“Odd Thomas,” he said. “You remember me?”
“Kenneth Randolph Fitzgerald Mountbatten.”
He beamed, delighted that I remembered his name, as if he were so plain that people usually forgot him the moment he was out of sight.
Overhead, having wandered farther than usual from the ocean, a lone gull soared high and swooped down, making symphonic gestures as if conducting music only it could hear. Having so recently faced pig death, I felt some of the bird’s joy in being alive.
“Thank you for saving my life.”
Kenny shrugged and looked embarrassed. “I didn’t really.”
“No, sir, you really did.”
Slinging the strap of the assault rifle over his shoulder and surveying the surrounding hills, Kenny said, “Well, I have a way with guns and fighting, that’s all. Kill or be killed—there’s only one option there, far as I’m concerned. Each of us has some gift. What’s your gift, Odd Thomas?”
Holstering my pistol to prove that I wanted to believe in the idea of the concept of the possibility of the hope that we might be lasting friends, I said, “Fry cookery. I’m a wizard at the griddle.”
His neck was nearly as thick as his head. Even his ears looked muscular, as if he did one-lobe push-ups every morning.
“Fry cook. That’s a good gift,” he said. “People need food more than anything.”
“Well, maybe almost as much as anything but not more.”
The air smelled fresh, with a trace of ozone that repeatedly almost faded away but always returned, though it was never strong enough to be unpleasant.
Kenny sounded apologetic when he said, “I checked the guesthouse tower. No one’s been staying there.”
“Am I already back to being a candy-ass punk boy who shouldn’t have been let through the gates?”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just my way. It’s kind of how I say hello.”
“I usually say, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ ”
“Anyway,” he said, “I figured it out. You’re an invited guest here, not there, which is none of my business, being as how my job is there, not here, and being as how I’m hardly ever here and don’t know why I am even when I am.”
I said, “I guess all of you must have gone to the same school.”
“What school?”
“To learn how to talk that way.”
“What way?”
“The way of confusion.”
Kenny shrugged. “I was just saying.”
“Sir, I need to find the mini truck.”
“The electric sonofabitch you were driving around in, looking for trouble?”
“That’s the one.”
“I saw you and said, ‘That crazy little sonofabitch is going to run into a bunch of sonofabitch porkers,’ and you sure enough did.”
“I thought they were called freaks.”
“Maybe here they’re freaks, but there we call ’em porkers, though I call ’em porkers here, there, it doesn’t matter to me.”
“Consistency is a good quality in a man.”
“I don’t know about that,” Kenny said. “But I found the truck just as those three sonsofbitches were running after you over the hill. I can show you where it is.”
“That would be great, sir. The battery’s dead, but there’s something on the front seat that I really need.”
“Then I will,” he said, and strode south along the crest of the hill.
I needed to take three steps for every two of his. Hurrying along, I felt like a Hobbit playing sidekick to the Terminator.
With warm sun on my face, listening to the songs of cicadas in the tall grass, I was profoundly grateful not to have been bubbling in the stomach acid of four porker freaks.
I said, “So my Roseland is here and yours is there.”
“Seems that way.”
“Here is here,” I said. “But where is there?”
“Thinking about it makes my head hurt, so I don’t.”
“How can you not think about it?”
“I’m real good at not thinking.”
“Well, I’m bad at it,” I said.
“Anyway, being here doesn’t happen to me every year and it never lasts long. None of it matters, because I always end up back there.”
“Back there—where?”
“Back there in my Roseland.”
“Which is where?”
“You need to loosen up, Odd.”
“I’m as loose as I need to be.”
Kenny favored me with a smile as yellow as a yield sign. “Now and then you need to take a night just to drink yourself brainless. Helps you cope.”
“Where’s your Roseland?” I persisted as we climbed out of a glen toward another hilltop.
He sighed. “Okay, now I have a big sonofabitch headache.”
“So you might as well think.”
“I saved you from the porkers. Isn’t that enough?”
“Well, I told you what to do about your cold sore.”
“It hasn’t worked yet.”
“It will if you keep your tongue away from the damn thing and don’t keep licking off the ointment.”
“You’re kind of like a cold sore yourself,” Kenny said.
“So tell me where your Roseland is, and I’ll stop annoying you.”
“Okay, okay, okay. All right. This woman I was with for a while, she never stopped nagging, just like you. I finally figured out how to put an end to that.”
Dreading his answer, I said, “How did you put an end to it?”
“By just doing what the crazy bitch wanted. It was the only way to shut her up.”
“So where is your Roseland?”
“Maybe it’s way in the future from here.”
“Maybe?”
“It’s like a theory.”
“So you have been thinking about it.”
“But I don’t care.”
“Well, I care.”
“What is is. It doesn’t matter why.”
“You’re not only a thinker, you’re a philosopher.”
He growled with disgust. “I wish some sonofabitch porkers would show up so I could shoot ’em.”
“Way in the future, huh? Sir, do you mean you have a time machine?”
He told me that he didn’t need any fornicating time machine, except that he didn’t use the term fornicating. Then he said, “It just happens. But only in Roseland. Never anywhere else. Sometimes I look up, sky’s blue for a minute, other times for a few hours, and the world’s not all crap like it has been most of my life. I’m here where the world’s not crap yet, instead of there.”
“Just look up and it happens?”
“Or turn around. Next thing, the blue goes away, the sky’s as yellow as a cat’s diarrhea, and everything’s screwed up again. It’s like something pulls me here, but then it pushes me back where I came from. It probably does the same with the porkers—pulls ’em here but then pushes ’em away.”
“That can’t be what Tesla built the machine to do.”
“What machine?”
“The pulling and pushing must be a side effect. The porkers in your time—are they just in your Roseland?”
“Hell, no. They keep popping up everywhere. They’re worse than cockroaches.”
“Why is your sky yellow?” I asked.
“Why is yours blue?”