Odd Interlude Read Free

feel it pulling at you, odd one?”
    My name is Odd Thomas, which I explained in previous volumes of this memoir, which I will no doubt explain again in future volumes, but which Iwill not explain here, in this detour from the main arc of my journey. Until Annamaria, only Stormy called me “odd one.”
    I am a short-order cook, though I haven’t worked in a diner since I left Pico Mundo eighteen months earlier. I miss the griddle, the deep fryer. A job like that is centering. Griddle work is Zen.
    “Do you feel it pulling?” she repeats. “Like the gravity of the moon pulling tides through the sea.”
    Curled on the backseat, the golden retriever, Raphael, growls as if in answer to Annamaria’s question. Our other dog, the white German shepherd named Boo, of course makes no sound.
    Slumped in my seat, head resting against the cool glass of the window in the passenger door, half hypnotized by the patterns in the stars, I feel nothing unusual until Annamaria asks her question. But then I sense unmistakably that something in the night summons me, not to Santa Barbara but elsewhere.
    I have a sixth sense with several facets, the first of which is that I can see the spirits of the lingering dead, who are reluctant to move on to the Other Side. They often want me to bring justice to their murderers or to help them find the courage to cross from this world to the next. Once in a while, I have a prophetic dream. And since leaving Pico Mundo after Stormy’s violent death, I seem to be magnetized and drawn toward places of trouble, to which some Power wishes me to travel.
    My life has mysterious purpose that I don’t understand, and day by day, conflict by conflict, I learn by going where I have to go.
    Now, to the west, the sea is black and forbidding except for a distorted reflection of the icy moon, which on those waters melts into a long silvery smear.
    In the headlights, the broken white line on the blacktop flashes toward the south.
    “Do you feel it pulling?” she asks again.
    The inland hills are dark, but ahead on the right, pools of warm light welcome travelers at a cluster of enterprises that are not associated with a town.
    “There,” I say. “Those lights.”
    As soon as I speak, I know we will find death in this place. But there is no turning back. I am compelled to act in these cases. Besides, this woman seems to have become my backup conscience, gently reminding me what is the right thing to do when I falter.
    A hundred yards past a sign that promises FOOD FUEL LODGING, an exit from the highway looms. She takes it fast, but with confidence and skill.
    As we reach the foot of the ramp and halt at a stop sign, I say, “You feel it, too?”
    “I’m not gifted as you are, odd one. I don’t feel such things. But I know.”
    “What do you know?”
    “What I need to know.”
    “Which is?”
    “Which is what is.”
    “And what is this what-is that you know?”
    She smiles. “I know what matters, how it all works, and why.”
    The smile suggests she enjoys tweaking me by being enigmatic—although there is no meanness in her teasing.
    I don’t believe there is any deception in her, either. I am convinced she always speaks the truth. And she does not, as it might seem, talk in code. She speaks the truth profoundly but perhaps as poets speak it: obliquely, employing paradox, symbols, metaphors.
    I met her on a public pier in Magic Beach. I know nothing of substance about her past. I don’t even know her last name; she claims that she doesn’t have one. When I first saw Annamaria, I sensed that she harbored extraordinary secrets and that she needed a friend. She has accepted my friendship and has given hers to me. But she holds tightly to her secrets.
    The stop sign is at an intersection with a two-lane county road that parallels the state highway. She turns left and drives toward a service station that is open even in these lonely hours before dawn, offering a discount brand of gasoline and a mechanic on