Odd Thomas

sincere and genuinely touched by something that I said, and this perception was supported by the fact that she had still not taken a churro out of the bag.
        Unfortunately, I must have been listening with only my ears, because I didn't know what she meant. "Your favorite thing about me? You mean… my analysis of shoe retailing?"
        "You're as smart as anyone I've ever known… and yet so simple. It's a lovely combination. Brains and innocence. Wisdom and naiveté. Sharp wit and genuine sweetness."
        "That's your favorite thing about me?"
        "At the moment, yes."
        "Well, gee, it's not something I can work on."
        "Work on?"
        "Things you like about me, I want to do them even better. Say instead you liked my grooming or my taste in clothes, or my pancakes. I'm always improving my pancakes, just ask Terri - they're light and fluffy yet full of taste. But I don't know how to be smart and simple at the same time better than I am now. In fact, I'm not even sure I know what you mean."
        "Good. It's nothing you should think about. It's nothing you can work on. It's just who you are. Anyway, when I marry you, it won't be for money."
        She offered a churro to me.
        Considering how fast my heart was racing and my mind was spinning, the last thing that I needed was sugar, but I took the pastry.
        We ate in silence for a minute, and then I said, "So this marriage - when do you think we should order the cake?"
        "Soon. I can't wait much longer."
        With relief and delight, I said, "Too much delayed gratification can be a bad thing."
        She grinned. "You see what's happening here?"
        "I guess I'm just looking with my eyes. What should I see?"
        "What's happening is - I want a second churro, and I'm going to have it now instead of next Thursday."
        "You're a wild woman, Stormy Llewellyn."
        "You don't know the half of it."
        This had been a bad day, what with Harlo Landerson and Fungus Man and the black room and the bodachs everywhere and Elvis in tears. Yet as I sat with Stormy, eating churros, for the moment all was right with the world.
        The moment didn't last long. My cell phone rang, and I wasn't surprised to hear Chief Porter's voice.
        "Son, the sacristy at St. Bart's gives new meaning to the word trashed. Someone went purely berserk in there."
        "Robertson."
        "I'm sure you're right. You always are. It was probably him. But he was gone by the time my men reached the church. You haven't seen him again?"
        "We're sort of hiding out here but… no, not a sign of him." I surveyed the parking lot, the continuous traffic coming in and out of Mexicali Rose's drive-up service lane, and the street beyond, looking for Bob Robertson's dusty Ford Explorer.
        The chief said, "We've had a watch on his house for a few hours, but now we're actively looking for him."
        "I might give psychic magnetism a chance," I said, referring to my ability to locate just about anyone by cruising at random for half an hour.
        "Is that wise, son? I mean, with Stormy being in the car?"
        "I'll take her home first."
        Stormy quashed that idea: "Like hell you will, Mulder."
        "I heard that," said Chief Porter.
        "He heard that," I told Stormy.
        "What do I care?" she said.
        Chief Porter seemed tickled: "She calls you Mulder, like on The X-Files?"
        "Not often, sir. Only when she thinks I'm being paternalistic."
        "Do you ever call her Scully?"
        "Only when I'm in the mood to be bruised."
        "You ruined that show for me," the chief said.
        "How'd I do that, sir?"
        "You made all that weird stuff too real. I didn't find the supernatural to be entertaining anymore."
        "Me neither," I assured him.
        By the time Chief Porter and I finished talking, Stormy had gathered all our dinner wrappings and containers, and had stuffed them into one bag. When we left Mexicali Rose, she dropped them in a trash can that was stationed along the exit lane.
        As I turned left into the street, she said, "Let's stop by my place first, so I can get my pistol."
        "That's a home-defense gun. You're not licensed to carry."
        "I'm not licensed to breathe, either, but I do it anyway."
        "No gun," I insisted. "We'll just cruise and see what happens."
        "Why're you afraid of