Dean Koontz - Odd Hours

Since the day on which Stormy had died, I had been called upon to do terrible things with these hands. When she had been taken from me, a portion of my innocence had been stolen, as well. But now it seemed to me that these hands had actively thrown away what innocence had not been robbed from me.

I knew that what I had done was right, but what is right is not always clean, and does not always feel good. In even a clear heart, some righteous acts of the harder kind can stir up a sediment of guilt, but that is not a bad thing. If allowed to be, the heart is self-policing, and a reasonable measure of guilt guards against corruption.

To dispel the apprehension that I had become someone different from the person I had once been, I turned my right hand palm up. My birthmark is a half-inch-wide crescent, an inch and a half from point to point, milk-white against the pink flesh of my hand.

This was one of the proofs that Stormy and I were destined to be together forever, because she’d had a mark that matched it.

Birthmarks and memories of the blue lake of abiding hope: They confirm that I remain Odd Thomas-perhaps different from what I once was, yet paradoxically the same.

I carried the bag out to the foredeck, where the fog was as thick as ever and the night colder than I remembered.

Here on the starboard side, a steep flight of narrow stairs led up to the top deck, where the bridge was located.

Entering the bridge, I looked up as the woman at the helm turned to stare at me, her hands remaining on the wheel.

I should have realized that with no one at the helm, the tugboat would have been subject to the actions of tides and currents, which would tend to turn it in a lazy vortex. While I had killed Utgard and Buddy, while I had opened the shipping crates, while I had gathered the bomb triggers, the boat had mostly held steady.

I knew at once who she must be.

OVER WHITE SLACKS AND AN EXQUISITE BEADED sweater, she wore a gray coat of supple leather with fox fur at the collar, along the front panels, and at the cuffs.

Setting the satchel on the floor, I said, “No doctor is going to believe you’ve been suffering from a bad shellfish reaction.”

No older than twenty-five, she was beautiful not in the way that women in Joey’s copy of Maxim might have seemed beautiful to him, but as women in a Neiman Marcus catalog might be regarded as beautiful: sensuous but not common, elegant, a generous mouth, fine facial bones, large limpid blue eyes, and not a hard edge to her.

Taking one hand from the wheel, she patted a pocket of her coat. “I’ve got a little bottle of nasty brew to drink before we dock. It fakes some of the classic symptoms.”

Because the Coast Guard had been told that we had put to sea to retrieve a yacht passenger suffering a serious allergic reaction to shellfish, they might follow through with the local hospital to see if in fact such a patient had been admitted.

The dialed-down ping of the radar drew my eyes to the screen. A few pips were revealed at the outermost azimuth rings. The only nearer pip, moving away, must be Junie’s Moonbeam .

“Who’re you?” she asked.

“Harry,” I replied.

“The Harry. I didn’t know there was one.”

“My mother would like to hear it put that way. She thinks I’m the only Harry there is or ever was.”

“It must be nice to have a mother who’s not a bitch.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Valonia.”

“I’ve never heard that one before.”

“It’s from the Latin for acorn . I guess my mother thought I would grow into a great hulking tree. Where’s Utgard?”

From the bridge, she had no view of the afterdeck.

I said, “He’s finishing with…things.”

She smiled. “I’m not a fragile flower.”

I shrugged. “Well.”

“He told me that he would be winnowing the crew.”

“Winnowing. Is that what he called it?”

“You don’t approve of his word choice?”

“I approve that I’m not one of the winnowed.”

“I suppose it matters more to you.”

“Why should it?”

“You knew them, they’re your mates,” Valonia said. “I didn’t know them.”

“You didn’t miss much.”

She liked the ruthlessness. She regarded me with greater interest than before.

“What role do you play in the cast, Harry?”

“I’m a Guildenstern, I guess.”

She frowned. “A Jew?”

“It’s a reference to Shakespeare.”

The frown sweetened into a delicious pout. “You don’t seem like a boy who would live in dusty old books.”

“You don’t seem like a girl who would blow up cities.”

“Because you don’t know me well.”

“Is there a chance I might get to?”

“Right now, I’d say fifty-fifty.”

“I’ll take those odds.”

Because I could not sense whether she was suspicious of me to any extent, I had not ventured closer to Valonia. The more relaxed she became with me, the easier I would be able to subdue her without breaking any pretty thing. She would be a trove of information for the authorities.

Leaning against the doorjamb, I said, “What’s your last name, Valonia?”

“Fontenelle. Remember it.”

“That’s no problem.”

“I’ll be famous one day.”

“I’ve no doubt you will be.”

“What’s your last name, Harry?”

“Lime.”

“Tart,” she said.

“Actually, I’m pretty much monogamous.”

Her laugh was nicer than I had expected, girlish yet robust, and genuine.

I didn’t want to like her laugh. I dreaded hearing in it this trace of merriment that suggested a once-innocent child.

Now I could see that she was even younger than I first thought, no older than twenty or twenty-one.

Valonia’s long hair had been tucked under the fox-fur collar. With one hand behind her neck, she pulled it free. She shook her head, and a wealth of spun gold cascaded around her face.

“Are you ready for the world to change, Harry?”

“I guess I better be.”

“It’s all so old and tired.”

“Not all of it,” I said, openly admiring her.

She liked to be admired.

“They’re going to love him so much,” she said.

“Who?”

“The people.”

“Oh, yeah. Them.”

“They’ll love the way he’ll take charge. Bring order. His compassion and his strength.”

“And his magnificent dental work.”

She laughed, but then chastised me. “The senator’s a great man, Harry. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think so.”

Cautious about being seduced to respond outside the character that I had created-or, rather, borrowed from a Graham Greene novel-I said, “For me, it’s mostly about the money.”

Gazing into the fog, Valonia blew out a poof of breath through puckered lips. “The old, tired world-just gone.”

“Do that again,” I requested.

Staring at me, she puckered and blew.

I said, “Maybe, after all, it’s not entirely about the money.”

Her blue eyes dazzled. “The perpetual arguing, the tiresome debate that never settles anything. No one will miss that.”

“No one,” I agreed, but was overcome by sorrow that she could be so young yet hate so much.

“He’ll shut them up, Harry.”

“It’s time somebody did.”

“And in the end, they’ll like it.”

She inhaled as if trying to clear nasal congestion.

“The endless quarreling,” she said, “when we know the issues were really settled long ago.”

“Ages ago,” I agreed.

She tried to clear her nose again. “The people are going to be so grateful for the New Civility.”

I could hear the uppercase N and C in the way that she said it.