Odd Thomas

The rillets of tears on his checks became twin floods, and he buried his face in his hands.
        Lysette and I chatted for a while, and Elvis sobbed without making a sound, and eventually four more guests showed up.
        Karla was circulating with a tray of cheese dumplings that gave new weight to the word hors d'oeuvre, when the chief returned with Officer Eckles. He drew me aside and walked with me to the far end of the pool, so we could talk in private.
        He said, "Robertson moved into town five months ago. Paid in full for that house in Camp's End, no mortgage."
        "Where's he get his money?"
        "Inherited. Bonnie Chan says he moved here from San Diego after his mother's death. He was still living with his mother at thirty-four."
        Bonnie Chan, a Realtor famous in Pico Mundo for her flamboyant hats, had evidently sold the residence to Robertson.
        "As far as I can see at this point," the chief said, "he's got a clean record. He's never even had a speeding ticket."
        "You might look into how the mother died."
        "I've already put out some inquiries about that. But right now I don't have any handle to pick him up."
        "All those files on all those killers."
        "Even if I had a legitimate way of knowing he keeps them, it's just a sick hobby or maybe book research. There's nothing illegal about it."
        "Suspicious, though."
        He shrugged. "If being suspicious was enough, we'd all be in jail. You first."
        "But you're gonna keep a watch on him?" I asked.
        "Only because you've never been wrong. I'll park somebody over there this evening, pin a tail on this Mr. Robertson."
        "I wish you could do more," I said.
        "Son, this is the United States of America. Some would say it's unconstitutional to try to prevent psychopaths from fulfilling their potential."
        Sometimes the chief can amuse me with that kind of cynical-cop patter. This wasn't one of those occasions.
        I said, "This one's really bad, sir. This guy, when I picture his face in my mind… I get spiders down the spine."
        "We're watching him, son. Can't do more than that. Can't just go to Camp's End and shoot him." The chief gave me a peculiar look and added, "Neither can you."
        "Guns scare me," I assured him.
        The chief looked over toward the swimming pool and said, "He still walking the water?"
        "No, sir. He's standing next to Lysette, looking down her blouse and crying."
        "That's nothing to cry about," the chief said, and winked.
        "The crying has nothing to do with Lysette. He's just in a mood today."
        "What about? Elvis never struck me as weepy."
        "People change when they die. It's traumatic. He's like this from time to time, but I don't know for sure what the trouble is. He doesn't try to explain himself to me."
        Clearly, the chief was dismayed by the image of Presley weeping. "Is there anything I can do for him?"
        "That's thoughtful of you, sir, but I don't see what anyone can really do. From what I've observed on other occasions, my sense of it is… he misses his mother, Gladys, and wants to be with her."
        "As I recall, he was especially fond of his mama, wasn't he?"
        "He adored her," I said.
        "Isn't she dead, too?"
        "Much longer than he's been, yes."
        "Then they're together again, aren't they?"
        "Not as long as he's reluctant to let go of this world. She's over there in the light, and he's stuck here."
        "Why won't he move on?"
        "Sometimes they have important unfinished business here."
        "Like little Penny Kallisto this morning, leading you to Harlo Landerson."
        "Yes, sir. And sometimes they just love this world so much they don't want to leave it."
        The chief nodded. "This world sure was good to him."
        "If it's unfinished business, he's had more than twenty-six years to take care of it," I noted.
        The chief squinted toward Lysette Rains, trying to see some smallest evidence of her spirit companion - a wisp of ectoplasm, a vague distortion of the air, a quiver of mystical radiance. "He made some great music."
        "Yes, he did."
        "You tell him he's always welcome here."
        "I will, sir. That's kind of you."
        "Are you sure you can't stay for dinner?"
        "Thank you, sir, but I've got a date."
        "With Stormy, I'm