Dean Koontz - Forever Odd

Probably because Datura didn't want Danny to have any victory or money, she hadn't provided him with any candles in red and yellow glass holders. Now that armies of black clouds had stormed the entire sky, his room was a sooty-smelling pit brightened only fitfully by nature's war light, filled with a rapid patter that brought to mind an image of a horde of running rats.

"Odd," he whispered when I came through the door, "thank God. I was sure you were dead."

Switching on the flashlight, handing it to him to hold, matching his whisper, I said, "Why didn't you tell me what a lunatic she is."

"Do you ever listen to me? I told you she was crazier than a syphilitic suicide bomber with mad-cow disease!"

"Yeah. Which is as much of an understatement as saying Hitler was a painter who dabbled in politics."

The running-rat patter proved to be rain slanting into the room through one of the three window panes that were broken, rattling against a jumble of furniture.

I leaned the shotgun against the wall and showed him the remote control, which he recognized.

"Is she dead?" he asked.

"I wouldn't count on it."

"What about Doom and Gloom?"

I didn't have to ask who they might be. "One of them took a hit, but I don't think it did him serious damage."

"So they'll be coming?"

“As sure as taxes."

"We gotta split."

"Splitting," I assured him, and almost pressed the white button on the remote.

At the penultimate instant, thumb poised, I asked myself who had told me that the black button would detonate the explosives and the white would disarm them.

Datura .

DATURA, WHO HOBNOBBED WITH THE GRAY PIGS OF Haiti and observed seamstresses being sacrificed and cannibalized, had told me that the black button detonated, that the white disarmed.

In my experience, she had not proved herself to be a reliable source of dependable fact and unvarnished truth.

More to the point, the ever-helpful madwoman had volunteered this information when I had asked if the remote on the table might be the one that controlled the bomb. I couldn't think of any reason why she would have done so.

Wait. Correction. I could after all think of one reason, which was Machiavellian and cruel.

If by some wild chance I ever got my hands on the remote, she wanted to program me to blow up Danny instead of save him.

"What?" he asked.

"Gimme the flashlight."

I went around behind his chair, crouched, and studied the bomb. In the time since I had first seen this device, my subconscious had been able to mull over the tangle of colorful wiring-and had come up with zip.

This does not necessarily reflect badly on my subconscious. At the same time, it had been presented with other important tasks- such as listing all the diseases I might have contracted when Datura spat wine in my face.

As previously, I tried to jump-start my sixth sense by tracing the wires with one fingertip. After 3.75 seconds I admitted this was a desperation tactic with no hope of getting me anything but killed.

"Odd?"

"Still here. Hey, Danny, let's play a word-association game."

"Now?"

"We could be dead later, then when would we play it? Humor me. It'll help me think this through. I'll say something, and you tell me the first thing that comes into your mind."

"This is nuts."

"Here we go: black and white."

"Piano keys."

"Try again. Black and white."

"Night and day."

"Black and white."

"Salt and pepper."

"Black and white."

"Good and evil."

I said, "Good."

"Thank you."

"No. That's the next word for association: good."

"Grief."

"Good," I repeated.

"Bye."

"Good."

"God."

I said, "Evil."

"Datura," he said at once.

"Truth."

"Good."

I sprang "Datura" on him again.

At once he said, "Liar."

"Our intuition brings us to the same conclusion," I told him.

"What conclusion?"

"White detonates," I said, putting my thumb lightly on the black button.

Being Odd Thomas is frequently interesting but nowhere near as much fun as being Harry Potter. If I were Harry, with a pinch of this and a smidgin of that and a muttered incantation, I would have tossed together a don't-explode-in-my-face charm, and everything would have turned out just fine.

Instead, I pushed the black button, and everything seemed to turn out just fine.

"What happened?" Danny asked.

"Didn't you hear the boom? Listen close-you still might."

I hooked my fingers through the wires, tightened my hand into a fist, and ripped that colorful mare's-nest out of the device.

The small version of a carpenter's level tipped on its side, and the bubble slipped into the blast zone.

"I'm not dead," Danny said.

"Me neither."

I went to the furniture that had been stacked haphazardly by the earthquake and retrieved my backpack from the crevice in which I had tucked it less than an hour ago.

From the backpack, I withdrew the fishing knife and cut the last of the duct tape that bound Danny to the chair.

The kilo of explosives fell to the floor with a thud no louder than would have been produced by a brick of modeling clay. Boom-plastic can be detonated only by an electrical charge.

As Danny got up from the chair, I dropped the knife into the backpack. I switched off the flashlight and clipped it to my belt once more.

Freed of the obligation to puzzle out the meaning of the bomb wires, my subconscious was counting off the elapsing seconds since I had fled the casino, and being a total nag about the situation: Hurry, hurry, hurry .

AS THOUGH WAR HAD BROKEN OUT BETWEEN HEAVEN and Earth, another extended barrage of lightning blasted the desert, making pools of glass in the sand somewhere. Thunder cracked so hard that my teeth vibrated as if I were absorbing chords from the massive speakers at a death-metal concert, and bustling rat battalions of rain blew in through the broken window.

Looking at the tempest, Danny blurted, "Holy crap."

I said, "Some irresponsible bastard killed a blacksnake and hung it in a tree."

"Blacksnake?"

After handing my backpack to him and grabbing the shotgun, I stepped onto the threshold of the open door and checked the corridor. The furies had not yet arrived.

Close behind me, Danny said, "My legs are on fire after the walk out from Pico Mundo, and my hip's like full of knives. I don't know how long I'll hold up."

"We aren't going far. Once we get across the rope bridge and through the room of a thousand spears, it's a piece of cake. Just be as fast as you can."

He couldn't be fast. His usual rolling gait was emphasized as his right leg repeatedly buckled under him, and though he had never been a complainer, he hissed in pain with nearly every step.

Had I planned to take him directly out of the Panamint, we would not have gotten far before the harpy and the ogres caught up with us and dragged us down.

I led him north along the hall to the elevator alcove and was relieved when we ducked out of sight into it.

Although I hated to put down the shotgun, though I wished I'd had time to have it biologically attached to my right arm and wired directly into my central nervous system, I leaned it against the wall.

As I began to pry at the lift doors that I had scoped out earlier, Danny whispered, "What-you're going to pitch me down a shaft so it looks like an accident, then my Martian-brain-eating-centipede card will be all yours?"

Doors open, I risked a quick sweep of the flashlight to show him the empty cab. "No light, heat, or running water, but no Datura, either."

"We're going to hide here?"

"You are going to hide here," I said. "I'm going to distract and mislead."