Odd Thomas

creepy sonofabitch. Ever since I saw him… I've been scared for you. I mean, I'm always scared for you, Oddie, but I don't usually make anything of it because the last thing you need, on top of everything else on your mind, is a weepy dame always nagging you to be careful."
        "'Weepy dame'?"
        "Sorry. I must've flashed back to a prior life in the 1930s. But it's true, the last thing you need is some hysterical bitch always on your case."
        "I liked 'weepy dame' a lot better. Listen, I think this guy is maximum sick, he's ten megatons of blast power with a fast-ticking timer, but the chief and I are on his case, and we're going to pluck his fuse before he blows."
        "Don't be so sure. Please, Oddie, don't be so sure. Being too sure with this guy will get you killed."
        "I'm not going to be killed."
        "I'm scared for you."
        "By tomorrow night," I told her, "Bob Robertson, alias Fungus Man, is going to be wearing a jail-issued orange jumpsuit, and maybe he'll have hurt some people, or maybe we'll have stopped him right before he pulls a trigger, but whatever the situation, I'm going to be with you for dinner, and we'll be planning our wedding, and I'll still have both legs, both arms-"
        "Oddie, stop, don't say any more-"
        "-still have the same stupid head you're looking at now-"
        " Please stop."
        "-and I won't be blind, because I really need to see you, and I won't be deaf because how can we plan our wedding if I can't hear you, and I won't be-"
        She punched me in the chest. "Don't tempt fate, dammit!"
        In a sitting position, she couldn't get enough swing behind her fist to land a solid blow. I was hardly winded by the punch.
        With as little wheeze as I could manage, I drew a breath and said, "I'm not worried about tempting fate. I'm not superstitious that way."
        "Maybe I am."
        "Well, get over it."
        I kissed her. She kissed back.
        How right the world was then.
        I put an arm around her and said, "You silly, weepy dame. Bob Robertson might be so psychotic he wouldn't even qualify to manage the Bates Motel, but he's still just a mug. He has nothing going for him except sixteen wheels of craziness spinning in his head. I will come back to you with no punctures, no scrapes, no dents. And none of my federally mandated stuffing-identification tags will have been ripped off."
        "My Pooh," she said, as sometimes she does. Having somewhat calmed her nerves and partially settled her fears, I felt quite manly, like one of those stout-hearted and rock-ribbed sheriffs in old cowboy movies, who with a smile sets the minds of the ladyfolk at ease and sweeps legions of gunfighters off the streets of Dodge City without smudging his white hat.
        I was the worst kind of fool. When I look back on that August night, changed forever by all my wounds and all my suffering, that undamaged Odd Thomas seems like a different human being from me, immeasurably more confident than I am now, still able to hope, but not as wise, and I mourn for him.
        I am told not to let the tone of this narrative become too dark. A certain 400-hundred-pound muse will park his 150-pound ass on me by way of editorial comment, and there is always the threat of his urine-filled cat.
        

CHAPTER 28
        
        WHEN WE GOT OUT OF THE MUSTANG, THE familiar alleyway dwindled north and south into deeper gloom than I recalled from other nights, little-revealed by moonlight, obscured by moonshadows.
        Above the back entrance to the restaurant kitchen, a security lamp glowed. Yet the darkness seemed to press toward it rather than to shrink away.
        Uncovered stairs led to a second-floor landing and the door to Terri Stambaugh's apartment. Light shone behind the curtains.
        At the top of the steps, Stormy pointed at the northern sky "Cassiopeia."
        Star by star, I identified the points of the constellation.
        In classic mythology, Cassiopeia was the mother of Andromeda. Andromeda was saved from a sea monster by the hero Perseus, who also slew the Gorgon Medusa.
        No less than the fabled Andromeda, Stormy Llewellyn, daughter of another Cassiopeia, is stellar enough to deserve a constellation named for her. I have slain no Gorgons, however, and I am no Perseus.
        Terri answered the door when I knocked, accepted the car keys, and insisted that we come in for