Dean Koontz - Forever Odd

Although that scenario did not satisfy me, I had no desire to pursue an independent investigation.

In the interest of self-education, however, which Ozzie Boone is always pleased to see me undertake, I researched the meaning of some words previously unknown to me.

Mundunugu appears in similar forms in different languages of East Africa. A mundunugu is a witch doctor.

Voodooists believe that the human spirit has two parts. The first is the gros bon ange , the "big good angel," the life force that all beings share, that animates them. The gros bon ange enters the body at conception and, upon the death of the body, returns at once to God, from whom it originated.

The second is the ti bon ange , the "little good angel." This is the essence of the person, the portrait of the individual, the sum of his life's choices, actions, and beliefs.

At death, because sometimes it wanders and delays in its journey to its eternal home, the ti bon ange is vulnerable to a bokor , which is a voodoo priest who deals in black rather than in white magic. He can capture the ti bon ange , bottle it, and keep it for many uses.

They say that a skilled bokor , with well-cast spells, can even steal the ti bon ange from a living person.

To steal the ti bon ange of another bokor or of a mundunugu would be considered a singular accomplishment among the mad-cow set.

Cheval is French for "horse."

To a voodooist, a cheval is a corpse, taken always when fresh from a morgue or acquired by whatever means, into which he installs a ti bon ange .

The former corpse, alive again, is animated by the ti bon ange , which perhaps yearns for Heaven-or even for Hell-but is under the iron control of the bokor .

I draw no conclusions from the meaning of these exotic words. I define them here only for your education.

As I said earlier, I'm a man of reason, yet I have supernatural perceptions. Daily I walk a high wire. I survive by finding the sweet spot between reason and unreason, between the rational and the irrational.

The unthinking embrace of irrationality is literally madness. But embracing rationality while denying the existence of any mystery to life and its meaning-that is no less a form of madness than is eager devotion to unreason.

One appeal of both the life of a fry cook and that of a tire-installation technician is that during a busy work day, you have no time to dwell on these things.

STORMY'S UNCLE, SEAN LLEWELLYN, IS A PRIEST AND the rector of St. Bartholomew's, in Pico Mundo.

Following the deaths of her mother and father, when Stormy was seven and a half, she had been adopted by a couple in Beverly Hills. Her adoptive father had molested her.

Lonely, confused, ashamed, she had eventually found the courage to inform a social worker.

Thereafter, choosing dignity over victimhood, courage over despair, she had lived in St. Bart's Orphanage until she graduated from high school.

Father Llewellyn is a gentle man with a gruff exterior, strong in his convictions. He looks like Thomas Edison as played by Spencer Tracy, but with brush-cut hair. Without his Roman collar, he might be mistaken for a career Marine.

Two months after the events at the Panamint, Chief Porter came with me to a consultation with Father Llewellyn. We met in the study in St. Bart's rectory.

In a spirit of confession, requiring the priest's confidence, we told him about my gift. The chief confirmed that with my help he had solved certain crimes, and he vouched for my sanity, my truthfulness.

My primary question for Father Llewellyn was whether he knew of a monastic order that would provide room and board for a young man who would work hard in return for these provisions, but who did not think that he himself would ever wish to become a monk.

"You want to be a lay resident in a religious community," said Father Llewellyn, and by the way he put it, I knew this might be an unusual but not an unheard-of arrangement.

"Yes, sir. That's the thing."

With the rough bearish charm of a concerned Marine sergeant counseling a troubled soldier, the priest said, "Odd, you've taken some bad blows this past year. Your loss…my loss, too…has been an extraordinarily difficult thing to cope with because she was… such a good soul."

"Yes, sir. She was. She is."

"Grief is a healthy emotion, and it's healthy to embrace it. By accepting loss, we clarify our values and the meaning of our lives."

"I wouldn't be running away from grief, sir," I assured him.

"Or giving yourself too much to it?"

"Not that, either."

"That's what I worry about," Chief Porter told Father Llewellyn. "That's why I don't approve."

"This isn't the rest of my life," I said. "A year maybe, and then we'll see. I just need things simpler for a while."

"Have you gone back to the Grille?" the priest asked.

"No. The Grille is a busy place, Father, and Tire World's not much better. I need useful work to keep my mind occupied, but I'd like to find work where it's… quieter."

"Even as a lay resident, taking no instruction, you'd still have to be in harmony with the spiritual life of whatever order might have a place for you."

"I would be, sir. I would be in harmony."

"What sort of work would you expect to do?"

"Gardening. Painting. Minor repairs. Scrubbing floors, washing windows, general cleaning. I could cook for them, if they wanted."

"How long have you been thinking about this, Odd?"

"Two months."

To Chief Porter, Father Llewellyn said, "Has he talked with you about it for that long?"

"Just about," the chief acknowledged.

"Then it's not an impetuous decision."

The chief shook his head. "Odd isn't impetuous."

"I don't believe he's running from his grief, either," said Father Llewellyn. "Or to it."

I said, "I just need to simplify. To simplify and find the quiet to think."

To the chief, Father Llewellyn said, 'As his friend who knows him better than I do, and as a man he obviously looks up to, do you have any other reason you don't think Odd should try this?"

Chief Porter was quiet a moment. Then he said, "I don't know what we'll do without him."

"No matter how much help Odd gives you, Chief, there will always be more crime."

"That's not what I mean," said Wyatt Porter. "I mean…I just don't know what we'll do without you, son."

SINCE STORMY'S DEATH, I had lived in her apartment. Those rooms meant less to me than her furnishings, small decorative objects, and personal items. I did not want to get rid of her things.

With Terri's and Karla's help, I packed Stormy's belongings, and Ozzie offered to keep everything in a spare room at his house.

On my next-to-last night in that apartment, I sat with Elvis in the lovely light of an old lamp with a beaded shade, listening to his music from the first years of his storied career.

He loved his mother more than anything in life. In death, he wants more than anything to see her.

Months before she died-you can read this in many biographies of him-she worried that fame was going to his head, that he was losing his way.

Then she died young, before he reached the peak of his success, and after that he changed. Pierced by grief for years, he nonetheless forgot his mother's advice, and year by year his life went further off the rails, the promise of his talent less than half fulfilled.

By the time he was forty-which biographies also report-Elvis had been tormented by the belief that he had not served his mother's memory well and that she would have been ashamed of his drug use and his self-indulgence.