NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER   I see dead people. But then, by God, I do something about it. Odd Thomas never asked for his special ability. He’s just an ordinary guy trying to live a quiet life in the small desert town of Pico Mundo. Yet he feels an obligation to do right by his otherworldly confidants, and that’s why he’s won hearts on both sides of the divide between life and death. But when a childhood friend disappears, Odd discovers something worse than a dead body and embarks on a heart-stopping battle of will and wits with an enemy of exceptional cunning. In the hours to come there can be no innocent bystanders, and every sacrifice can tip the balance between despair and hope.   You’re invited on an unforgettable journey through a world of terror and transcendence to wonders beyond imagining. And you can have no better guide than Odd Thomas. “Compelling . . . a marvelously narrated cat-and-mouse game.”—New York Daily News   “Heartfelt and provocative . . . a wonderfully rich and entertaining story.”— Chicago Sun-Times   “An inventive . . . mix of suspense, whimsy, and uplift. It’s refreshing to come across a character as good-hearted as Odd. . . . [Koontz has] a voice all his own.”— The Washington Post   “The nice young fry cook with the occult powers is Koontz’s most likable creation.” —The New York Times Dean Koontz, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Anna, and the enduring spirit of their golden, Trixie. Chapter One WAKING, I HEARD A WARM WIND STRUMMING THE LOOSE screen at the open window, and I thought Stormy, but it was not. The desert air smelled faintly of roses, which were not in bloom, and of dust, which in the Mojave flourishes twelve months of the year. Precipitation falls on the town of Pico Mundo only during our brief winter. This mild February night was not, however, sweetened by the scent of rain. I hoped to hear the fading rumble of thunder. If a peal had awakened me, it must have been thunder in a dream. Holding my breath, I lay listening to the silence, and felt the silence listening to me. The nightstand clock painted glowing numbers on the gloom—2:41 A.M. For a moment I considered remaining in bed. But these days I do not sleep as well as I did when I was young. I am twenty-one and much older than when I was twenty. Certain that I had company, expecting to find two Elvises watching over me, one with a cocky smile and one with sad concern, I sat up and switched on the lamp. A single Elvis stood in a corner: a life-size cardboard figure that had been part of a theater-lobby display for Blue Hawaii . In a Hawaiian shirt and a lei, he looked self-confident and happy. Back in 1961, he'd had much to be happy about. Blue Hawaii was a hit film, and the album went to number one. He had six gold records that year, including "Can't Help Falling in Love," and he was falling in love with Priscilla Beaulieu. Less happily, at the insistence of his manager, Tom Parker, he had turned down the lead in West Side Story in favor of mediocre movie fare like Follow That Dream. Gladys Presley, his beloved mother, had been dead three years, and still he felt the loss of her, acutely. Only twenty-six, he'd begun to have weight problems. Cardboard Elvis smiles eternally, forever young, incapable of error or regret, untouched by grief, a stranger to despair. I envy him. There is no cardboard replica of me as I once was and as I can never be again. The lamplight revealed another presence, as patient as he was desperate. Evidently he had been watching me sleep, waiting for me to wake. I said, "Hello, Dr. Jessup." Dr. Wilbur Jessup was incapable of a response. Anguish flooded his face. His eyes were desolate pools; all hope had drowned in those lonely depths. "I'm sorry to see you here," I said. He made fists of his hands, not with the intention of striking anything, but as an expression of frustration. He pressed his fists to his chest. Dr. Jessup had never previously visited my apartment; and I knew in my heart that he no longer belonged in Pico Mundo. But I clung to denial, and I spoke to him again as I got out of bed. "Did I leave the door unlocked?" He shook his head. Tears blurred his eyes, but he did not wail or even whimper. Fetching a pair of jeans from the closet, slipping into them, I said, "I've been forgetful lately." He opened his fists and stared at his palms. His hands trembled. He buried his face in them. "There's so much I'd like to forget," I continued as I pulled on socks and shoes, "but only the small stuff slips my mind-like where I left the keys, whether I locked the door, that I'm out of milk. . . ." Dr. Jessup, a radiologist at County General Hospital, was a gentle man, and quiet, although he had never before been this quiet. Because I had not worn a T-shirt to bed, I plucked a white one from a drawer. I have a few black T-shi