Saint Odd (Odd Thomas 7)

“It won’t come back to him, dear. Annamaria tells me that she has spared him those memories. And he has new memories that give him a good foundation for a happy future.”

“I know he remembers a different past from what he actually lived. I just don’t understand how it could be done. Not hypnosis. Not drugs.”

“No, no, no. Good gracious, nothing as crude as that.”

“Then what?”

“Well, it’s all a little mystical, isn’t it? Don’t worry your lovely head about it.”

“Back in March,” I reminded her, “you told me I would eventually understand the true and hidden nature of the world. It’s still hidden to me, ma’am.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s any less true, sweetie.”

I had come to love Mrs. Fischer, to trust her entirely. But at times, our conversations seemed to have come straight from the Mad Hatter’s tea party.

I said, “Am I right to think you’ve known Annamaria a long time? Much longer than I’ve known her?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve known her for ages.”

“She’s only eighteen.”

“Yes, dear, she’s been eighteen for ages.”

“How does that work?”

“It works splendidly for her.”

I was silent for a moment. Then I said, “I could be inscrutable, too, you know.”

“Actually, you couldn’t be, dear.”

“Who is she?”

“It’s not for me to tell you, Oddie.”

“So who will tell me?”

“She will, when the time has come for you to know.”

“When will the time come?”

“You’ll know the time has come when it comes, of course. You’re so full of questions, you should be the host of a game show.”

I sighed and stopped at the trees.

We had neither moon nor stars. Her face was ghostly in the gloom. Her white hair veiled her head, all but her face, as if she were of some holy order. I didn’t resort to my flashlight, because under her talk of game-show hosts, I heard a repressed sadness and sensed that she might be struggling to hold back tears. If this might be my last encounter with, my last memory of, Mrs. Edie Fischer, I didn’t want it to be one in which she wept.

“Will I see you again?” I asked.

“Of course you will, dear. You’ll see everyone again. Let me have a question now. What is your next move?”

“You’ll know my next move when it’s time for you to know it.”

“You simply are not charming when you try inscrutability, dear. It’s most unbecoming on you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is your little rebellion over now?”

“Yes, ma’am. My next move is … I’ve got to talk with Chief Porter and find out if he’s gotten any new info on this Wolfgang Schmidt, one of the cultists.”

“Yes, one of the three that were shot in the back of the head by others of their ilk.”

“How do you know that?”

She pinched my cheek. “How could I not know, dear?”

“If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am—and I’m sure you do—what’s your next move?”

“As always, I’m an open book. I intend to pick up Annamaria and Blossom Rosedale where we’re staying together, and go over to the fairgrounds for a couple of hours.”

“Hey, whoa. That’s a bad idea, ma’am. I’m heading back there myself, ’cause I think that’s where something pretty serious might happen. Not necessarily the big thing. Not the whole town drowned. But something not good.”

She clapped her hands together with girlish enthusiasm. “Well, isn’t that where it’s always the most fun to be—where things are happening?”

I hugged her again. “Heathcliff must have been some guy, ma’am.” I let her go. “Tell me straight now. Do you know what’s going to happen tonight?”

“No, Oddie. For all you may think differently, I’m only human. Annamaria’s human, too, though she’s more than that, as you no doubt suspect. But human nonetheless. We don’t know. Whatever happens will happen because you—and others—make it happen.”

“Free will,” I said.

“Free will,” she agreed, “our greatest gift, the thing that makes life worth living, in spite of all the anguish it brings.”

“Got to be going. I’m running out of time. I think we all are.”

I could see her nod only because her cap of white hair moved up and down.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Fischer.”

“Until we meet again, dear.”

She made her way back to the limousine as if guided by some lamp that I could not see.

I watched her get in the enormous car and drive away. She drove well. Back in March, her best friend and chauffeur of twenty-two years, Oscar Dunningham, had died of a massive heart attack at the age of ninety-two. They had been at dinner in a superb restaurant in Moonlight Bay. As Oscar finished his last spoon of an excellent crème brûlée, his eyes widened, and he said, “Oh, I think the time has come to say good-bye,” and he slumped dead in his chair. According to Mrs. Fischer, although she usually tipped twenty-five percent, she tipped seventy-five because the waiter was kind enough to wipe a dribble of crème brûlée off dead Oscar’s chin. She was also pleased that the busboy, the waiter, and the maître d’ all continued to refer to the deceased as “the guest” even as they assisted in his quiet removal from the din

ing room, leaving most of the other customers unaware that a death had occurred, and presenting Mrs. Fischer with a small box of chocolate mints accompanied by a sympathy card.

I would have liked to be her chauffeur. I’m sure the pay was good. And the benefits would have been unique.

I switched on my flashlight. Walked among the cottonwoods to the Explorer. Behind the wheel, I inserted the key in the ignition. As the engine turned over, I looked up, through the dusty windshield and between the trunks of the trees, toward the two-lane backroad. Distant headlights flared.

I would have driven from the cover of the trees if the vehicle hadn’t been approaching so fast. On that narrow, curved, and potholed blacktop, such high speed was reckless, almost suicidal. The driver evidently needed to get someplace yesterday. Or maybe he needed to get to someone.

Sometimes intuition tickled like a spider crawling along the back of my neck. At other times, it was a cold robot hand that clamped around my throat for a moment and wouldn’t allow me to breathe. This time: robot hand.

The oncoming vehicle closed on me so fast that I had no hope of getting to the road and away before it blocked access. I could tell now that the headlights were high off the pavement, as if it must be either a jacked-up SUV on big tires or a truck. Probably a truck.

I switched off the engine. Got out of the Explorer. Hurried around to the passenger side, to put the Ford between me and the road. Drew the Glock from my shoulder rig.

I was not—and never had been—a man of action. I only pretended to be one. I remained always aware that I was pretending, desperately trying to be Mr. Daniel Craig or Mr. Vin Diesel in one of their more assured performances. Consequently, I frequently felt foolish while doing all the jumping and running and brandishing guns that a man of action is called upon to do.

Now I felt like a self-delusional fry cook as I crouched beside the Explorer, Glock in hand, when it should have been a spatula, watching the truck rocket along the roadway. I told myself, Don’t be paranoid. It’s just someone in a hurry. His wife’s in labor or his little boy swallowed an entire package of laxatives and he doesn’t want to wait for an ambulance. They’re not looking for me. They’re not worried I’ll upend their plans. They have no way of locating me.