Brother Odd (Odd Thomas 3)

“Sent to him by whom?”

“By someone dead who tried to help me through Justine.”

“Through the drowned girl you mentioned earlier, the one who was dead and then revived.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was right about you,” Romanovich said. “Complex, complicated, even intricate.”

“But innocuous,” I assured him.

Unaware that she walked through a cluster of bodachs, scattering them, Sister Angela came to us.

She started to speak, and I zipped my lips again. Her periwinkle blues narrowed, for although she understood about bodachs, she wasn’t used to being told to shut up.

When the malign spirits had vanished into various rooms, I said, “Ma’am, I’m hoping you can help me. Jacob here—what do you know about his father?”

“His father? Nothing.”

“I thought you had backgrounds on all the kids.”

“We do. But Jacob’s mother was never married.”

“Jenny Calvino. So that’s a maiden—not a married—name.”

“Yes. Before she died of cancer, she arranged for Jacob to be admitted to another church home.”

“Twelve years ago.”

“Yes. She had no family to take him, and on the forms, where the father’s name was requested, I’m sad to say, she wrote unknown.”

I said, “I never met the lady, but from even what little I know about her, I can’t believe she was so promiscuous that she wouldn’t know.”

“It’s a world of sorrow, Oddie, because we make it so.”

“I’ve learned some things from Jacob. He was very ill when he was seven, wasn’t he?”

She nodded. “It’s in his medical records. I’m not sure exactly, but I think…some kind of blood infection. He almost died.”

“From things Jacob has said, I believe Jenny called his father to the hospital. It wasn’t a warm and fuzzy family reunion. But this name—it may be the key to everything.”

“Jacob doesn’t know the name?”

“I don’t think his mother ever told him. However, I believe Mr. Romanovich knows it.”

Surprised, Sister Angela said, “Do you know it, Mr. Romanovich?”

“If he knows it,” I said, “he won’t tell you.”

She frowned. “Why won’t you tell me, Mr. Romanovich?”

“Because,” I explained, “he’s not in the business of giving out information. Just the opposite.”

“But, Mr. Romanovich,” said Sister Angela, “surely dispensing information is a fundamental part of a librarian’s job.”

“He is not,” I said, “a librarian. He will claim to be, but if you press the point, all you’ll get out of him is a lot more about Indianapolis than you need to know.”

“There is no harm,” Romanovich said, “in acquiring exhaustive knowledge about my beloved Indianapolis. And the truth is, you also know the name.”

Again surprised, Sister Angela turned to me. “Do you know the name of Jacob’s father, Oddie?”

“He suspects it,” said Romanovich, “but is reluctant to believe what he suspects.”

“Is that true, Oddie? Why are you reluctant to believe?”

“Because Mr. Thomas admires the man he suspects. And because if his suspicions are correct, he may be up against a power with which he cannot reckon.”

Sister Angela said, “Oddie, is there any power with which you cannot reckon?”

“Oh, it’s a long list, ma’am. The thing is—I need to be sure I’m right about the name. And I have to understand his motivation, which I don’t yet, not fully. It might be dangerous to approach him without full understanding.”

Turning to the Russian, Sister Angela said, “Surely, sir, if you can share with Oddie the name and motivation of this man, you will do so to protect the children.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily believe anything he told me,” I said. “Our fur-hatted friend has his own agenda. And I suspect he’ll be ruthless about fulfilling it.”

Her voice heavy with disapproval, the mother superior said, “Mr. Romanovich, sir, you presented yourself to this community as a simple librarian seeking to enrich his faith.”

“Sister,” he disagreed, “I never said that I was simple. But it is true that I am a man of faith. And whose faith is so secure that it never needs to be further enriched?”

She stared at him for a moment, and then turned to me again. “He is a real piece of work.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’d turn him out in the snow if it wasn’t such an unchristian thing to do—and if I believed for a minute we could manhandle him through the door.”

“I don’t believe we could, Sister.”

“Neither do I.”

“If you can find me a child who was once dead but can speak,” I reminded her, “I might learn what I need to know by other means than Mr. Romanovich.”

Her wimpled face brightened. “That’s what I came to tell you before we got into all this talk about Jacob’s father. There’s a girl named Flossie Bodenblatt—”

“Surely not,” said Romanovich.

“Flossie,” Sister Angela continued, “has been through very much, too much, so much—but she is a girl with spirit, and she has worked hard in speech therapy. Her voice is so clear now. She was down in rehab, but we’ve brought her to her room. Come with me.”

CHAPTER 45

NINE-YEAR-OLD FLOSSIE HAD BEEN AT ST. Bartholomew’s for one year. According to Sister Angela, the girl was one of the minority who would be able to leave someday and live on her own.

The names on the door plaques were FLOSSIE and PAULETTE. Flossie waited alone.

Frills, flounce, and dolls characterized Paulette’s half of the room. Pink pillows and a small green-and-pink vanity table.

Flossie’s area was by contrast simple, clean, all white and blue, decorated only with posters of dogs.

The name Bodenblatt suggested to me a German or Scandinavian background, but Flossie had a Mediterranean complexion, black hair, and large dark eyes.

I had not encountered the girl before, or had seen her only at a distance. My chest grew tight, and I knew at once that this might be more difficult than I had expected.

When we arrived, Flossie was sitting on a rug on the floor, paging through a book of dog photographs.

“Dear,” said Sister Angela, “this is Mr. Thomas, the man who would like to talk to you.”

Her smile was not the smile that I remembered from another place and time, but it was close enough, a wounded smile and lovely.

“Hello, Mr. Thomas.”

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her, I said, “I’m so pleased to meet you, Flossie.”

Sister Angela perched on the edge of Flossie’s bed, and Rodion Romanovich stood among Paulette’s dolls and frills, like a bear that had turned the tables on Goldilocks.

The girl wore red pants and a white sweater with an appliquéd image of Santa Claus. Her features were fine, nose upturned, chin delicate. She could have passed for an elf.

The left corner of her mouth pulled down, and the left eyelid drooped slightly.

Her left hand was cramped into a claw, and she braced the book on her lap with that arm, as if she had little other use for it than bracing things. She had been turning pages with her right hand.

Now her attention focused on me. Her stare was direct and unwavering, full of confidence earned from painful experience—a quality I had also seen before, in eyes this very shade.

“So you like dogs, Flossie?”

“Yes, but I don’t like my name.” If she had once had a speech impediment caused by brain damage, she had overcome it.

“You don’t like Flossie? It’s a pretty name.”

“It’s a cow’s name,” she declared.

“Well, yes, I have heard of cows named Flossie.”

“And it sounds like what you do with your teeth.”

“Maybe it does, now that you mention it. What would you prefer to be

called?”

“Christmas,” she said.

“You want to change your name to Christmas?”

“Sure. Everyone loves Christmas.”

“That’s true.”

“Nothing bad ever happens on Christmas. So then nothing bad could happen to someone named Christmas, could it?”

“So, let me begin again,” I said. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Christmas Bodenblatt.”

“I’m gonna change the last p-p-part, too.”

“And what would you prefer to Bodenblatt?”