Odd Thomas

or consolation, or just for silent companionship, I would no doubt quickly seek escape in autism or suicide.
        Not yet either dead or autistic, however, I had to face the challenge of Green Moon Lanes.
        "All right," I said, able to summon resignation if not bravado, "let's go in and have a look around."
        With nightfall, the blacktop pavement returned the heat that it had borrowed from the sun during the day, and with the heat came a faint tarry smell.
        So low and large that it seemed to be falling toward us, the moon had risen in the east: a dire yellow countenance, the vague cratered sockets of its timeless blind gaze.
        Perhaps because Granny Sugars had been seriously superstitious about yellow moons and believed that they were an omen of bad cards in poker, I surrendered to an irrational urge to escape from the sight of that leprous and jaundiced celestial face. Taking Stormy's hand, I hurried her toward the front doors of the bowling center.
        Bowling is one of the oldest sports in the world and in one form or another was played as early as 5,200 B.C.
        In the United States alone, over 130,000 lanes await action in more than 7,000 bowling centers.
        Total annual bowling revenues in America are approaching five billion dollars.
        With the hope of clarifying my recurring dream and understanding the meaning of it, I had researched bowling. I knew a thousand facts about the subject, none of them particularly interesting.
        I also rented shoes and played eight or ten games. I am no good at the sport.
        Watching me play, Stormy had once said that if I were to become a regular bowler, I would spend far more time in the gutter than would the average alcoholic hobo.
        Over sixty million people in the United States go bowling at least once each year. Nine million of them are diehards who belong to bowling leagues and regularly compete in amateur tournaments.
        When Stormy and I entered Green Moon Lanes that Tuesday night, a significant percentage of those millions were rolling balls down polished lanes toward more spares than splits, but more splits than strikes. They were laughing, cheering one another, eating nachos, eating chili-cheese fries, drinking beer, and having such a good time that it was difficult to imagine Death choosing this place to harvest a sudden crop of souls.
        Difficult but not impossible.
        I must have been pale, because Stormy said, "Are you all right?"
        "Yeah. Okay. I'm good."
        The low thunder of rolling balls and the clatter of tenpins had never previously struck me as fearsome sounds; but this irregular series of rumbles and crashes strummed my nerves.
        "What now?" Stormy asked.
        "Good question. No answer."
        "You want to just wander around, scope the scene, see if you get any bad vibes?"
        I nodded. "Yeah. Scope the scene. Bad vibes."
        We didn't wander far before I saw something that made my mouth go dry. "Oh, my God."
        The guy behind the shoe-rental counter had not come to work in the usual black slacks and blue cotton shirt with white collar. He wore tan slacks and a green polo shirt, like the dead people in my bowling dream.
        Stormy turned, surveying the long busy room, and pointed toward two additional employees. "They've all gotten new uniforms."
        Like every nightmare, this one of mine was vivid and yet not rich in detail, more surreal than real, not specific as to place or time or circumstances. The faces of the murder victims were twisted in agony, distorted by terror and shadow and strange light, and when I woke, I could never describe them well.
        Except for one young woman. She would be shot in the chest and throat, but her face would remain remarkably untouched by violence. She would have shaggy blond hair, green eyes, and a small beauty mark on her upper lip, near the left corner of her mouth.
        As Stormy and I proceeded farther into Green Moon Lanes, I saw the blonde from the dream. She stood behind the bar, drawing draft beer from one of the taps.
        

CHAPTER 23
        
        STORMY AND I SAT AT A TABLE IN THE BAR ALCOVE, but we didn't order drinks. I was already half drunk with fear.
        I wanted to get her out of the bowling alley. She didn't want to leave.
        "We've got to deal with this situation," she insisted.
        The only way that I could deal with it