Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5. Dean Koontz
spilled across the catwalk.
“Oddie, what a mess!” She stooped, set the containers aside, and began to gather the crackers and cheese.
Down on the darkening grass, Robertson had thus far stood with his arms at his sides, a slump-shoulder hulk. Aware that I was as fixated on him as he was on me, he now raised his right arm almost as if in a Nazi salute.
“Are you going to help me here,” Stormy asked, “or are you going to be a typical man?”
Initially I thought he might be shaking his fist at me, but in spite of the poor—and rapidly fading—light, I soon saw that the gesture was even less polite than it had seemed at first. His middle finger was extended, and he thrust it toward me with short, angry jabs.
“Robertson’s here,” I told her.
“Who?”
“Fungus Man.”
Suddenly he was on the move, walking between the headstones, toward the church.
“We better forget dinner,” I said, drawing Stormy to her feet with the intention of hustling her out of the belfry. “Let’s get down from here.”
Resisting me, she turned to the parapet. “I don’t let anyone intimidate me.”
“Oh, I do. If they’re crazy enough.”
“Where is he? I don’t see him.”
Leaning out, peering down, I couldn’t see him either. Apparently he had reached the front or the back of the church and had turned a corner.
“The door at the bottom of the steps,” I said, “did it lock behind us automatically when we came into the tower?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
I didn’t like the idea of being trapped at the top of the tower, even though we could shout for help and surely be heard. The belfry door had no lock, and I doubted that the two of us could hold it shut against him if, in a rage, he was determined to open it.
Grabbing her by the hand, pulling to impress on her the need for urgency, I hurried along the catwalk, stepping over the cheese and crackers, around the bells. “Let’s get out of here.”
“The hamper, our dinner—”
“Leave it. We’ll get it later, tomorrow.”
We had left the lights on in the tower. But the spiral stairs were enclosed, and I couldn’t see all the way to the bottom, only as far as the continuously curving walls allowed.
Below, all was quiet.
“Hurry,” I urged Stormy, and without using the handrail, I preceded her down those steep steps, setting a pace too fast to be safe.
DOWN, DOWN, AROUND AND DOWN, I LED and she followed, striking too much noise from the Mexican-tile steps, unable to hear Robertson if he was climbing to meet us.
At the halfway point I wondered if this haste might be an overreaction. Then I remembered his upraised fist, the extended finger, the glowering photos in his study.
I plunged even faster, around and around, unable to block from my mind the image of him waiting below with a butcher knife on which I might impale myself before I could stop.
When we reached the bottom without encountering him, we found the lower door unlocked. I opened it cautiously.
Contrary to my expectations, he wasn’t waiting for us in the softly lighted narthex.
Descending the tower stairs, I had let go of Stormy’s hand. Now I seized it again to keep her close to me.
When I opened the centermost of three front doors, I saw Robertson climbing the church steps from the sidewalk. Although not racing toward me, he approached with the grim implacability of a tank crossing a battlefield.
In the apocalyptic crimson light, I could see that his creepy but previously reliable smile had deserted him. His pale-gray eyes borrowed a bloody cast from the sunset, and his face wrenched into a knot of murderous wrath.
Terri’s Mustang waited at the curb. I wouldn’t be able to reach it without going through Robertson.
I will fight when I have to, against opponents who dwarf me if I must. But I turn to physical conflict neither as a first resort nor as a matter of misguided principle.
I’m not vain, but I like my face just the way it is. I prefer that it not be stomped.
Robertson was bigger than me, but soft. Had his anger been that of an ordinary man, perhaps pumped up by one beer too many, I might have confronted him and would have been confident of taking him down.
He was a lunatic, however, an object of fascination to bodachs, and an idolizer of mass murderers and serial killers. I had to assume that he carried a gun, a knife, and that in the middle of a fight, he might begin to bite like a dog.
Perhaps Stormy would have tried to kick his ass—such a response is not alien to her—but I didn’t give her that option. Turning from the entrance, I held fast to her hand and encouraged her through one of the doors between the narthex and the nave.
In the deserted church, low pathlights marked the center aisle. The enormous crucifix behind the altar glowed in a soft spotlight directed on it from above. Flames flickered in ruby-colored glasses on the votive-candle racks.
Those points of light and the fading red sunset behind the stained-glass windows in the western wall failed to press back the congregation of shadows that filled the pews and the side aisles.
We hurried down the center aisle, expecting Robertson to slam with charging-bull fury through one of the doors from the narthex. Having heard nothing by the time we reached the communion railing, we paused and looked back.
As far as I could tell, Robertson had not arrived. If he had entered the nave, surely he would have come directly after us, along the center aisle.
Although logic argued against my hunch and no evidence supported it, I suspected that he was with us. The prickled skin on my arms suggested that I should speak in a honk, have webbed feet, and be covered with feathers.
Stormy’s instinct was in sync with mine. Surveying the geometric shadows of pews, aisles, and colonnades, she whispered, “He’s closer than you think. He’s very close.”
I pushed open the low gate in the communion railing. We passed through, moving in all but absolute silence now, not wanting to mask any sounds of Robertson’s approach.
As we passed the choir enclosure and ascended the ambulatory toward the high altar, I glanced back less and proceeded with greater caution. Inexplicably, in opposition to my head, my heart said danger lay in front of us.
Our stalker couldn’t have slipped around us unseen. Besides, there was no reason for him to have done so instead of assaulting us directly.
Nevertheless, with every step I took, the tension increased in the cords of muscle at the back of my neck, until they felt as tight as key-wound clock springs.
From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed movement past the altar, twitched toward it, and drew Stormy closer to my side. Her hand clutched mine tighter than before.
The crucified bronze Christ moved, as if metal miraculously had become flesh, as if He would pull loose from the cross and step down to resume the earthly mantle of messiah.
A large scallop-winged moth flew away from the hot lens of the overhead spotlight. The illusion of movement—which the insect’s exaggerated, fluttering shadow had imparted to the bronze figure—was at once dispelled.
Stormy’s tower-door key would also unlock the door at the back of the sanctuary. Beyond waited the sacristy, in which the priest readied himself