{"product_id":"forever-odd-isbn-9780553384512","title":"Forever Odd","description":"Every so often a character so captures the hearts and imaginations of readers that he seems to take on a life of his own long after the final page is turned. For such a character, one book is not enough—readers must know what happens next. Now Dean Koontz returns with the novel his fans have been demanding. With the emotional power and sheer storytelling artistry that are his trademarks, Koontz takes up once more the story of a unique young hero and an eccentric little town in a tale that is equal parts suspense and terror, adventure and mystery—and altogether irresistibly odd.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe’re all a little odd beneath the surface. He’s the most unlikely hero you’ll ever meet—an ordinary guy with a modest job you might never look at twice. But there’s so much more to any of us than meets the eye—and that goes triple for Odd Thomas. For Odd lives always between two worlds in the small desert town of Pico Mundo, where the heroic and the harrowing are everyday events. Odd never asked to communicate with the dead—it’s something that just happened. But as the unofficial goodwill ambassador between our world and theirs, he’s got a duty to do the right thing. That’s the way Odd sees it and that’s why he’s won hearts on both sides of the divide between life and death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA childhood friend of Odd’s has disappeared. The worst is feared. But as Odd applies his unique talents to the task of finding the missing person, he discovers something worse than a dead body, encounters an enemy of exceptional cunning, and spirals into a vortex of terror. Once again Odd will stand against our worst fears. Around him will gather new allies and old, some living and some not.  For in the battle to come, there can be no innocent bystanders, and every sacrifice can tip the balance between despair and hope. Whether you’re meeting Odd Thomas for the first time or he’s already an old friend, you’ll be led on an unforgettable journey through a world of terror, wonder and delight—to a revelation that can change your life. And you can have no better guide than Odd Thomas.\"\u003cb\u003eForever Odd\u003c\/b\u003e is a fast and exciting read.... [the climactic scenes are] fraught with tension.\"—\u003ci\u003eRocky Mountain News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The nice young fry cook with the occult powers is [Dean Koontz's] most likable creation. ... candid, upright, amusing and sometimes withering, especially when thinking about the state of contemporary popular culture.\"—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Inventive.... It's refreshing to come across a character as good-hearted as Odd.... [Dean Koontz is] an interesting writer with a voice all his own.\"—\u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Odd's strange gifts, coupled with his intelligence and self-effacing humor, make him one of the most quietly authoritative characters in recent popular fiction.\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003cb\u003eDean Koontz, \u003c\/b\u003ethe author of many #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Anna, and the enduring spirit of their golden, Trixie.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWAKING, I HEARD A WARM WIND STRUMMING THE LOOSE screen at the open window, and I thought Stormy, but it was not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe desert air smelled faintly of roses, which were not in bloom, and of dust, which in the Mojave flourishes twelve months of the year. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePrecipitation falls on the town of Pico Mundo only during our brief winter. This mild February night was not, however, sweetened by the scent of rain. I hoped to hear the fading rumble of thunder. If a peal had awakened me, it must have been thunder in a dream. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHolding my breath, I lay listening to the silence, and felt the silence listening to me. The nightstand clock painted glowing numbers on the gloom—2:41 A.M. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor a moment I considered remaining in bed. But these days I do not sleep as well as I did when I was young. I am twenty-one and much older than when I was twenty. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCertain that I had company, expecting to find two Elvises watching over me, one with a cocky smile and one with sad concern, I sat up and switched on the lamp. A single Elvis stood in a corner: a life-size cardboard figure that had been part of a theater-lobby display for \u003ci\u003eBlue Hawaii\u003c\/i\u003e. In a Hawaiian shirt and a lei, he looked self-confident and happy. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBack in 1961, he'd had much to be happy about. \u003ci\u003eBlue Hawaii\u003c\/i\u003e was a hit film, and the album went to number one. He had six gold records that year, including \"Can't Help Falling in Love,\" and he was falling in love with Priscilla Beaulieu. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLess happily, at the insistence of his manager, Tom Parker, he had turned down the lead in \u003ci\u003eWest Side Story\u003c\/i\u003e in favor of mediocre movie fare like Follow \u003ci\u003eThat Dream.\u003c\/i\u003e Gladys Presley, his beloved mother, had been dead three years, and still he felt the loss of her, acutely. Only twenty-six, he'd begun to have weight problems. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCardboard Elvis smiles eternally, forever young, incapable of error or regret, untouched by grief, a stranger to despair. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI envy him. There is no cardboard replica of me as I once was and as I can never be again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe lamplight revealed another presence, as patient as he was desperate. Evidently he had been watching me sleep, waiting for me to wake. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, \"Hello, Dr. Jessup.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDr. Wilbur Jessup was incapable of a response. Anguish flooded his face. His eyes were desolate pools; all hope had drowned in those lonely depths. \u003cbr\u003e\"I'm sorry to see you here,\" I said. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe made fists of his hands, not with the intention of striking anything, but as an expression of frustration. He pressed his fists to his chest. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDr. Jessup had never previously visited my apartment; and I knew in my heart that he no longer belonged in Pico Mundo. But I clung to denial, and I spoke to him again as I got out of bed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Did I leave the door unlocked?\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe shook his head. Tears blurred his eyes, but he did not wail or even whimper. Fetching a pair of jeans from the closet, slipping into them, I said, \"I've been forgetful lately.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe opened his fists and stared at his palms. His hands trembled. He buried his face in them. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There's so much I'd like to forget,\" I continued as I pulled on socks and shoes, \"but only the small stuff slips my mind-like where I left the keys, whether I locked the door, that I'm out of milk. . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDr. Jessup, a radiologist at County General Hospital, was a gentle man, and quiet, although he had never before been \u003ci\u003ethis\u003c\/i\u003e quiet. Because I had not worn a T-shirt to bed, I plucked a white one from a drawer. I have a few black T-shirts, but mostly white. In addition to a selection of blue jeans, I have two pair of white chinos. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis apartment provides only a small closet. Half of it is empty. So are the bottom drawers of my dresser. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI do not own a suit. Or a tie. Or shoes that need to be shined. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor cool weather, I own two crew-neck sweaters. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce I bought a sweater vest. Temporary insanity. Realizing that I had introduced an unthinkable level of complexity to my wardrobe, I returned it to the store the next day. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy four-hundred-pound friend and mentor, P. Oswald Boone, has warned me that my sartorial style represents a serious threat to the apparel industry. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've noted more than once that the articles in Ozzie's wardrobe are of such enormous dimensions that he keeps in business those fabric mills I might otherwise put in jeopardy. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBarefoot, Dr. Jessup wore cotton pajamas. They were wrinkled from the rigors of restless sleep. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sir, I wish you'd say something,\" I told him. \"I really wish you would.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead of obliging me, the radiologist lowered his hands from his face, turned, and walked out of the bedroom. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI glanced at the wall above the bed. Framed behind glass is a card from a carnival fortune-telling machine. It promises YOU ARE DESTINED TO BE TOGETHER FOREVER. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach morning, I begin my day by reading those seven words. Each night, I read them again, sometimes more than once, before sleep, if sleep will come to me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am sustained by the certainty that life has meaning. As does death. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom a nightstand, I retrieved my cell phone. The first number on speed dial is the office of Wyatt Porter, chief of the Pico Mundo Police Department. The second is his home number. The third is his cell phone. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore likely than not, I would be calling Chief Porter, one place or another, before dawn. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the living room, I turned on a light and discovered that Dr. Jessup had been standing in the dark, among the thrift-shop treasures with which the place is furnished. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I went to the front door and opened it, he did not follow. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlthough he had sought my assistance, he couldn't find the courage for what lay ahead. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the rubescent light from an old bronze lamp with a beaded shade, the eclectic decor-Stickley-style armchairs, plump Victorian footstools, Maxfield Parrish prints, carnival-glass vases-evidently appealed to him. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No offense,\" I said, \"but you don't belong here, sir.\" Dr. Jessup silently regarded me with what might have been supplication. \"This place is filled to the brim with the past. There's room for Elvis and me, and memories, but not for anyone new.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stepped into the public hall and pulled the door shut. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy apartment is one of two on the first floor of a converted Victorian house. Once a rambling single-family home, the place still offers considerable charm. For years I lived in one rented room above a garage. My bed had been just a few steps from my refrigerator. Life was simpler then, and the future clear. I traded that place for this not because I needed more space, but because my heart is here now, and forever. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe front door of the house featured an oval of leaded glass. The night beyond looked sharply beveled and organized into a pattern that anyone could understand. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I stepped onto the porch, this night proved to be like all others: deep, mysterious, trembling with the potential for chaos. From porch steps to flagstone path, to public sidewalk, I looked around for Dr. Jessup but didn't see him. In the high desert, which rises far east beyond Pico Mundo, winter can be chilly, while our low-desert nights remain mild even in February. The curbside Indian laurels sighed and whispered in the balmy wind, and moths soared to street lamps. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe surrounding houses were as quiet as their windows were dark. No dogs barked. No owls hooted. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo pedestrians were out, no traffic on the streets. The town looked as if the Rapture had occurred, as if only I had been left behind to endure the reign of Hell on Earth. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy the time I reached the corner, Dr. Jessup rejoined me. His pajamas and the lateness of the hour suggested that he had come to my apartment from his home on Jacaranda Way, five blocks north in a better neighborhood than mine. Now he led me in that direction. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe could fly, but he plodded. I ran, drawing ahead of him. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlthough I dreaded what I would find no less than he might have dreaded revealing it to me, I wanted to get to it quickly. As far as I knew, a life might still be in jeopardy. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHalfway there, I realized that I could have taken the Chevy. For most of my driving life, having no car of my own, I borrowed from friends as needed. The previous autumn, I had inherited a 1980 Chevrolet Camaro Berlinetta Coupe. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOften I still act as though I have no wheels. Owning a few thousand pounds of vehicle oppresses me when I think about it too much. Because I try not to think about it, I sometimes forget I have it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnder the cratered face of the blind moon, I ran. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn Jacaranda Way, the Jessup residence is a white-brick Georgian with elegant ornamentation. It is flanked by a delightful American Victorian with so many decorative moldings that it resembles a wedding cake, and by a house that is baroque in all the wrong ways. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNone of these architectural styles seems right for the desert, shaded by palm trees, brightened by climbing bougainvillea. Our town was founded in 1900 by newcomers from the East Coast, who fled the harsh winters but brought with them cold-climate architecture and attitude. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTerri Stambaugh, my friend and employer, owner of the Pico Mundo Grille, tells me that this displaced architecture is better than the dreary acres of stucco and graveled roofs in many California desert towns. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI assume that she is right. I have seldom crossed the city line of Pico Mundo and have never been beyond the boundaries of Maravilla County. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy life is too full to allow either a jaunt or a journey. I don't even watch the Travel Channel. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe joys of life can be found anywhere. Far places only offer exotic ways to suffer. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBesides, the world beyond Pico Mundo is haunted by strangers, and I find it difficult enough to cope with the dead who, in life, were known to me. Upstairs and down, soft lamplight shone at some windows of the Jessup residence. Most panes were dark. By the time I reached the foot of the front-porch steps, Dr. Wilbur Jessup waited there. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wind stirred his hair and ruffled his pajamas, although why he should be subject to the wind, I do not know. The moonlight found him, too, and shadow. The grieving radiologist needed comforting before he could summon sufficient strength to lead me into his house, where he himself no doubt lay dead, and perhaps another. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI embraced him. Only a spirit, he was invisible to everyone but me, yet he felt warm and solid. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps I see the dead affected by the weather of this world, and see them touched by light and shadow, and find them as warm as the living, not because this is the way they are but because this is the way I want them to be. Perhaps by this device, I mean to deny the power of death. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy supernatural gift might reside not in my mind but instead in my heart. The heart is an artist that paints over what profoundly disturbs it, leaving on the canvas a less dark, less sharp version of the truth. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDr. Jessup had no substance, but he leaned heavily upon me, a weight. He shook with the sobs that he could not voice. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dead don't talk. Perhaps they know things about death that the living are not permitted to learn from them. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this moment, my ability to speak gave me no advantage. Words would not soothe him. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing but justice could relieve his anguish. Perhaps not even justice. When he'd been alive, he had known me as Odd Thomas, a local character. I am regarded by some people-wrongly-as a hero, as an eccentric by nearly everyone. \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOdd\u003c\/i\u003e is not a nickname; it's my legal handle. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe story of my name is interesting, I suppose, but I've told it before. What it boils down to is that my parents are dysfunctional. Big-time. I believe that in life Dr. Jessup had found me intriguing, amusing, puzzling. I think he had liked me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly in death did he know me for what I am: a companion to the lingering dead. I see them and wish I did not. I cherish life too much to turn the dead away, however, for they deserve my compassion by virtue of having suffered this world. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Dr. Jessup stepped back from me, he had changed. His wounds were now manifest. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had been hit in the face with a blunt object, maybe a length of pipe or a hammer. Repeatedly. His skull was broken, his features distorted. Torn, cracked, splintered, his hands suggested that he had desperately tried to defend himself-or that he had come to the aid of someone. The only person living with him was his son, Danny. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy pity was quickly exceeded by a kind of righteous rage, which is a dangerous emotion, clouding judgment, precluding caution. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this condition, which I do not seek, which frightens me, which comes over me as though I have been possessed, I can't turn away from what must be done. I plunge. My friends, those few who know my secrets, think my compulsion has a divine inspiration. Maybe it's just temporary insanity. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStep to step, ascending, then crossing the porch, I considered phoning Chief Wyatt Porter. I worried, however, that Danny might perish while I placed the call and waited for the authorities. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe front door stood ajar. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI glanced back and saw that Dr. Jessup preferred to haunt the yard instead of the house. He lingered in the grass. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis wounds had vanished. He appeared as he had appeared before Death had found him-and he looked scared. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUntil they move on from this world, even the dead can know fear. You would think they have nothing to lose, but sometimes they are wretched with anxiety, not about what might lie Beyond, but about those whom they have left behind. I pushed the door inward. It moved as smoothly, as silently as the mechanism of a well-crafted, spring-loaded trap.","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305400324325,"sku":"NP9780553384512","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780553384512.jpg?v=1767727570","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/forever-odd-isbn-9780553384512","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}