Forever Odd. Dean Koontz

with a taste for adventure.

      I crossed the threshold, and the cloud floor supported me. The rug idled underfoot.

      In such a situation, closed doors usually draw me. Over the years, I have a few times endured a dream in which, during a search, I open a white paneled door and am skewered through the throat by something sharp, cold, and as thick as an iron fence stave.

      Always, I wake before I die, gagging as if still impaled. After that, I am usually up for the day, no matter how early the hour.

      My dreams aren’t reliably prophetic. I have never, for instance, ridden bareback on an elephant, naked, while having sexual relations with Jennifer Aniston.

      Seven years have passed since I had that memorable night fantasy as a boy of fourteen. After so much time, I no longer have any expectation that the Aniston dream will prove predictive.

      I’m pretty sure the scenario with the white paneled door will come to pass. I can’t say whether I will be merely wounded, disabled for life, or killed.

      You might think that when presented with white paneled doors, I would avoid them. And so I would … if I had not learned that fate cannot be sidestepped or outrun. The price I paid for that lesson has left my heart an almost empty purse, with just two coins or three clinking at the bottom.

      I prefer to kick open each door and confront what waits rather than to turn away—and thereafter be required to remain alert, at all times, for the creak of the turning knob, for the quiet rasp of hinges behind my back.

      On this occasion, the doors did not attract me. Intuition led me to the stairs, and swiftly up.

      The dark second-floor hallway was brightened only by the pale outfall of light from two rooms.

      I’ve had no dreams about open doors. I went to the first of these two without hesitation, and stepped into a bedroom.

      The blood of violence daunts even those with much experience of it. The splash, the spray, the drip and drizzle create infinite Rorschach patterns in every one of which the observer reads the same meaning: the fragility of his existence, the truth of his mortality.

      A desperation of crimson hand prints on a wall were the victim’s sign language: Spare me, help me, remember me, avenge me.

      On the floor, near the foot of the bed, lay the body of Dr. Wilbur Jessup, savagely battered.

      Even for one who knows that the body is but the vessel and that the spirit is the essence, a brutalized cadaver depresses, offends.

      This world, which has the potential to be Eden, is instead the hell before Hell. In our arrogance, we have made it so.

      The door to the adjacent bathroom stood half open. I nudged it with one foot.

      Although blood-dimmed by a drenched shade, the bedroom lamplight reached into the bathroom to reveal no surprises.

      Aware that this was a crime scene, I touched nothing. I stepped cautiously, with respect for evidence.

      Some wish to believe that greed is the root of murder, but greed seldom motivates a killer. Most homicide has the same dreary cause: The bloody-minded murder those whom they envy, and for what they covet.

      That is not merely a central tragedy of human existence: It is also the political history of the world.

      Common sense, not psychic power, told me that in this case, the killer coveted the happy marriage that, until recently, Dr. Jessup had enjoyed. Fourteen years previously, the radiologist had wed Carol Makepeace. They had been perfect for each other.

      Carol came into their marriage with a seven-year-old son, Danny. Dr. Jessup adopted him.

      Danny had been a friend of mine since we were six, when we had discovered a mutual interest in Monster Gum trading cards. I traded him a Martian brain-eating centipede for a Venusian methane slime beast, which bonded us on first encounter and ensured a lifelong brotherly affection.

      We’ve also been drawn close by the fact that we are different, each in his way, from other people. I see the lingering dead, and Danny has osteogenesis imperfecta, also called brittle bones.

      Our lives have been defined—and deformed—by our afflictions. My deformations are primarily social; his are largely physical.

      A year ago, Carol had died of cancer. Now Dr. Jessup was gone, too, and Danny was alone.

      I left the master bedroom and hurried quietly along the hallway toward the back of the house. Passing two closed rooms, heading toward the open door that was the second source of light, I worried about leaving unsearched spaces behind me.

      After once having made the mistake of watching television news, I had worried for a while about an asteroid hitting the earth and wiping out human civilization. The anchorwoman had said it was not merely possible but probable. At the end of the report, she smiled.

      I worried about that asteroid until I realized I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I am not Superman. I am a short-order cook on a leave of absence from his grill and griddle.

      For a longer while, I worried about the TV news lady. What kind of person can deliver such terrifying news—and then smile?

      If I ever did open a white paneled door and get skewered through the throat, the iron pike—or whatever—would probably be wielded by that anchorwoman.

      I reached the next open door, stepped into the light, crossed the threshold. No victim, no killer.

      The things we worry about the most are never the things that bite us. The sharpest teeth always take their nip of us when we are looking the other way.

      Unquestionably, this was Danny’s room. On the wall behind the disheveled bed hung a poster of John Merrick, the real-life Elephant Man.

      Danny had a sense of humor about the deformities—mostly of the limbs—with which his condition had left him. He looked nothing like Merrick, but the Elephant Man was his hero.

      They exhibited him as a freak, Danny once explained. Women fainted at the sight of him, children wept, tough men flinched. He was loathed and reviled. Yet a century later a movie was based on his life, and we know his name. Who knows the name of the bastard who owned him and put him on exhibit, or the names of those who fainted or wept, or flinched? They’re dust, and he’s immortal. Besides, when he went out in public, that hooded cloak he wore was way cool.

      On other walls were four posters of ageless sex goddess Demi Moore, who was currently more ravishing than ever in a series of Versace ads.

      Twenty-one years old, two inches short of the five feet that he claimed, twisted by the abnormal bone growth that sometimes had occurred during the healing of his frequent fractures, Danny lived small but dreamed big.

      No one stabbed me when I stepped into the hall once more. I wasn’t expecting anyone to stab me, but that’s when it’s likely to happen.

      If Mojave wind still whipped the night, I couldn’t hear it inside this thick-walled Georgian structure, which seemed tomblike in its stillness, in its conditioned chill, with a faint scent of blood on the cool air.

      I dared not any longer delay calling Chief Porter. Standing in the upstairs hall, I pressed 2 on my cell-phone keypad and speed-dialed his home.

      When he answered on the second ring, he sounded awake.

      Alert for the approach of a mad anchorwoman or worse, I spoke softly: “Sir, I’m sorry if I woke you.”

      “Wasn’t asleep. I’ve been sitting here with Louis L’Amour.”

      “The writer? I thought he was dead, sir.”

      “About as dead as Dickens. Tell me you’re just lonesome, son, and not in trouble again.”

      “I didn’t ask for trouble, sir. But you better come to Dr. Jessup’s house.”

      “I’m hoping it’s a simple burglary.”

      “Murder,”