Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5
Small-town guy meets big-time evil. Five Odd Thomas novels from master storyteller and international bestseller, Dean Koontz.Odd by name, a hero by nature…ODD THOMAS: Odd Thomas is a fry-cook who can communicate with the dead. And when something evil comes to Pico Mundo, the desert town Odd calls home, Odd is the only one who can prevent a devastating whirlwind of violence and murder.FOREVER ODD: Odd Thomas has lost the love of his life, Stormy Llewellyn, but he has no time to grieve before he is called upon to use his unique talents in the search for a missing friend. And what he discovers is far worse than a dead body…BROTHER ODD: Odd Thomas is looking for peace in a remote monastery in the High Sierra. But even in the silence of the mountains, danger follows him, and Odd will come face to face with an enemy that eclipses any he has met before…ODD HOURS: When intuition leads Odd to the quaint town of Magic Beach on the California coast, he takes a job as cook for a once-famous Hollywood actor. Disturbing dreams haunt his sleep, however, and nothing can prepare him for the nightmare that lies ahead.ODD APOCALYPSE: Just off California’s Pacific Coast Highway stands Roseland: a mansion, protected by high walls. Odd finds refuge there, with the mysterious Annamaria. But the house contains terrible and bloody secrets, and is haunted by lingering spirits. Roseland has welcomed them in, but will it ever let them leave?
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Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5
Dean Koontz
Table of Contents
To the Old Girls:
Mary Crowe, Gerda Koontz, Vicky Page, and Jana Prais. We’ll get together. We’ll nosh. We’ll tipple. We’ll dish, dish, dish.
Hope requires the contender
Who sees no virtue in surrender.
From the cradle to the bier,
The heart must persevere.
—The Book of Counted Joys
Contents
MY NAME IS ODD THOMAS, THOUGH IN this age when fame is the altar at which most people worship, I am not sure why you should care who I am or that I exist.
I am not a celebrity. I am not the child of a celebrity. I have never been married to, never been abused by, and never provided a kidney for transplantation into any celebrity. Furthermore, I have no desire to be a celebrity.
In fact I am such a nonentity by the standards of our culture that People magazine not only will never feature a piece about me but might also reject my attempts to subscribe to their publication on the grounds that the black-hole gravity of my noncelebrity is powerful enough to suck their entire enterprise into oblivion.
I am twenty years old. To a world-wise adult, I am little more than a child. To any child, however, I’m old enough to be distrusted, to be excluded forever from the magical community of the short and beardless.
Consequently, a demographics expert might conclude that my sole audience is other young men and women currently adrift between their twentieth and twenty-first birthdays.
In truth, I have nothing to say to that narrow audience. In my experience, I don’t care about most of the things that other twenty-year-old Americans care about. Except survival, of course.
I lead an unusual life.
By this I do not mean that my life is better than yours. I’m sure that your life is filled with as much happiness, charm, wonder, and abiding fear as anyone could wish. Like me, you are human, after all, and we know what a joy and terror that is.
I mean only that my life is not typical. Peculiar things happen to me that don’t happen to other people with regularity, if ever.
For example, I would never have written this memoir if I had not been commanded to do so by a four-hundred-pound man with six fingers on his left hand.
His name is P. Oswald Boone. Everyone calls him Little Ozzie because his father, Big Ozzie, is still alive.
Little Ozzie has a cat named Terrible Chester. He loves that cat. In fact, if Terrible Chester were to use up his ninth life under the wheels of a Peterbilt, I am afraid that Little Ozzie’s big heart would not survive the loss.
Personally, I do not have great affection for Terrible Chester because, for one thing, he has on several occasions peed on my shoes.
His reason for doing so, as explained by Ozzie, seems credible, but I am not convinced of his truthfulness. I mean to say that I am suspicious of Terrible Chester’s veracity, not Ozzie’s.
Besides, I simply cannot fully trust a cat who claims to be fifty-eight years old. Although photographic evidence exists to support this claim, I persist in believing that it’s bogus.
For reasons that will become obvious, this manuscript cannot be published during my lifetime, and my effort will not be repaid with royalties while I’m alive. Little Ozzie suggests that I should leave my literary estate to the loving maintenance of Terrible Chester, who, according to him, will outlive all of us.
I will choose another charity. One that has not peed on me.
Anyway, I’m not writing this for money. I am writing it to save my sanity and to discover if I can convince myself that my life has purpose and meaning enough to justify continued existence.
Don’t worry: These ramblings will not be insufferably gloomy. P. Oswald Boone has sternly instructed me to keep the tone light.
“If you don’t keep it light,” Ozzie said, “I’ll sit my four-hundred-pound ass on you, and that’s not the way you want to die.”
Ozzie is bragging. His ass, while grand enough, probably weighs no more than a hundred and fifty pounds. The other two hundred and fifty are distributed across the rest of his suffering skeleton.
When at first I proved unable to keep the tone light, Ozzie suggested that I be an unreliable narrator. “It worked for Agatha Christie in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
