Brother Odd

Quentin said, "Something more than a threatening call has you alarmed. Maybe… did you find Brother Timothy? Did you, Odd? Dead or alive?"
        At this point, I wasn't going to say that I had found him dead and alive, and that he had suddenly transformed from Tim to something not Tim. Instead, I replied, "No, sir, not dead or alive."
        Quentin's eyes narrowed. "You're being evasive again."
        "How could you possibly know, sir?"
        "You've got a tell."
        "A what?"
        "Every time you're being evasive, your left eye twitches ever so slightly. You have an eye-twitch tell that betrays your intention to be evasive."
        As I turned front to deny Brother Quentin a view of my twitchy eye, I saw Boo bounding gleefully downhill through the snow.
        Behind the grinning dog came Elvis, capering as if he were a child, leaving no prints behind himself, arms raised above his head, waving both hands high as some inspired evangelicals do when they shout Hallelujah.
        Boo turned away from the plowed pavement and sprinted friskily across the meadow. Laughing and jubilant, Elvis ran after him. The rocker and the rollicking dog receded from view, neither troubled by the stormscape nor troubling it.
        Most days, I wish that my special powers of vision and intuition had never been bestowed on me, that the grief they have brought to me could be lifted from my heart, that everything I have seen of the supernatural could be expunged from memory, and that I could be what, but for this gift, I otherwise am-no one special, just one soul in a sea of souls, swimming through the days toward a hope of that final sanctuary beyond all fear and pain.
        Once in a while, however, there are moments for which the burden seems worth carrying: moments of transcendent joy, of inexpressible beauty, of wonder that overwhelms the mind with awe, or in this case a moment of such piercing charm that the world seems more right than it really is and offers a glimpse of what Eden might have been before we pulled it down.
        Although Boo would remain at my side for days to come, Elvis would not be with me much longer. But I know that the image of them racing through the storm in rapturous delight will be with me vividly through all my days in this world, and forever after.
        "Son?" Knuckles said, curious.
        I realized that, although a smile was not appropriate to the moment, I was smiling.
        "Sir, I think the King is about ready to move out of that place down at the end of Lonely Street."
        "Heartbreak Hotel," said Knuckles.
        
        "Yeah. It was never the five-star kind of joint where he should be booked to play."
        Knuckles brightened. "Hey, that's swell, ain't it."
        "It's swell," I agreed.
        "Must feel good that you opened the big door for him."
        "I didn't open the door," I said. "I just showed him where the knob was and which way it turned."
        Behind me, Brother Quentin said, "What're you two talking about? I don't follow."
        Without turning in my seat, I said, "In time, sir. You'll follow him in time. We'll all follow him in time."
        "Him who?"
        "Elvis Presley, sir."
        "I'll bet your left eye is twitching like crazy," said Brother Quentin.
        "I don't think so," I said.
        Knuckles shook his head. "No twitch."
        We had covered two-thirds of the distance between the new abbey and the school when out of the storm came a scissoring, scuttling, serpentine bewilderment of bones.

CHAPTER 38
        
        ALTHOUGH BROTHER TIMOTHY HAD BEEN KILLED- and worse than killed-by one of these creatures, a part of me, the Pollyanna part I can't entirely wring out of myself, had wanted to believe that the ever-moving mosaic of bones at the school window and my pursuers in the cooling-tower service tunnel had been apparitions, fearsome but, in the end, less real than such threats as a man with a gun, a woman with a knife, or a U.S. senator with an idea.
        Pollyanna Odd half expected, as with the lingering dead and the bodachs, that these entities would prove to be invisible to anyone but me, and that what happened to Timothy was somehow a singularity, because supernatural presences, after all, do not have the power to harm the living.
        That hopeful possibility was flushed down the wishful-thinking drain with the appearance of the keening banshee of bones and the