Odd Hours. Dean Koontz

district attorneys and courageous military officers.

      “Sometimes, young man, I think you may be from beyond Mars.”

      “Nowhere more exotic than Pico Mundo, California. If you won’t need me for a while, sir, I thought I’d go out for a walk.”

      Hutch rose to his feet. He was tall and lean. He kept his chin lifted but craned his head forward as does a man squinting to sharpen his vision, which might have been a habit that he developed in the years before he had his cataracts removed.

      “Go out?” He frowned as he approached. “Dressed like that?”

      I was wearing sneakers, jeans, and a sweatshirt.

      He was not troubled by arthritis and remained graceful for his age. Yet he moved with precision and caution, as though expecting to fracture something.

      Not for the first time, he reminded me of a great blue heron stalking tide pools.

      “You should put on a jacket. You’ll get pneumonia.”

      “It’s not that chilly today,” I assured him.

      “You young people think you’re invulnerable.”

      “Not this young person, sir. I’ve got every reason to be astonished that I’m not already permanently horizontal.”

      Indicating the words MYSTERY TRAIN on my sweatshirt, he asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “I don’t know. I found it in a thrift shop.”

      “I have never been in a thrift shop.”

      “You haven’t missed much.”

      “Do only very poor people shop there or is the criteria merely thriftiness?”

      “They welcome all economic classes, sir.”

      “Then I should go one day soon. Make an adventure of it.”

      “You won’t find a genie in a bottle,” I said, referring to his film The Antique Shop.

      “No doubt you’re too modern to believe in genies and such. How do you get through life when you’ve nothing to believe in?”

      “Oh, I have beliefs.”

      Lawrence Hutchison was less interested in my beliefs than in the sound of his well-trained voice. “I keep an open mind regarding all things supernatural.”

      I found his self-absorption endearing. Besides, if he were to have been curious about me, I would have had a more difficult time keeping all my secrets.

      He said, “My friend Adrian White was married to a fortune-teller who called herself Portentia.”

      I traded anecdotes with him: “This girl I used to know, Stormy Llewellyn—at the carnival, we got a card from a fortune-telling machine called Gypsy Mummy.”

      “Portentia used a crystal ball and prattled a lot of mumbo jumbo, but she was the real thing. Adrian adored her.”

      “The card said Stormy and I would be together forever. But it didn’t turn out that way.”

      “Portentia could predict the day and very hour of a person’s death.”

      “Did she predict yours, sir?”

      “Not mine. But she predicted Adrian’s. And two days later, at the hour Portentia had foretold, she shot him.”

      “Incredible.”

      “But true, I assure you.” He glanced toward a window that did not face the sea and that, therefore, was not covered by draperies. “Does it feel like tsunami weather to you, son?”

      “I don’t think tsunamis have anything to do with the weather.”

      “I feel it. Keep one eye on the ocean during your walk.”

      Like a stork, he stilted out of the parlor and along the hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house.

      I left by the front door, through which Boo had already passed. The dog waited for me in the fenced yard.

      An arched trellis framed the gate. Through white lattice twined purple bougainvillea that produced a few flowers even in winter.

      I closed the gate behind me, and Boo passed through it as for a moment I stood drawing deep breaths of the crisp salted air.

      After spending a few months in a guest room at St. Bartholomew’s Abbey, high in the Sierra, trying to come to terms with my strange life and my losses, I had expected to return home to Pico Mundo for Christmas. Instead, I had been called here, to what purpose I didn’t know at the time and still had not deduced.

      My gift—or curse—involves more than a rare prophetic dream. For one thing, irresistible intuition sometimes takes me places to which I would not go by choice. And then I wait to find out why.

      Boo and I headed north. Over three miles long, the boardwalk serving Magic Beach was not made of wood but of concrete. The town called it a boardwalk anyway.

      Words are plastic these days. Small loans made to desperate people at exorbitant interest rates are called payday advances. A cheesy hotel paired with a seedy casino is called a resort. Any assemblage of frenetic images, bad music, and incoherent plot is called a major motion picture.

      Boo and I followed the concrete boardwalk. He was a German shepherd mix, entirely white. The moon traveling horizon to horizon moved no more quietly than did Boo.

      Only I was aware of him, because he was a ghost dog.

      I see the spirits of dead people who are reluctant to move on from this world. In my experience, however, animals are always eager to proceed to what comes next. Boo was unique.

      His failure to depart was a mystery. The dead don’t talk, and neither do dogs, so my canine companion obeyed two vows of silence.

      Perhaps he remained in this world because he knew I would need him in some crisis. He might not have to linger much longer, as I frequently found myself up to my neck in trouble.

      On our right, after four blocks of beachfront houses came shops, restaurants, and the three-story Magic Beach Hotel with its white walls and striped green awnings.

      To our left, the beach relented to a park. In the sunless late afternoon, palm trees cast no shadows on the greensward.

      The lowering sky and the cool air had discouraged beachgoers. No one sat on the park benches.

      Nevertheless, intuition told me that she would be here, not in the park but sitting far out above the sea. She had been in my red dream.

      Except for the lapping of the lazy surf, the day was silent. Cascades of palm fronds waited for a breeze to set them whispering.

      Broad stairs led up to the pier. By virtue of being a ghost, Boo made no sound on the weathered planks, and as a ghost in the making, I was silent in my sneakers.

      At the end of the pier, the deck widened into an observation platform. Coin-operated telescopes offered views of ships in transit, the coastline, and the marina in the harbor two miles north.

      The Lady of the Bell sat on the last bench, facing the horizon, where the moth-case sky met the sullen sea in seamless fusion.

      Leaning on the railing, I pretended to meditate on the timeless march of waves. In my peripheral vision, I saw that she seemed to be unaware of my arrival, which allowed me to study her profile.

      She was neither beautiful nor ugly, but neither was she plain. Her features were unremarkable, her skin clear but too pale, yet she had a compelling presence.

      My interest in her was not romantic. An air of mystery veiled her, and I suspected that her secrets were extraordinary. Curiosity drew me to her, as did a feeling that she might need a friend.

      Although she had appeared in my dream of a red tide, perhaps it would not prove to be prophetic.