Odd Thomas

SEND.
        Karla Porter answered on the third ring. She said that she was still in the ICU waiting room. She'd been allowed to see the chief on three occasions, for five-minute visits.
        "He was awake the last time, but very weak. He knew who I was. He smiled for me. But he's not able to talk much, and not coherently. They're keeping him semi sedated to facilitate healing. I don't think he'll be really talking much before tomorrow."
        "But he's going to be all right?" I asked.
        "That's what they say. And I'm beginning to believe it."
        "I love him," I said, and heard my voice break.
        "He knows that, Oddie. He loves you, too. You're a son to him."
        "Tell him."
        "I will."
        "I'll call," I promised.
        I pressed END and dropped the phone on the passenger's seat.
        The chief could not help me. No one could help me. No sad, dead prostitute to quell the killing frenzy of this coyote. Just me.
        Intuition told me not to take the pistol. I slid it under the seat again.
        When I switched off the engine and got out of the car, the fiery sun was both a hammer and an anvil, forging the world between itself and its reflection.
        Psychic magnetism works whether I'm rolling on wheels or afoot. I was drawn to the delivery ramp. I went down into the coolness of the subterranean loading docks.
        

CHAPTER 58
        
        WITH A LOW CEILING AND ENDLESS GRAY concrete, the mall-employee underground parking garage and loading dock had the bleak and ominous atmosphere of an ancient tomb deep under Egyptian sands, the tomb of a hated pharaoh whose subjects had buried him on the cheap, without glittering gold vessels or ornamentation of any kind.
        The elevated dock ran the length of the immense structure, and big trucks were backed up to it at various points. At the department store, two semis at a time could bypass the dock and pull directly into an enormous receiving room.
        This place clattered and hummed with activity as the truck crews off-loaded late-arriving sales merchandise and the harried stockroom employees prepped it for delivery to the sales floors after the close of business.
        I passed among racks, carts, carousels, bins, boxes, and drums of merchandise, everything from women's party dresses to culinary gadgets to sporting goods. Perfume, swimwear, gourmet chocolates.
        Nobody challenged my right to be there, and when I plucked a hardwood baseball bat out of a drum full of them, no one ordered me to put it back.
        Another drum contained hollow aluminum bats. They weren't what I wanted. I preferred a bat with heft. I required a certain balance to the instrument. You can better break an arm with a wooden club, more easily shatter a knee.
        Maybe I would need the baseball bat, maybe I wouldn't. The fact that it was there - and that PMS brought me to it - seemed to suggest that if I didn't avail myself of it, then I would later regret my decision.
        The only extracurricular activity I went out for in high school was baseball. As I wrote earlier, I had the best stats on the team, even though I could only play home games.
        I'm not out of practice, either. The Pico Mundo Grille has a team. We play other businesses and civic organizations; we whup ass, year after year.
        Repeatedly, loaded forklifts and electric carts announced their approach with soft beeps and musical toots. I stepped out of their way but kept moving, though I had no idea where I was going.
        In my mind's eye: Simon Varner. Sweet face. Sleepy eyes. POD on his left forearm. Find the bastard.
        A pair of extra-wide double doors swung into a corridor with a bare concrete floor and painted concrete walls. I hesitated, looked right, turned left.
        My stomach churned. I needed antacids.
        I needed a bigger bat, a bulletproof vest, and backup, too, but I didn't have them, either. I just kept moving.
        Doors led to rooms off the right side of the corridor. Most were labeled. BATHROOMS. SHIPPING OFFICE. MAINTENANCE OFFICE.
        Seeking Simon Varner. Sweet face. Prince of Darkness. Feel the pull of him, drawing me forward.
        I passed two men, a woman, another man. We smiled and nodded. None of them seemed to wonder where the game was, what the score might be, whose team I was on.
        Soon I came to a door marked SECURITY, I stopped. This didn't feel