Brother Odd: An Odd Thomas Novel by Dean Koontz

Author:Dean Koontz [Koontz, Dean]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Bantam Books
Published: 2012-04-23T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

GEORGE WASHINGTON, HARPER LEE, AND Flannery O’Connor smiled down on me, as if mocking my inability to solve the riddle of their shared quality.

Sister Angela sat at her desk, watching me over the frames of a pair of half-lens reading glasses that had slid down her nose. She held a pen poised above a lined yellow tablet.

Brother Constantine had not accompanied us from the reception lounge. Maybe he had at last moved on from this world, maybe not.

Pacing, I said, “I think most of the brothers are pacifists only as far as reason allows. Most would fight to save an innocent life.”

“God requires resistance to evil,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. But willingness to fight isn’t enough. I want those who know how to fight. Put Brother Knuckles at the head of the list.”

“Brother Salvatore,” she corrected.

“Yes, ma’am. Brother Knuckles will know what to do when the shit—” My voice failed and my face flushed.

“You could have completed the thought, Oddie. The words hits the fan wouldn’t have offended me.”

“Sorry, Sister.”

“I’m a nun, not a naïf.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who in addition to Brother Salvatore?”

“Brother Victor spent twenty-six years in the Marine Corps.”

“I think he’s seventy years old.”

“Yes, ma’am, but he was a marine.”

“ ‘No better friend, no worse enemy,’ ” she quoted.

“Semper Fi sure does seem to be what we need.”

She said, “Brother Gregory was an army corpsman.”

The infirmarian had never spoken of military service.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I thought he had a nursing degree.”

“He does. But he was a corpsman for many years, and in the thick of action.”

Medics on the battlefield are often as courageous as those who carry the guns.

“For sure, we want Brother Gregory,” I said.

“What about Brother Quentin?”

“Wasn’t he a cop, ma’am?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Put him on the list.”

“How many do you think we need?” she asked.

“Fourteen, sixteen.”

“We’ve got four.”

I paced in silence. I stopped pacing and stood at the window. I started pacing again.

“Brother Fletcher,” I suggested.

This choice baffled her. “The music director?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“In his secular life, he was a musician.”

“That’s a tough business, ma’am.”

She considered. Then: “He does sometimes have an attitude.”

“Saxophone players tend to have attitude,” I said. “I know a saxophonist who tore a guitar out of another musician’s hands and shot the instrument five times. It was a nice Fender.”

“Why would he do a thing like that?” she asked.

“He was upset about inappropriate chord changes.”

Disapproval furrowed her brow. “When this is over, perhaps your saxophonist friend could stay at the abbey for a while. I’m trained to counsel people in techniques of conflict resolution.”

“Well, ma’am, shooting the guitar was conflict resolution.”

She looked up at Flannery O’Connor and, after a moment, nodded as if in agreement with something the writer had said. “Okay, Oddie. You think Brother Fletcher could kick butt?”

“Yes, ma’am, for the kids, I think he could.”

“Then we’ve got five.”

I sat in one of the two visitors’ chairs.

“Five,” she repeated.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I looked at my wristwatch. We stared at each other.

After a silence, she changed the subject: “If it comes to a fight, what will they fight with?”

“For one thing, baseball bats.

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