Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5. Dean Koontz

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СКАЧАТЬ cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

      She was eighteen but looked younger. This is my father’s basic criterion in women. They are never older than twenty, and they always look younger than they are.

      Some years ago, he got in trouble for cohabiting with a sixteen-year-old. He claimed to be unaware of her true age. An expensive attorney plus payoffs to the girl and her parents spared him the indignity of a prison pallor and jail haircuts.

      Instead of a greeting, Britney gave me a sullen, dismissive look. She returned her attention to the sun-dappled swimming pool.

      She resents me because she thinks my father might give me money that would otherwise be spent on her. This concern has no validity. He would never offer me a buck, and I would never take it.

      She would be better advised to worry about two facts: first, that she has been with my father for five months; second, that the average duration of one of his affairs is six to nine months. With a nineteenth birthday looming, she would soon seem old to him.

      Fresh coffee had been brewed. I asked for a cup, poured it myself, and sat on a bar stool at the kitchen island.

      Always restless in my company, my father moved around the room, rinsing out Britney’s champagne glass when she finished with it, wiping a counter that didn’t need to be wiped, straightening the chairs at the breakfast table.

      “I’m getting married on Saturday,” I said.

      This surprised him. He’d been married to my mother only briefly and regretted it within hours of exchanging vows. Marriage doesn’t suit him.

      “To that Llewellyn girl?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      “Is that a good idea?”

      “It’s the best idea I’ve ever had.”

      Britney turned away from the window to study me with beady-eyed speculation. To her, a wedding meant a gift, a parental boon, and she was prepared to defend her interests.

      She didn’t stir in me the slightest anger. She saddened me, for I could see her deeply unhappy future without need of any sixth sense.

      Admittedly, she scared me a little, too, because she was moody and quick to anger. Worse, the purity and the intensity of her self-esteem ensured that she would never doubt herself, that she could not conceive of suffering unpleasant consequences for any act that she might commit.

      My father likes moody women in whom a perpetually simmering anger lies just beneath the surface. The more clearly that their moodiness indicates genuine psychological disorder, the more they excite him. Sex without danger does not appeal to him.

      All of his lovers have fit this profile. He doesn’t appear to spend much effort seeking them; as if sensing his need, drawn by vibes or pheromones, they find him with dependable regularity.

      He once told me that the moodier a woman is, the hotter she will prove to be in bed. This was fatherly advice that I could have lived without.

      Now, as I poured coffee into a gutful of Pepsi, he said, “Is this Llewellyn girl knocked up?”

      “No.”

      “You’re too young for marriage,” he said. “My age—that’s when it’s time to settle down.”

      He said this for Britney’s benefit. He would never marry her. Later, she would remember this as a promise. When he ditched her, the fight would be more epic than Godzilla vs. Mothra.

      Sooner or later, one of his hotties, during a bad mood swing, will maim or kill him. I believe that on some deep level, even if subconsciously, he knows this.

      “What’s that on your forehead?” Britney asked.

      “Band-Aid.”

      “You fall down drunk or something?”

      “Something.”

      “You in a fight?”

      “No. It’s an employment-related fork wound.”

      “A what?”

      “A flipped fork flicked my forehead.”

      Alliteration seems to offend people. Her expression soured. “What kind of shit are you on?”

      “I’m fully amped on caffeine,” I admitted.

      “Caffeine, my ass.”

      “Pepsi and coffee and No-Doz. And chocolate. Chocolate contains caffeine. I had some chocolate-chip cookies. Chocolate doughnuts.”

      My father said, “Saturday’s not good. We can’t make Saturday. We’ve got other plans we can’t cancel.”

      “That’s all right,” I said. “I understand.”

      “I wish you’d have told us earlier.”

      “No problem. I didn’t expect you’d be able to make it.”

      “What kind of dork,” Britney wondered, “announces his wedding just three days before the ceremony?”

      “Go easy,” my father advised her.

      Her psychological engine didn’t have a go-easy gear. “Well, damn it, he’s such a freak.”

      “That’s really not helpful,” my father admonished her, but in a honeyed tone.

      “Well, it’s true,” she insisted. “Like we haven’t talked about it maybe three dozen times. He doesn’t have a car, he lives in a garage—”

      “Above a garage,” I corrected.

      “—he wears the same thing every day, he’s friends with every loser geek in town, he’s a wannabe cop like a water boy hanging around a football team, and he’s just a major freak—”

      “You won’t get an argument from me,” I said.

      “—such a major freak, the way he comes in here on some shit or other, talking about weddings and ‘employment-related fork wounds.’ Give me a break.”

      “I’m a freak,” I said sincerely. “I acknowledge it, accept it. There’s no reason to argue. Peace.”

      My father couldn’t quite fake a convincing note of sincerity when he said, “Don’t say that. You’re not a freak.”

      He doesn’t know about my supernatural gift. At the age of seven, when my previously weak and inconstant sixth sense grew in power and reliability, I didn’t go to him for counsel.

      I hid my difference from him in part because I expected him to harass me into picking winning lottery numbers, which I can’t do. I figured he’d parade me before the media, parlay my gift into a TV show, or even sell shares in me to speculators willing to finance an infomercial and a psychic-by-the-minute 900 number.

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