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Saint Odd is a work of fiction.Names, characters, places, andincidents are the products of theauthor’s imagination or are usedfictitiously. Any resemblance toactual events, locales, or persons,living or dead, is entirelycoincidental.Copyright 2015 by Dean KoontzAll rights reserved.

Published in the United States byBantam Books, an imprint ofRandom House, a division ofRandom House LLC, a PenguinRandom House Company, NewYork.Title page art from an originalphotograph by Luis BritoA signed, limited edition has beenprivately printed by Charnel House.Charnelhouse.com

BANTAM BOOKS and the HOUSEcolophon are registered trademarksof Random House LLC.LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-INPUBLICATION DATAKoontz, Dean R. (Dean Ray)Saint Odd : an Odd Thomas novel /Dean Koontz.pages; cm.—(Odd Thomas)ISBN 978-0-345-54587-9(hardcover : acid-free paper)ISBN 978-0-345-54588-6 (eBook)

1. Thomas, Odd (Fictitiouscharacter)—Fiction. 2. Cooks—Fiction. 3. Mediums—Fiction. I.Title.PS3561.O55S25 cket design: Scott BielJacket image (man): ClaudioMarinesco

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ContentsCoverTitle PageCopyrightEpigraphhapter Onehapter Twohapter Three

hapter Fourhapter Fivehapter Sixhapter Sevenhapter Eighthapter Ninehapter Tenhapter Elevenhapter Twelvehapter Thirteenhapter Fourteenhapter Fifteenhapter Sixteen

hapter Seventeenhapter Eighteenhapter Nineteenhapter Twentyhapter Twenty-onehapter Twenty-twohapter Twenty-threehapter Twenty-fourhapter Twenty-fivehapter Twenty-sixhapter Twenty-sevenhapter Twenty-eighthapter Twenty-nine

hapter Thirtyhapter Thirty-onehapter Thirty-twohapter Thirty-threehapter Thirty-fourhapter Thirty-fivehapter Thirty-sixhapter Thirty-sevenhapter Thirty-eighthapter Thirty-ninehapter Fortyhapter Forty-onehapter Forty-two

hapter Forty-threehapter Forty-fourhapter Forty-fivehapter Forty-sixhapter Forty-sevenhapter Forty-eighthapter Forty-ninehapter Fiftyhapter Fifty-onehapter Fifty-twohapter Fifty-threeDedicationOther Books by This

AuthorAbout the Author

The only wisdom wecan hope toacquireIs the wisdom ofhumility. —T. S.

Eliot,EastCoker

SaintOdd

OneAlone in the vastness ofthe Mojave, at two o’clockin the morning, racingalong at seventy miles perhour, I felt safe andbelieved that whatever

terror might await me wasyet many miles ahead.This would not be the firsttime in my strange life thatsafety proved to be anillusion.I have a tendency tohope always for the best,even when I’m beingstrangled with a little girl’sjump rope knotted aroundmy neck by an angry,three-hundred-pound

Samoan wrestler. In fact, Igot out of that difficultsituation alive, primarilyby getting hold of hisbelovedporkpiehat,which he considered thesource of his good luck.When I spun the hat like aFrisbee and he let go of thejump rope to try to snatchhis chapeau from the air, Iwas able to pick up acroquetmalletand

surprise him with a blowto the genitals, which wasespeciallyeffectivebecause he was wearingonly a thong. Alwayshoping for the best hasgenerally served me well.Anyway, under a fullmoon, the desert was aseerie as a landscape on analien planet. The greatblack serpent of highwayundulated over a series of

low rises and gentledownslopes, through sandflats that glowed faintly, asif radioactive, past suddenthrusting formations ofrock threaded through inplaces with quartzite orsomething else that caughtthe Big Dog motorcycle’sheadlights and flared likeveins of fire.In spite of the big moonand the bike’s three

blazing eyes, the Mojavegathered darkness acrossits breadth. Half-revealed,gnarled shapes of mesquiteand scatterings of otherspiky plants bristled andseemed to leap forward asI flew past them, as if theywere quick and hostileanimals.With its wide-sweptfairing and saddlebags, theBig Dog Bulldog Bagger

looked like it was made forsuburban marrieds, but itsfuel-injected,111-cubicinch V-twin motor offeredall the speed anyone couldwant. When I had been onthe interstate, before I hadswitched to this lesstraveled state highway, aquick twist of the throttleshot me past whatever caror big rig was dawdling infront of me. Now I cruised

at seventy, comfortable inthe low deep-pocket seat,the rubber-mounted motorkeeping the vibration to aminimum.Although I wore gogglesand a Head Trip carbonfiber helmet that left myears exposed, the shriekingwind and the Big Dog’sthroatyexhaustroarmasked the sound of theCadillac Escalade that,

running dark, came upbehind me and announceditself with a blast of thehorn. The driver switchedon the headlights, whichflashed in my mirrors, sothat I had to glance overmy shoulder to see that hewas no more than fifty feetbehind me. The SUV was afrightening behemoth atthat distance, at thatspeed.

Repeated blasts of thehorn suggested the drivermight be drunk or high ondrugs, and either grippedby road rage or in themood for a sick little gameof chicken. When hetootedshave-and-ahaircut-two-bits, he heldthe last note too long, andI assured myself thatanyone who indulged insuch a cliché and then

even lacked the timing topull it off could not be adangerous adversary.Earlier, I had learnedthat the Big Dog’s sweetspot was north of eightymiles an hour and that itwas fully rideable at ahundred. I twisted thethrottle, and the bikegobbled asphalt, leavingthe Caddy behind. For themoment.

This wasn’t the height ofbug season in the Mojave,so I didn’t have to eat anymoths or hard-shelledbeetles when I mutteredunpleasantries. At thatspeed, however, because Isat tall and tense with myhead above the lowwindshield,thewarmnight air chapped my lipsand stung my cheeks as Ibulleted into it.

Anyresponsibledermatologist would havechastised me for speedingbarefaced through this aridwasteland.Formanyreasons, however, therewas little chance that Iwould live to celebrate mytwenty-third birthday, solooking prematurely agedtwo decades hence didn’tworry me.This time I heard the

Escalade coming, rsmovie,running dark once more.Sooner than I hoped, thedriver switched on theheadlights, which flared inmy mirrors and washedthe pavement around me.Closer than fifty feet.The SUV was obviouslysouped. This wasn’t an

nginesounded as if it had comeout of General Motors byway of Boeing. If heintended to run me downand paste me to �t be able tooutracewhatevercustomized engine made

him king of the road.Having tricked up hisvehicle with alternate,multi-tonalhornsprogrammed with piecesof familiar tunes, he nowtaunted me with the highvolume song-title notes ofSonny and Cher’s “TheBeat Goes On.”The Big Dog boasted asix-speedtransmission.The extra gear and the

right-side drive pulleyallowed better balance andgreater control than wouldthe average touring bike.The fat 250-millimeterrear tire gave me a senseof stability and the thirtyfour-degree neck rakeinspired the confidence tostunt a little even though Iwas approaching tripledigit speeds.Now he serenaded me

with the first seven notesof the Kingsmen’s “LouieLouie.” And then again.My one advantage mightbe maneuverability. I slidlower in the seat, so thatthe arc of the windshieldsent the wind over myhelmet, and I made moreaggressive use of the threelane highway, executingwideserpentinemovements from shoulder

to shoulder. I was low tothe ground, and theEscalade had a muchhigher center of gravitythan the Big Dog; if thedriver tried to stay on mytail, he might roll the SUV.Supposing he was smart,he should realize that bynot mimicking me, bycontinuing arrow-straight,he could rapidly gainground as I serpentined.

And with easy calculation,he could intersect me as Iswooped from side to sideof the road.The third blast of “LouieLouie” assured me thateither he wasn’t smart orhe was so wasted that hemight follow me into a pitof fire before he realizedwhat he had done. Yetanother programmed hornblared several notes, but I

didn’t recognize the tune,though into my mind camethe image of that led, I glancedback to see the Escaladelisting, its tires smoking, asthe driver pulled the wheelhard to the right to avoidgoing off the north side ofthe pavement. Carving one

S after another down thestraightaway, I corneredout of the current curve,grateful for the Big Dog’sjustly praised BalanceDrive, and swooped intothe next. With anothersqueal, the Caddy’s tireslaid a skin of hot rubberon the blacktop as thedriver pulled hard to theleft. The vehicle nearlyskidded off the south

shoulder of the roadway,listing again but, aspreviously, righting itselfwell before it tipped over.Resorting to his basichorn, the driver made noattempt at a tune this time,but let out blast after blastas if he thought he couldsweep me off the bike withsound waves.Recounting this, I mightconvey the impression that

I remained calm andcollected throughout thepursuit, but in fact I fearedthat, at any moment, Iwould regret not havingworn an adult diaper.In spite of whateverdrugs or beverages hadpushed the SUV driver’sCRAZY button and filled himwith murderous rage, heretainedjustenoughreason to realize that if he

continued to follow mylead, he would roll theSUV. Arrowing down thecenter of the three lanes,he regained the groundthat he’d lost, intending tointersect my bike betweenconnecting curves of myflatland slalom.The Big Dog BulldogBagger wasn’t meant to bea dirt bike. The diet thatmade it happy consisted of

concrete and blacktop, andit wanted to be admiredfor its sleek aerodynamiclines and custom paint joband abundant chrome, notfor its ruggedness andability to slam throughwildlandscapeswithaplomb.Nevertheless, I went offroad. They say thatnecessity is the mother ofinvention, but it is also the

grandmotherofdesperation. The highwaywas raised about two feetabove the land throughwhich it passed, and I leftthe shoulder at such speedthat the bike was airbornefor a moment beforereturning to the earth witha jolt that briefly lifted mybutt off the seat and mademy feet dance on thefloorboards.

Hereabouts, the desertwasn’t a softscape of sanddunes and dead lakes ofpowdery silt, which was agoodthing,becausecrossing ground like that,the Big Dog would havewallowed to a halt withina hundred yards. The landwas mostly hard-packed bythousands of years offierce sun and scouringwinds, the igneous rocks

rich with feldspar, treelessbutinsomeplaceshospitable to purple sageand mesquite and scragglyplantslesseasilyidentified.Jacked up on oversizetires, more suited to goingoverland than was mybike, the four-wheel-driveEscalade came off thehighway in my wake. Iintended to find a break in

the land or an overhangingescarpment deep enoughto conceal me, or a suddenspine of rock, anything Icould use to get out ofsightofmylunaticpursuer. After that, Iwould switch off myheadlights, slow downsignificantly, travel bymoonlight, and try asquickly as possible to putone turn in the land after

another between me andhim. Eventually I mightfind a place in which toshelter, shut off the bike,listen, and wait.Suddenly a greater lightflooded across the land,and when I looked back, Isaw that the Escaladesported a roof rack ofpowerful spotlights thatthe driver had just nowemployed.Thedesert

before me resembled ascene out of an earlySteven Spielberg movie: aremote landing strip whereexcited and glamorousscientists from a secretgovernmentagencyprepared to welcome acontingentofbenignextraterrestrials and theirmother ship. Instead ofscientistsandaliens,however, there was some

inbred banjo player fromDeliverance chasing mewith bad intentions.In those harsh and farreaching streams of light,each humble twist ofvegetation cast a long,inky shadow. The paleland was revealed as lessirregular than I’d hoped,an apparent plain where Iwas no more likely to finda hiding place than I

wouldaMcDonald’sfranchise complete with aplayground for the tots.Although my nature wasto be optimistic, evencheerful, in the face ofthreat and gloom, therewere times, like this, whenI felt as though the entireworld was death row andthat my most recent mealhad been my last one.I continued north into