Brother Odd

Product Description No one could have imagined Odd Thomas ever leaving the perfect quirky comfort of Pico Mundo, least of all Odd himself. The little desert town that nurtured Odd all his life is the locus of everything he holds dear–his loyal friends, his ghostly confidants, and the place where he loved and lost his soul mate, the irreplaceable Stormy Llewellyn. Yet leave it he has, to embrace the solitude and peace of an isolated monastery high in the western mountains as he tries to find a way to live fully again.But Odd has a knack for finding himself in the path of trouble no matter where he goes–even among the eccentric monks in their sanctuary and with the King of Rock ’n’ Roll at his side. For a killer is stalking the ancient holy halls, and Odd is about to encounter an enemy who eclipses any he has yet encountered…. Review “The final chapter of Brother Odd is delightful and makes a promise to readers that Odd will return. Hooray.”—Sacramento Bee“Odd Thomas' latest adventure will make a believer out of even the hardest-nosed soul.”–Denver Post“The nice young fry cook with the occult powers is Koontz’s most likeable creation.”—The New York Times“Odd's strange gifts, coupled with his intelligence and self-effacing humor, make him one of the most quietly authoritative characters in recent popular fiction."—Publishers Weekly, starred review“Odd Thomas [is] exactly the kind of hero that’s needed.”—South Florida Sun-Sentinel “Odd Thomas is another name for courage, truth, and devotion to your fellow man.” —Baton Rouge AdvocateFrom the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter OneEmbraced by stone, steeped in silence, i sat at the high window as the third day of the week surrendered to the fourth. The river of night rolled on, indifferent to the calendar.I hoped to witness that magical moment when the snow began to fall in earnest. Earlier the sky had shed a few flakes, then nothing more. The pending storm would not be rushed.The room was illuminated only by a fat candle in an amber glass on the corner desk. Each time a draft found the flame, melting light buttered the limestone walls and waves of fluid shadows oiled the corners.Most nights, I find lamplight too bright. And when I’m writing, the only glow is the computer screen, dialed down to gray text on a navy-blue field.Without a silvering of light, the window did not reflect my face. I had a clear view of the night beyond the panes.Living in a monastery, even as a guest rather than as a monk, you have more opportunities than you might have elsewhere to see the world as it is, instead of through the shadow that you cast upon it.St. Bartholomew’s Abbey was surrounded by the vastness of the Sierra Nevada, on the California side of the border. The primeval forests that clothed the rising slopes were themselves cloaked in darkness.From this third-floor window, I could see only part of the deep front yard and the blacktop lane that cleaved it. Four low lampposts with bell-shaped caps focused light in round pale pools.The guesthouse is in the northwest wing of the abbey. The ground floor features parlors. Private rooms occupy the higher and the highest floors.As I watched in anticipation of the storm, a whiteness that was not snow drifted across the yard, out of darkness, into lamplight.The abbey has one dog, a 110-pound German-shepherd mix, perhaps part Labrador retriever. He is entirely white and moves with the grace of fog. His name is Boo.My name is Odd Thomas. My dysfunctional parents claim a mistake was made on the birth certificate, that Todd was the wanted name. Yet they have never called me Todd.In twenty-one years, I have not considered changing to Todd. The bizarre course of my life suggests that Odd is more suited to me, whether it was conferred by my parents with intention or by fate.Below, Boo stopped in the middle of the pavement and gazed along the lane as it dwindled and descended into darknes