Odd Apocalypse

condition.

The terrible blank eyes were so white that the cataracts allowed no slightest suggestion of the irises and pupils beneath. He appeared to be totally blind.

Although I couldn’t hear him inhale or exhale, his chest rose and fell slightly. His breathing was slow and shallow.

Except for those eerie eyes, he was a good-looking boy with clear pale skin, refined features that suggested he would grow quite handsome in time, and thick dark hair. He might have been a bit small for his age; the armchair dwarfed him, and his feet didn’t reach the floor.

I thought I saw in his features a suggestion of the horse-riding woman, but I could not be certain.

… there’s someone here who’s in great danger and desperately needs you.…

I believed that I had found the person of whom Annamaria had spoken — and the son of the ghost rider. I didn’t know the nature of the danger, however, or what I could do for the boy.

His upturned left hand twitched and the heel of his left shoe bumped twice against the front of the armchair as if a doctor had rapped his kneecap to test his reflexes.

I said, “Can you hear me?”

When he did not reply, I sat on the ottoman in front of his chair. After watching him for a while, I reached out and took hold of his right wrist to time his pulse.

Although he was at rest and breathing slowly, his heart raced: 110 beats per minute. But there was nothing irregular in the rhythm, and he seemed in no serious distress.

His skin was so cold that I pressed his right hand between both of mine to warm it.

He did not at first react, but suddenly his fingers clutched me and squeezed tight. A small gasp escaped him, and he shuddered.

Cataracts were not his problem, after all. His eyes had been rolled farther back in his head than I would have thought possible. The irises descended. They were ginger-brown and clear.

Initially he seemed to stare through me, at something far beyond this room. Gradually his focus changed, and he looked at me, though not with surprise, as though we knew each other or as if nothing could amaze or perplex him in spite of his youth and inexperience.

His fingers relaxed their grip on me, and he withdrew his hand from mine. His frost-pale skin gradually began to color as though with reflected flames, although the nearby fireplace was dark and cold.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He blinked a few times and surveyed the room, as if reminding himself where he was.

“My name’s Odd Thomas. I’m staying in the guesthouse.”

His attention returned to me. His stare was unnervingly direct, especially for a child. “I know.”

“What’s your name?”

Instead of answering, he said, “They told me I’ve got to keep to my rooms as long as you’re here.”

“Who told you?”

“All of them.”

“Why?”

He got up from the chair, and I rose from the ottoman. He went to the fireplace and stood there, staring through the fire screen at the logs stacked on the brass andirons.

After deciding that he might not say any more without being pressed, I asked again, “What’s your name?”

“Their faces melt off their skulls. And their skulls turn black when the air touches them, and all their bones black. And then the black blows away like soot, there isn’t anything left of them.”

The pitch of his voice was that of a boy, but seldom if ever had I heard a child speak so solemnly. And more than solemnity, there was a quality to his speech that chilled me, a sadness that might be despondency, the incapacity for the present exercise of hope, perhaps not yet despair but just one stop up the line from that worse condition.

“Maybe twenty girls in uniforms and kneesocks,” he continued, “walking to school. One second to the next, their clothes are on fire, and their hair, and when they try to scream, flames fly out of their mouths.”

I moved to him and put one hand on his slender shoulder. “A nightmare, huh?”

Gazing into the cold firebox, as if seeing burning schoolgirls instead of logs or andirons, he shook his head. “No.”

“A movie, a book,” I said, trying to understand him.

He looked up at me. His eyes were lustrous and dark — and no less haunted by something than Roseland was haunted by the spirit rider and her horse.

“You better hide,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s almost nine o’clock. That’s when she comes back.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Tameed. She comes back at nine o’clock to get my breakfast tray.”

Glancing toward the door, I heard a noise in the hallway.

“You better hide,” the boy repeated. “If they know you’ve seen me, they’ll kill you.”

Sixteen

Paulie Sempiterno had said he wanted to put a bullet in my face because he didn’t like it. Having looked in a mirror often enough, I could understand that motive. But I could not imagine why I should have earned a death sentence merely because I’d seen the boy on the second floor. Although the child was strange, I at once believed his dire warning.

When I fled the parlor through the connecting door to the next room, I saw that the bed was made, which meant Mrs. Tameed might not need to go farther than the front room. But then I spotted the boy’s breakfast tray on a small table, on which also was a stack of books.

Through another doorway, I glimpsed a bathroom. Windows in bathrooms were usually too small to serve as escape routes, which left the tub drain.

As I peered into a walk-in closet, I realized it was no safer than the bathroom. I heard Mrs. Tameed, in the other room, ask the boy if he had finished breakfast, and I stepped into this last possible refuge, leaving the door ajar an inch.

In Rebecca, both book and movie, the head housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, was a walking hatchet in a long black dress, and you knew the first time she came on scene that eventually she was going to chop someone or set the house on fire.

Mrs. Tameed had not graduated from that school of dour and secretive servants. Six feet tall, blond, solid but not plump, with hands that looked strong enough to massage Kobe cattle after they’d been fed their grain and beer, she had a generous smile and one of those open Scandinavian faces that seemed incapable of expressions that were deceitful. Although you might not have thought her a woman who could keep terrible secrets, you would have seen in her, as I did, something of an Amazon who, handed a dagger and a broadsword, would have known how to use them to deadly effect.

When she entered the boy’s bedroom, she didn’t merely walk but strode to the table to collect the breakfast tray, shoulders back and head high, as if even this mundane chore was of great import.

Appearing behind her in the doorway, the boy said, “I want to talk to him about more privileges.”

“He isn’t of a mind to speak with you,” Mrs. Tameed said, and her voice was cool, not dismissive but firm and without a trace of deference, as if the child must be far lower than she was in the social structure of Roseland.

The sweet choirboy voice was a generation younger than the words delivered in it: “He has an obligation, a responsibility. He thinks no rules apply to him, but no one is above everything.”

Tray in hand, the housekeeper said, “Listen to yourself, and you’ll hear why he won’t speak with you.”

“He brought me here. If he won’t speak with me any longer, then he should at least take me back.”