Forever Odd. Dean Koontz

and with coffee I didn’t drink, Ozzie’s hands had gone still. They were folded on the table in front of him.

      “Sir, I often think about all those people, shot. …”

      He did not ask to whom I was referring. He knew that I meant the forty-one shot at the mall the previous August, the nineteen dead.

      I said, “Haven’t watched or read the news in a long time. But people talk about what’s happening in the world, so I hear things.”

      “Just remember, the news isn’t life. Reporters have a saying—‘If it bleeds, it leads.’ Violence sells, so violence gets reported.”

      “But why does bad news sell so much better than good?”

      He sighed and leaned back in his chair, which creaked. “We’re getting close now.”

      “Close to what?”

      “To the question that brought you here.”

      “That burning philosophical thing? No, sir, there isn’t one. I’m just … rambling.”

      “Ramble for me, then.”

      “What’s wrong with people?”

      “Which people?”

      “Humanity, I mean. What’s wrong with humanity?”

      “That was a very short ramble indeed.”

      “Sir?”

      “Your lips should feel scorched. The burning question just fell from them. It’s quite a puzzler to put to another mortal.”

      “Yes, sir. But I’ll be happy even with one of your standard shallow answers.”

      “The correct question has three equal parts. What’s wrong with humanity? Then … what’s wrong with nature, with its poison plants, predatory animals, earthquakes, and floods? And last … what’s wrong with cosmic time, as we know it, which steals everything from us?”

      Ozzie may assert that I mistake his absolute self-confidence for profundity; but I do not. He is truly wise. Evidently, however, life has taught him that the wise make targets of themselves.

      A lesser mind might try to hide its brilliance behind a mask of stupidity. He chooses, instead, to conceal his true wisdom under a flamboyant pretense of erudition that he is pleased to let people think is the best of him.

      “Those three questions,” he said, “have the same answer.”

      “I’m listening.”

      “It’s no good if I just give it to you. You’ll resist it—and waste years of your life looking for an answer that pleases you more. When you arrive at it on your own, however, you’ll be convinced by it.”

      “That’s all you have to say?”

      He smiled and shrugged.

      “I come here with a burning philosophical question, and all I get is breakfast?”

      “You got quite a lot of breakfast,” he said. “I will tell you this much—you already know the answer and always have. You don’t have to discover it so much as recognize it.”

      I shook my head. “Sometimes, you’re a frustrating man.”

      “Yes, but I’m always gloriously fat and fun to look at.”

      “You can be as mystical as a damn …” Terrible Chester still sat on the top porch step, riveted by me. “… as mystical as a damn cat.”

      “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

      “It wasn’t meant as one.” I pushed my chair away from the table. “I’d better go.”

      As usual when I leave, he insisted on struggling to his feet. I am always concerned that the effort to get up will spike his blood pressure into the stroke zone and fell him on the spot.

      He hugged me, and I hugged him, which we always do on parting, as if we do not expect to see each other again.

      I wonder if sometimes the distribution of souls gets screwed up, and the wrong spirit ends up in the wrong baby. I suppose this is blasphemous. But then, with my smart mouth, I’ve already blown any chance of sainthood.

      Surely, with his kind heart, Ozzie was meant for slim good health and ten fingers. And my life would make more sense if I had been his son instead of the offspring of the troubled parents who had failed me.

      When the hug was done, he said, “What now?”

      “I don’t know. I never do. It comes to me.”

      Chester did not pee on my shoes.

      I walked to the end of the deep yard, through the woodlet, and left by the gate in the back fence.

      12

      NOT ENTIRELY TO MY SURPRISE, AGAIN THE Blue Moon Cafe.

      The cloak of night had dressed the alleyway with some romance, but daylight had stripped it of the pretense of beauty. This was not a realm of filth and vermin; it was merely gray, grim, drab, and unwelcoming.

      All but universally, human architecture values front elevations over back entrances, public spaces over private. For the most part, this is a consequence of limited resources, budgets.

      Danny Jessup says that this aspect of architecture is also a reflection of human nature, that most people care more about their appearance than they do about the condition of their souls.

      Although I’m not as cynical as Danny, and although I don’t think the analogy between back doors and souls is well drawn, I’ll admit to seeing some truth in what he says.

      What I could not see, here in the pale-lemon morning light, was any clue that might lead me a single step closer to him or to his psychotic father.

      The police had done their work and gone. The Ford van had been hauled away.

      I hadn’t come here with the expectation that I would find a clue overlooked by the authorities and, shifting into Sherlock, would track down the bad guys in a rush of deductive reasoning.

      I returned because this was where my sixth sense had failed me. I hoped to find it again, as though it were a spool of ribbon that I’d dropped and that had rolled out of sight. If I could locate the loose end of the ribbon, I could follow it to the spool.

      Opposite the kitchen entrance of the cafe was the second-floor window from which the elderly woman in the blue robe had watched as I had approached the van only hours ago. The drapes were shut.

      Briefly I considered having a word with her. But she had already been interviewed by the police. They are far more skilled than I am at teasing valuable observations from witnesses.

      I walked slowly north to the end of the block. Then I turned and walked south, past the Blue Moon.

      Trucks were angled between the Dumpsters; early deliveries were being received, inspected, inventoried. Shopkeepers, almost an hour ahead of their employees, were busy at the rear entrances of their establishments.

      Death came, Death went, but commerce flowed eternal.

      A few people noticed me. I knew none of them well, some of them not at all.

      The character of their recognition was uncomfortably familiar to me. They knew me as the hero, as the guy who stopped the lunatic who had shot all those people the previous August.

      Forty-one were shot. Some were crippled for life, disfigured. Nineteen died.

      I might have prevented all of it. Then I might have been a hero.

      Chief Porter says hundreds would have perished if I hadn’t acted when I did, how I did. But the potential victims, those spared, do not seem real to me.

      Only the dead