Odd Apocalypse (40 page)

THE DOOR OPENED AS I PREPARED TO KNOCK ON IT, and Annamaria stood in the middle of the room, facing us, as if a moment earlier some public-address system had announced,
“Odd Thomas has entered the building.”

To her left stood the golden retriever, Raphael. To her right, my ghost dog, Boo.

Draperies covered the windows, and the Tiffany lamps were dark. The only light came from three glass vessels like squat long-necked vases, one clear and two the color of brandy, in each of which a burning wick floated on a pool of oil.

Annamaria held out her right hand, and Timothy at once went to her, as if he knew her. When he took her offered hand, she bent to kiss his forehead.

In Magic Beach, the day I met her, Annamaria had preferred oil rather than electric lamps. She said that sunshine grows plants, the plants express essential oils, and years later those oils fire the lamps—giving back “the light of other days,” which she found more appealing than electric light.

No oil lamps were provided with my guest suite. Perhaps she had
asked for these. Maybe Constantine Cloyce himself had brought them to her.

She led Timothy to the sofa, and they sat in the middle of it. Raphael leaped aboard, curled up, and put his head in the boy’s lap. Boo cuddled beside Annamaria.

One of the lamps stood on the coffee table. Directly above it, a few watery circles of light and shadow quivered on the ceiling, reflections of the glass vessel.

She held the boy’s right hand in both of hers. They smiled at each other.

On the small dining table stood another oil lamp, likewise projecting tremulous suggestions of its form on the ceiling.

Also on that table, in the large shallow blue dish floated one huge waxy-petaled flower where before there had been three.

“Who do you see when you look at me?” Annamaria asked the boy.

He said, “My mother.”

“But I’m not your mother, am I?”

“No,” Timothy said. “Not my mother. Or maybe you could be.”

“Could I be?”

“That would be nice,” he said, for the first time sounding more like a child than like an old man in a child’s body.

With one hand, she gently smoothed the hair back from his brow and pressed her palm to his forehead as if to determine if he might have a fever.

Something important was happening here, but I didn’t have a clue what it might be.

The third oil lamp, the clear-glass one, stood on the counter in the kitchenette. Impurities in the wick caused the flame to flutter and to elongate until it slithered for a moment into the long, narrow neck of the vessel before raveling back to the pool of oil on which it fed.

Taking Timothy’s hand in both of hers once more, Annamaria said, “How have you kept yourself as yourself all these years?”

“Books,” the boy said. “Thousands of books.”

“They must have been the right books.”

“Some were, some weren’t. You figure out which are which.”

“How do you figure it out?”

“At first by how you feel.”

“And later?”

“By reading what’s there on the page and also what’s not.”

“Between the lines,” she said.

“Under the lines,” he said.

I had so little purpose in this encounter that I felt not like a fifth wheel on a cart but rather like a fifth wheel on a tricycle.

I was suddenly distracted from their conversation by a ruckus outside, a clang and clatter that drew me to one of the windows. I pulled aside the drapery and pressed my forehead to the glass, the better to see down.

One story below, agitated freaks swarmed around the base of the guest tower, both the hideous kind and the more hideous. I heard them grunting and snorting, and then came the loud clang again as one of them swung an axe hard against the iron bars that protected a ground-floor window directly below the one at which I stood.

Even if they were to chop away at the masonry in which the iron was anchored and were to pry loose those bars, the windows were too small for them to squeeze through. These beasts were primitive, emotionally volatile, mentally unstable, one deep-fried pork rind short of a full bag, but they were not so stupid or so rabidly mad that they would continue futilely attacking the windows when the front door awaited them.

That door was ironbound, not entirely ironclad. Edged with iron, banded with iron, it nevertheless offered swaths of oak at which to
chop. And though it was exceedingly thick and though the hardware was forged to withstand a siege by dumb brutes that, at best, might try battering it down, it hadn’t been installed to withstand an assault by freaks armed with axes and hammers.

Victoria Mors had said the freaks were never armed like this before, that they had carried nothing but simple clubs until this full tide. She’d said they were getting smarter.

One of them saw me at the second-floor window and began to shriek at me and shake one fisted hand. His rage infected the others, and they all faced me, howling for blood and brandishing both fists and weapons.

I thought of Enceladus and the Titans, crushed under the stones that they had piled high in order to reach the heavens and make war with the gods. But I was not one of the gods, and the second floor of the tower wasn’t as far away as the heavens.

Turning from the window, I interrupted Annamaria and Timothy in their half-scrutable conversation. “The freaks are here. As soon as they decide to come at the door, we’ll have ten minutes at most.”

“Then we’ll worry about it eight minutes after that,” Annamaria said, as if the mob outside was nothing more than an Avon lady eager to show us a new line of personal-care products.

“No, no, no. You don’t know what the freaks are,” I told her. “We haven’t had time to talk about them.”

“And we don’t have time now,” she said. “What I have to discuss with Tim takes precedence.”

The boy and the dogs seemed to agree with her. They all smiled at me, amused by my nervous excitement about the arrival of a few overwrought pigs with a reverse luau on their minds.

“We have to go up to the third floor,” I said. “The only way out of here is the way Tim and I came in.”

“You go ahead now, young man. We’ll follow just as soon as we’re done here.”

I knew better than to press her further on the issue. She would respond to each of my urgent arguments either with a few words of quiet reassurance or with an enigmatic line I would not understand for maybe three years, if ever.

“Okay,” I said, “all right, fine, okay, I’ll go up to the third floor and just wait for you, for the freaks, for a ghost horse, for a marching band, whoever wants to come, anyone, everyone, I’ll just go wait.”

“Good,” Annamaria said, and returned to her conversation with Timothy.

I left her suite, closing the door behind me, and I ran down the stairs rather than up. In the vestibule between the outer door and the door to my suite, I could hear the freaks milling around out there, making a variety of piggish noises and some that were human enough to give me the creeps big-time. They seemed to be pumping up one another, like members of a team psyching themselves for the next big play.

In my suite, from the highest shelf in the bedroom closet, I retrieved the plastic-wrapped brick of money that had been given to me by the elderly actor Hutch Hutchison before I’d left Magic Beach just a few days earlier. If I shut down Roseland forever and fled, Annamaria and I would need this bankroll.

During my weeks in Magic Beach, I had worked for Mr. Hutchison, and we had become friends. I didn’t want his money, but he insisted with such grace and kindness that refusing it one more time would have been the basest kind of insult.

When Mr. Hutchison had been nine years old, a lot of banks had failed in the Great Depression. Consequently, he didn’t entirely trust such institutions. He concealed bricks of cash in his freezer, wrapped
tightly in pieces of white-plastic trash bags and sealed with plumbing tape.

Each package was labeled with code words. If the label read
BEEF TONGUE
, the brick contained twenty-dollar bills. S
WEETBREADS
identified a fifty-fifty split between twenties and hundreds. When Hutch gave me one such package in a pink hostess-gift bag with little yellow birds flying all over it, he wouldn’t tell me how much money it contained, and thus far I hadn’t looked.

I’d forgotten the code word on the label of this brick. When I retrieved it from the closet, I saw that it said
PORK RIND
. At the center of the universe is someone who has a sense of humor.

Clutching Mr. Hutchison’s gift, I left my suite and locked the door behind me.

The freaks had not yet begun to chop at the front door.

I hurried up the winding stairs, past Annamaria’s suite, to the third-floor door, where I’d stuffed two dollars in the receiving hole for the latch bolt.

When I entered the high chamber, Constantine Cloyce stepped out from behind the door and slammed the butt of his pistol-grip shotgun in my face.

I WAS IN AUSCHWITZ AGAIN, TERRIFIED OF DYING twice. I was not digging fast enough to please the guard. He kicked me once, twice, a third time. The steel toe of his boot ripped my left cheek. Out of me poured not blood but instead powdery gray ashes, and as the ashes flowed, I felt my face beginning to collapse inward, as if I were not a real man but merely the inflatable figure of a man, a hollow man stuffed with straw that had turned to ash and soot without my being aware. And in the ground where I was digging with inadequate speed there appeared a chair on which sat T. S. Eliot, the poet, who read to me two lines from a book of his verse: “This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.”

I woke on the copper floor of the high room, for a moment not sure how I had gotten there. But then I remembered Wolflaw.… No, Cloyce. Constantine Cloyce. His eyes the gray of brushed steel, his matinee-idol chin thrust forward, his jaws clenched, his small, full-lipped mouth twisted in a sneer of contempt as he drove the butt of the shotgun into me.

My face hurt. I tasted blood. My vision was blurry. When I
blinked rapidly, I couldn’t see any better, but each blink caused my head to throb painfully.

I could hear him singing softly. At first I couldn’t identify the song, but then I realized it was an American standard, Cole Porter’s “Let’s Misbehave.”

Hesitant to move for fear I would draw his attention before I could see well enough to defend myself, I remained facedown, head turned to my right, for perhaps a minute until my vision cleared.

On the floor, about two feet from me, was the brick of money wrapped in plastic. Whatever my pathetic treasure might amount to, it wouldn’t buy my life from a murderer who was a billionaire.

Beyond the package of cash rose the chronosphere. I couldn’t see Cloyce’s feet moving anywhere in that glimmering construction, only the inner gimbal mounting as it silently carved lazy eights in the air, the arms of it moving impossibly but ceaselessly. And in the golden light that arose equally in every cubic inch of the chamber, my enemy cast no telltale shadow.

I was lying with my right arm trapped under me. When I moved the fingers of that hand, I could feel the swell of leather that was the belt-slider holster. Slowly, taking care not to move otherwise, I wormed my hand to the Beretta—and found that it had been taken from me.

On the floor between me and the brick of money lay a tooth. I searched my mouth with my tongue and found not one hole but two. The way the blood thickened in my throat and the taste of it were beginning to sicken me.

Judging by his voice, he was behind me, several steps removed.

Lacking a weapon, my best hope seemed to be to get up fast and rush away from him, around the chronosphere, try to keep it between him and me until I got to either the copper door or the stainless-steel stairs.

I thrust up, but dizziness and pain stalled me when I got as far as my hands and knees. Cloyce kicked my left arm out from under me, and I fell facedown again.

Now he was softly singing a different Cole Porter number: “I Get a Kick Out of You.”

His choice of songs alerted me to what was coming next, but I was powerless to escape it. He kicked me in the hip, in my left side, again in my side, and I felt a rib crack.

He jammed one boot on my back, put his weight on me, and the cracked rib seemed to catch fire and burn through my flesh.

I now understood my dream:

What the Nazis hoped to do to the Jews they killed, to the Gypsies and the Catholics they killed, was to kill them twice. It is what all tyrants hope to do, those armed with the mighty power of the state, like Hitler, and those with lesser power, like Cloyce. Mere physical destruction does not satisfy them. They use fear to wither your spirit, continuous propaganda and cruel mockery to confuse you, torture and forced labor to break more than just your body. They want to reduce you, if they can, to the condition of a frightened animal who has lost any faith that might have sustained him, who accepts his humiliation as deserved, who descends into such depression that he forsakes all belief that justice is attainable, that truth exists, or meaning. After they first kill your soul, they are then satisfied to kill your body, and if in fact they have succeeded, you cooperate meekly in your own physical—second—death. They are all in the army of the damned, and if they have a stronger faith in the righteousness of evil than their victims have in the reality and power of good, they cannot lose.