Chapter One


Embraced 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 darkness.

Mountains are not entirely slopes. Sometimes the rising land takes a rest. The abbey stands on a high meadow, facing north.

Judging by his pricked ears and lifted head, Boo perceived a visitor approaching. He held his tail low.

I could not discern the state of his hackles, but his tense posture suggested that they were raised.

From dusk the driveway lamps burn until dawn ascends. The monks of St. Bart's believe that night visitors, no matter how seldom they come,must be welcomed with light.

The dog stood motionless for a while, then shifted his attention toward the lawn to the right of the blacktop. His head lowered. His ears flattened against his skull.

For a moment, I could not see the cause of Boo's alarm. Then . . . into view came a shape as elusive as a night shadow floating across black water. The figure passed near enough to one of the lampposts to be briefly revealed.

Even in daylight, this was a visitor of whom only the dog and I could have been aware.

I see dead people, spirits of the departed who, each for his own reason, will not move on from this world. Some are drawn to me for justice, if they were murdered, or for comfort, or for companionship; others seek me out for motives that I cannot always...

 

After three novels featuring the aptly named Odd Thomas, it's clear Dean Koontz has a winner. I like Odd Thomas! I want to read more about him, especially after the teasing ending of his latest and greatest adventure, BROTHER ODD. Actor David Aaron Baker has performed all three "Odd" novels, and it's hard to imagine anyone else doing the fourth. Baker captures the gentleness of Odd; the benevolent sadness of his brilliant 400-pound friend, Oswald; and the confident and godly monks with whom Odd sought refuge after his girlfriend was murdered. The peculiar young man, whose mother meant to name him "Todd," sees demons called "bodocks," which swarm in places where death and destruction are imminent. It's up to Odd to figure out the impending danger and stop it. M.S. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award (c) AudioFile 2007, Portland, Maine

 

"The final chapter of Brother Odd is delightful and makes a promise to readers that Odd will return. Hooray."

 

"Odd Thomas' latest adventure will make a believer out of even the hardest-nosed soul."

 

"The nice young fry cook with the occult powers is Koontz's most likeable creation."

 

"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."

 

"Odd Thomas [is] exactly the kind of hero that's needed."

 

Baton Rouge Advocate...

"Odd Thomas is another name for courage, truth, and devotion to your fellow man."

 

Brother Odd by Dean Koontz
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