Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5. Dean Koontz

she fully embraced life with all its conflicts, she would suffer a breakdown. Consequently, she manages the world with all the cold calculation of a ruthless autocrat, and preserves her precarious sanity by spinning around herself a cocoon of indifference.

      “Maybe if we could just talk for a while,” I said. “Maybe then I could figure out why I came here, why I thought you could help me.”

      Her mood can shift in an instant. The lady of the roses was too frail to handle this challenge, and that sunny persona retreated to make way for an angry goddess.

      My mother regarded me with pinched eyes, her lips compressed and bloodless, as if with only a fierce look she could send me away.

      In ordinary circumstances, that look alone would indeed have dispatched me.

      A sun of nuclear ferocity rose toward its apex, however, rapidly bringing us nearer to the hour of the gun. I dared not return to the hot streets of Pico Mundo without a name or a purpose that would focus my psychic magnetism.

      When she realized that I would not immediately leave her to the comfort of her roses, she spoke in a voice as cold and brittle as ice: “He was shot in the head, you know.”

      This statement mystified me, yet it seemed to have an uncanny connection to the approaching atrocity that I hoped to prevent.

      “Who?” I asked.

      “John F. Kennedy.” She indicated the namesake rose. “They shot him in the head and blew his brains out.”

      “Mother,” I said, though I seldom use that word in conversation with her, “this is different. You’ve got to help me this time. People will die if you don’t.”

      Perhaps that was the worst thing that I could have said. She didn’t possess the emotional capacity to assume responsibility for the lives of others.

      She seized the rose that she had cut for me, gripped it by the bloom and tore it out of my hand.

      Because I failed to release the rose quickly enough, the stem ripped between my fingers, and a thorn pierced the pad of my thumb, broke off in the flesh.

      She crushed the bloom and threw it on the ground. She turned away from me and strode toward the house.

      I would not relent. I caught up with her, moved at her side, pleading for a few minutes of conversation that might clarify my thoughts and help me understand why I had come here, of all places, at this mortal hour.

      She hurried, and I hurried with her. By the time she reached the steps to the back porch, she had broken into a run, the skirt of her sundress rustling like wings, one hand on her bonnet to hold it on her head.

      The screen door slammed behind her as she disappeared into the house. I stopped on the porch, reluctant to go farther.

      Although I regretted the need to harass her, I felt harassed myself, and desperate.

      Calling to her through the screen, I said, “I’m not going away. I can’t this time. I have nowhere to go.”

      She didn’t answer me. Beyond the screen door, a curtained kitchen lay in shadows, too still to be harboring my tormented mother. She’d gone deeper into the house.

      “I’ll be here on the porch,” I shouted. “I’ll be waiting right here. All day if I have to.”

      Heart hammering, I sat on the porch floor, my feet on the top step, facing away from the kitchen door.

      Later, I would realize that I must have come to her house with the subconscious intention of triggering precisely this response and driving her quickly to her ultimate defense against responsibility. The gun.

      At that moment, however, confusion was my companion, and clarity seemed far beyond my reach.

       CHAPTER 53

      THE SHANK OF THE THORN PROTRUDED from my thumb. I plucked it free, but still the bleeding puncture burned as if contaminated by an acid.

      To a shameful degree, sitting there on my mother’s porch steps, I felt sorry for myself, as though it had been not a single thorn but a crown’s worth.

      As a child, when I had a toothache, I could expect no maternal pampering. My mother always called my father or a neighbor to take me to the dentist, while she retreated to her bedroom and locked her door. She sought refuge there for a day or two, until she felt certain I would have no lingering complaint that she might need to address.

      The slightest fever or sore throat that troubled me was a crisis with which she could not deal. At seven, afflicted by appendicitis, I collapsed at school and was rushed from there to the hospital; had my condition deteriorated at home, she might have left me to die in my room, while she occupied herself with the soothing books and the music and the other genteel interests with which she determinedly fashioned her private perfecto mundo, her “perfect world.”

      My emotional needs, my fears and joys, my doubts and hopes, my miseries and anxieties were mine to explore or resolve without her counsel or sympathy. We spoke only of those things that did not disturb her or make her feel obliged to offer guidance.

      For sixteen years we shared a house as though we lived not in the same world but in parallel dimensions that rarely intersected. The chief characteristics of my childhood were an aching loneliness and the daily struggle to avoid a bleakness of spirit that unrelieved loneliness can foment.

      On those grim occasions when events had forced our parallel worlds to intersect in crises that my mother could not tolerate and from which she could not easily withdraw, she reliably resorted to the same instrument of control. The gun. The terror of those dark encounters and the subsequent guilt that racked me made loneliness preferable to any contact that distressed her.

      Now, pressing thumb and forefinger tight together to stop the bleeding, I heard the twang of the spring on the screen door.

      I couldn’t bear to turn and look at her. The old ritual would play out soon enough.

      Behind me, she said, “Just go.”

      Gazing into the complexity of shadows cast by the oaks, to the bright rose garden beyond, I said, “I can’t. Not this time.”

      I checked my watch—11:32. My tension could not have wound any tighter, minute by minute, if this had been a bomb clock on my wrist.

      Her voice had grown flat and strained under the weight of the burden that I’d placed upon her, the burden of simple human kindness and caring, which she could not carry. “I won’t put up with this.”

      “I know. But there’s something ... I’m not sure what ... something you can do to help me.”

      She sat beside me at the head of the porch steps. She held the pistol in both hands, aimed for the moment at the oak-shaded yard.

      She engaged in no fakery. The pistol was loaded.

      “I won’t live this way,” she said. “I won’t. I can’t. People always wanting things, sucking away my blood. All of you—wanting, wanting, greedy, insatiable. Your need ... it’s like a suit of iron to me, the weight, like being buried alive.”

      Not in years—perhaps never—had I pressed her as hard as I did on that fateful Wednesday: “The crazy thing is, Mother, after more than twenty years of this crap, down at the bottom of my heart, where it ought to be the darkest, I think there’s still this spark of love for you. It may be pity, I’m not sure, but it hurts enough to be love.”

      She doesn’t want love from me or anyone. She doesn’t have it to give in return. She doesn’t believe in love. She is afraid to believe in it and the demands that come with it. She wants only undemanding congeniality, only relationships that require less than lip service to be sustained. Her perfect world has a population of one, and if she does not love herself, she has at least the tenderest