Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5. Dean Koontz

find severed heads?”

      “I wasn’t looking for any.”

      She said, “That creepy smile of his, those weird gray eyes ... First thing I’d look for is a collection of knickknacks with ears. These tacos are fabulous.”

      I agreed. “And I like all the colors in the salsa. Yellow and green chiles, the red of the chopped tomatoes, the little purple flecks of onion ... sort of looks like confetti. You should do it this way when you make salsa.”

      “What—you were bitten by Martha Stewart, now you’re a walking-dead lifestyle guru? So tell me what you found if you didn’t find heads?”

      I told her about the black room.

      Licking corn-fritter crumbs off her elegant fingers, she said, “Listen to me, odd one.”

      “I’m all ears.”

      “They’re big, but they’re not all of you. Open them wide now and hear this: Don’t go in that black room again.”

      “It doesn’t exist anymore.”

      “Don’t even go looking for it, hoping it’ll come back.”

      “That never even crossed my mind.”

      “Yes, it did,” she said.

      “Yes, it did,” I admitted. “I mean, I’d like to understand it—what it is, how it works.”

      To emphasize her objection, she poked a corn fritter in my direction. “It’s the gate to Hell, and you’re not meant for that neighborhood.”

      “I don’t think it’s the gate to Hell.”

      “Then what is it?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “It’s the gate to Hell. If you go looking for it, and you find it, and you wind up in Hell, I’m not going to go down there looking for you and pull your ass out of the fire.”

      “Your warning is duly noted.”

      “It’s hard enough being married to a guy who sees dead people and goes chasing after them every day, and just too hard if he goes on some quest to find the gate to Hell.”

      “I don’t go chasing after them,” I said, “and since when are we married?”

      “We will be,” she said, and finished her final fritter.

      On more than one occasion, I have asked her to marry me. Though we both agree that we are soul mates and that we will be together forever, she has always shied from my proposals with something like, I love you madly, desperately, Oddie, so madly that I would cut off my right hand for you, if that made any sense as a proof of love. But as for this marriage thing—let’s put a pin in it.

      Understandably, dribbles of swordfish taco fell out of my mouth when I heard that we were going to be taking vows. I plucked those morsels off my T-shirt and ate them, buying time to think furiously, before I said, “So ... you mean you’re accepting my proposal?”

      “Silly, I accepted it ages ago.” Of my look of bewilderment, she said, “Oh, not with a conventional ‘Yes, darling, I’m yours,’ but I accepted in so many words.”

      “I didn’t interpret ‘put a pin in it’ as meaning yes.”

      Brushing swordfish crumbs off my shirt, she said, “You have to learn to listen with more than your ears.”

      “What orifice do you suggest I listen with?”

      “Don’t be crude. It doesn’t become you. I mean, sometimes you have to listen with your heart.”

      “I’ve listened with my heart for so long I’ve periodically had to swab earwax out of my aortal valve.”

      “Churros?” she asked, opening a white pastry bag and at once filling the car with a delicious, cinnamony, doughnutlike aroma.

      I said, “How can you think about dessert at a time like this?”

      “You mean at dinner time?”

      “I mean at talking-about-getting-married time.” My heart raced as if I were chasing someone or being chased, but with luck that part of the day was over. “Listen, Stormy, if you really mean it, then I will do something big to improve my financial situation. I’ll give up the short-order job at the Grille, and I don’t just mean for tires. Something bigger.”

      Her look of amused speculation was so heavy that the weight of it tilted her head. Cocking one eye at me, she said, “And from your perspective, what could be bigger than tires?”

      I gave it some thought. “Shoes.”

      “What kind of shoes?”

      “All kinds. Retail shoe sales.”

      She looked dubious. “That’s bigger than tires?”

      “Sure. How often do you buy tires? Not even once a year. And you need only one set of tires per vehicle. But people need more than one pair of shoes. They need all types. Brown dress shoes, black dress shoes, running shoes, sandals—”

      “Not you. All you have is three pairs of the same sneakers.”

      “Yes, but I’m not like other people.”

      “Not in the least,” she agreed.

      “Another thing to consider,” I said, “is that not every man, woman and child has a car, but everyone has feet. Or nearly everyone. A family of five might have two cars, but they have ten feet.”

      “There are so many reasons to love you, Oddie, but this is maybe my favorite thing about you.”

      Stormy no longer tilted her head or cocked one eye. She stared at me directly. Her eyes were galactic: as deep as the darkness between any two stars in the sky. Her expression had softened with affection. She seemed sincere and genuinely touched by something that I said, and this perception was supported by the fact that she had still not taken a churro out of the bag.

      Unfortunately, I must have been listening with only my ears, because I didn’t know what she meant. “Your favorite thing about me? You mean ... my analysis of shoe retailing?”

      “You’re as smart as anyone I’ve ever known ... and yet so simple. It’s a lovely combination. Brains and innocence. Wisdom and naivete. Sharp wit and genuine sweetness.”

      “That’s your favorite thing about me?”

      “At the moment, yes.”

      “Well, gee, it’s not something I can work on.”

      “Work on?”

      “Things you like about me, I want to do them even better. Say instead you liked my grooming or my taste in clothes, or my pancakes. I’m always improving my pancakes, just ask Terri—they’re light and fluffy yet full of taste. But I don’t know how to be smart and simple at the same time better than I am now. In fact, I’m not even sure I know what you mean.”

      “Good. It’s nothing you should think about. It’s nothing you can work on. It’s just who you are. Anyway, when I marry you, it won’t be for money.”

      She offered a churro to me.

      Considering how fast my heart was racing and my mind was spinning, the last thing that I needed was sugar, but I took the pastry.

      We ate in silence for a minute, and then I said, “So this marriage—when do you think we should order the cake?”

      “Soon. I can’t wait much longer.”

      With relief and delight, I said, “Too much delayed gratification can be a bad thing.”

      She grinned. “You see what’s happening here?”

      “I guess I’m just looking with my eyes. What