Odd Hours
An Odd Thomas Novel
(Sprache: Englisch)
The latest Odd Thomas thriller from the master storyteller. A mystery in Magic Beach, California has lured Odd to the small town by the ocean -- but is it the call of the deep or the cry of the desperate?
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The latest Odd Thomas thriller from the master storyteller. A mystery in Magic Beach, California has lured Odd to the small town by the ocean -- but is it the call of the deep or the cry of the desperate?
Klappentext zu „Odd Hours “
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLEROnly a handful of fictional characters are recognized by first name alone. Dean Koontz s Odd Thomas is one such literary hero, who has come alive in readers imaginations as he explores the greatest mysteries of this world and the next with his inimitable wit, heart, and quiet gallantry. Now Koontz follows Odd as he is drawn onward, to a destiny he cannot imagine. Haunted by dreams of an all-encompassing red tide, Odd is pulled inexorably to the sea, to a small California coastal town where nothing is as it seems.
Lese-Probe zu „Odd Hours “
Chapter OneIt s only life. We all get through it.
Not all of us complete the journey in the same condition. Along the way, some lose their legs or eyes in accidents or altercations, while others skate through the years with nothing worse to worry about than an occasional bad-hair day.
I still possessed both legs and both eyes, and even my hair looked all right when I rose that Wednesday morning in late January. If I returned to bed sixteen hours later, having lost all of my hair but nothing else, I would consider the day a triumph. Even minus a few teeth, I d call it a triumph.
When I raised the window shades in my bedroom, the cocooned sky was gray and swollen, windless and still, but pregnant with a promise of change.
Overnight, according to the radio, an airliner had crashed in Ohio. Hundreds perished. The sole survivor, a ten-month-old child, had been found upright and unscathed in a battered seat that stood in a field of scorched and twisted debris.
Throughout the morning, under the expectant sky, low sluggish waves exhausted themselves on the shore. The Pacific was gray and awash with inky shadows, as if sinuous sea beasts of fantastical form swam just below the surface.
During the night, I had twice awakened from a dream in which the tide flowed red and the sea throbbed with a terrible light.
As nightmares go, I m sure you ve had worse. The problem is that a few of my dreams have come true, and people have died.
While I prepared breakfast for my employer, the kitchen radio brought news that the jihadists who had the previous day seized an ocean liner in the Mediterranean were now beheading passengers.
Years ago I stopped watching news programs on television. I can tolerate words and the knowledge they impart, but the images undo me.
Because he was an insomniac who went to bed at dawn, Hutch ate breakfast at noon. He paid me well, and he was kind, so I cooked to his schedule without complaint.
Hutch took his meals in
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the dining room, where the draperies were always closed. Not one bright sliver of any windowpane remained exposed.
He often enjoyed a film while he ate, lingering over coffee until the credits rolled. That day, rather than cable news, he watched Carole Lombard and John Barrymore in Twentieth Century.
Eighty-eight years old, born in the era of silent films, when Lillian Gish and Rudolph Valentino were stars, and having later been a successful actor, Hutch thought less in words than in images, and he dwelt in fantasy.
Beside his plate stood a bottle of Purell sanitizing gel. He lavished it on his hands not only before and after eating, but also at least twice during a meal.
Like most Americans in the first decade of the new century, Hutch feared everything except what he ought to fear.
When TV-news programs ran out of stories about drunk, drug-addled, murderous, and otherwise crazed celebrities which happened perhaps twice a year they sometimes filled the brief gap with a sensationalistic piece on that rare flesh-eating bacteria.
Consequently, Hutch feared contracting the ravenous germ. From time to time, like a dour character in a tale by Poe, he huddled in his lamplit study, brooding about his fate, about the fragility of his flesh, about the insatiable appetite of his microscopic foe.
He especially dreaded that his nose might be eaten away.
Long ago, his face had been famous. Although time had disguised him, he still took pride in his appearance.
I had seen a few of Lawrence Hutchison s movies from the 1940s and 50s. I liked them. He d been a commanding presence on screen.
Because he had not appeared on camera for five decades, Hutch was less known for his acting than for his children s books about a swashbuckling rabbit named Nibbles. Unlike his creator, Nibbles was fearless.
He often enjoyed a film while he ate, lingering over coffee until the credits rolled. That day, rather than cable news, he watched Carole Lombard and John Barrymore in Twentieth Century.
Eighty-eight years old, born in the era of silent films, when Lillian Gish and Rudolph Valentino were stars, and having later been a successful actor, Hutch thought less in words than in images, and he dwelt in fantasy.
Beside his plate stood a bottle of Purell sanitizing gel. He lavished it on his hands not only before and after eating, but also at least twice during a meal.
Like most Americans in the first decade of the new century, Hutch feared everything except what he ought to fear.
When TV-news programs ran out of stories about drunk, drug-addled, murderous, and otherwise crazed celebrities which happened perhaps twice a year they sometimes filled the brief gap with a sensationalistic piece on that rare flesh-eating bacteria.
Consequently, Hutch feared contracting the ravenous germ. From time to time, like a dour character in a tale by Poe, he huddled in his lamplit study, brooding about his fate, about the fragility of his flesh, about the insatiable appetite of his microscopic foe.
He especially dreaded that his nose might be eaten away.
Long ago, his face had been famous. Although time had disguised him, he still took pride in his appearance.
I had seen a few of Lawrence Hutchison s movies from the 1940s and 50s. I liked them. He d been a commanding presence on screen.
Because he had not appeared on camera for five decades, Hutch was less known for his acting than for his children s books about a swashbuckling rabbit named Nibbles. Unlike his creator, Nibbles was fearless.
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Autoren-Porträt von Dean R. Koontz
Dean Koontz, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Elsa, and the enduring spirit of their goldens, Trixie and Anna.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Dean R. Koontz
- 2009, 432 Seiten, Maße: 13,2 x 19,2 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Bantam Books
- ISBN-10: 0553591703
- ISBN-13: 9780553591705
- Erscheinungsdatum: 19.10.2009
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Koontz s most likable creation. The New York TimesKoontz forges the kind of sweeping melodrama complete with screwball laughs, nail-biting moments, and surprises that is the bedrock of American narrative fiction. Booklist
One of the most remarkable and appealing characters in current fiction . . . a page-turning account . . . beautifully written . . . another literary home run. The Virginian-Pilot
Takes off at breakneck speed . . . a superb story from one of our contemporary masters. San Antonio Express-News
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