few modest fry cooks and far too many self-important professors, but we’ll chat about it if you like. Just call the university and ask for my office. My graduate assistant will set up an appointment.”

      “I was hoping we could talk this morning, sir.”

      “Now? What has caused this sudden urgent thirst for academic pursuits?”

      “I need to think more seriously about the future. I’m getting married on Saturday.”

      “Would that be to Ms. Bronwen Llewellyn?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Mr. Thomas, you have a rare opportunity for perfect bliss, and you would be ill advised to poison your life with either academia or drug dealing. I have a class this morning, followed by two student conferences. Then I’m having lunch and seeing a movie with my family, so I’m afraid tomorrow is the absolute earliest we can discuss this self-destructive impulse of yours.”

      “Where are you having lunch, sir? At the Grille?”

      “We’re allowing the children to choose. It’s their day.”

      “What movie are you seeing?”

      “That thing about the dog and the alien.”

      “Don’t,” I said, though I hadn’t seen the film. “It stinks.”

      “It’s a big hit.”

      “It sucks.”

      “The critics like it,” he said.

      “Randall Jarrell said that art is long and critics are but the insects of a day.”

      “Give my office a call, Mr. Thomas. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

      He put up his window, backed out of the driveway, and drove off toward the university and, later in the day, an appointment with Death.