Odd Thomas

I'm referring to your blood pressure."
        With a dismissive wave of one of his formidable arms, Little Ozzie said, "If you carried my bulk, your blood rich with cholesterol molecules the size of miniature marshmallows, you'd understand that a little righteous outrage from time to time is the only thing that keeps your arteries from clogging shut altogether. Righteous outrage and fine red wine. Come in, come in. I'll open a bottle, and we'll toast the destruction of all critics, 'this wretched race of hungry alligators.'"
        "Shakespeare?" I asked.
        "For Heaven's sake, Odd, the Bard of Avon wasn't the only writer ever to put pen to paper."
        "But if I just stick with him," I said, following Ozzie into the house, "I'll get one of these right sooner or later."
        "Was it with such pathetic tricks that you slid through high school?"
        "Yes, sir."
        Ozzie invited me to make myself comfortable in his living room while he fetched the Robert Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon, and thus I found myself alone with Terrible Chester.
        This cat is not fat, but he is big and fearless. I once saw him stand off an aggressive German shepherd sheerly with attitude.
        I suspect that even a pit bull, gone bad and in a murdering mood, would have turned away as the shepherd did, and would have gone in search of easier prey. Like crocodiles.
        Terrible Chester is the color of a rubescent pumpkin, with black markings. Judging by the black-and-orange patterns on his face, you might think he was the satanic familiar of that old rock group, Kiss.
        Perched on a deep windowsill, gazing out at the front yard, he pretended for a full minute to be unaware that company had arrived.
        Being ignored was fine with me. The shoes I wore had never been peed on, and I hoped to keep them that way.
        Finally turning his head, he regarded me appraisingly, with contempt so thick that I expected to hear it drizzle to the floor with a spattering sound. Then he shifted his attention once more to the window.
        The exploded Holstein seemed to fascinate him and to put him in a somber, contemplative mood. Perhaps he had used up eight of his lives and felt a chill of mortality.
        The furniture in Ozzie's living room is custom, oversized, and built for comfort. A Persian carpet in dark jewel tones, Honduras mahogany woodwork, and shelves upon shelves of books create a cozy ambience.
        In spite of the danger to my shoes, I quickly relaxed and experienced less of a sense of impending doom than at any time since finding Penny Kallisto waiting at the foot of my apartment steps earlier in the day.
        Within half a minute, Terrible Chester put me on edge again with his threatening, angry hiss. All cats have this talent, of course, but Chester rivals both rattlesnakes and cobras for the intensity and the menace of his hiss.
        Something outside had so disturbed him that he rose to his feet on the windowsill, arched his back, and bristled his hackles.
        Although clearly I was not the cause of his agitation, I slid to the edge of my armchair, poised for flight.
        Chester hissed again, then clawed the glass. The skreeeek of his nails on the window made the fluid quiver in the hollows of my spine.
        Suddenly I wondered if the cow-demolition squad had returned in daylight to bring down the stubborn bovine butt.
        When Chester raked the glass again, I got to my feet. I eased toward the window with caution, not because I feared that a Molotov cocktail would crash through it but because I didn't want the vexated cat to misunderstand my motives.
        Outside, at the picket fence, facing the house, stood the Fungus Man, Bob Robertson.
        

CHAPTER 16
        
        MY FIRST INSTINCT WAS TO DUCK BACK FROM the window. If Fungus Man was already following me, however, he must somehow suspect that earlier I had been in his house in Camp's End. My furtive behavior would serve to confirm my guilt.
        I remained near the window, but I was grateful that Terrible Chester stood between me and Robertson. I also found it gratifying that the cat's apparent intense dislike of the man, even at such a distance as this, confirmed my distrust of him.
        Until this moment, I would never have assumed that Terrible Chester and I would agree on any issue or have anything in common other than our affection for Little Ozzie.
        For the