Brother Odd (Odd Thomas Series #3)

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Loop me in, odd one. The words, spoken in the deep of night by a sleeping child, chill the young man watching over her. For this was a favorite phrase of Stormy Llewellyn,
his lost love, and Stormy is dead, gone forever from this world. In the haunted halls of the isolated monastery where he had sought peace, Odd Thomas is stalking spirits of an infinitely darker nature

Through two New York Times bestselling novels Odd Thomas has established ...

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Brother Odd (Odd Thomas Series #3)

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Overview

Loop me in, odd one. The words, spoken in the deep of night by a sleeping child, chill the young man watching over her. For this was a favorite phrase of Stormy Llewellyn,
his lost love, and Stormy is dead, gone forever from this world. In the haunted halls of the isolated monastery where he had sought peace, Odd Thomas is stalking spirits of an infinitely darker nature

Through two New York Times bestselling novels Odd Thomas has established himself as one of the most beloved and unique fictional heroes of our time. Now, wielding all the power and magic of a master storyteller at the pinnacle of his craft, Dean Koontz follows Odd into a singular new world where he hopes to make a fresh beginning—but where he will meet an adversary as old and inexorable as time itself.

St. Bartholomew’s Abbey sits in majestic solitude amid the wild peaks of California’s high Sierra, a haven for children otherwise abandoned, and a sanctuary for those seeking insight. Odd Thomas has come here to learn to live fully again, and among the eccentric monks, their other guests, and the nuns and young students of the attached convent school, he has begun to find his way. The silent spirits of the dead who visited him in his earlier life are mercifully absent, save for the bell-ringing Brother Constantine and Odd’s steady companion, the King of Rock 'n' Roll.

But trouble has a way of finding Odd Thomas, and it slinks back onto his path in the form of the sinister bodachs he has met previously, the black shades who herald death and disaster, and who come late one December night to hover above the abbey’s most precious charges. For Odd is about to face an enemy who eclipses any he has yet encountered, as he embarks on a journey of mystery, wonder, and sheer suspense that surpasses all that has come before.


From the Hardcover edition.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Rarely has a character been so instantly embraced by readers as Koontz's unlikely hero, Odd Thomas, the wise and gentle fry cook, who just happens to see dead people. It is just as rare for a narrator to so perfectly capture the essence of a character that it is hard to imagine anyone else giving him voice, but such is the case with Baker. In this third adventure, Odd has left his hometown and taken up residence in a monastery high in the Sierras. Surrounded by loving but eccentric brothers and sisters, Odd hopes to rest and recover from the horrific events of the last two books. But after he discovers the body of one of the monastery brothers, Odd finds himself going up against a supernatural force that threatens the lives of everyone who lives within the monastery walls. Baker beautifully interprets the first-person narration. Like Odd himself, Baker's delivery is mellow and low key, perfectly fitting Odd's calm, self-possessed point of view. Suspenseful, funny and heartbreakingly sweet, this is a fine, enjoyable production. Simultaneous release with the Bantam hardcover (Reviews, Oct. 30). (Dec.)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Library Journal
Odd that Odd Thomas should leave his beloved Pico Mundo. But given his knack for being in the wrong place at the right time, maybe it's not so odd that he finds a killer running loose at the mountain monastery to which he has retreated. Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
In this thrilling, rather poignant sequel to Koontz's Odd Thomas (2003), the young psychic seeker visits a California monastery poised for attack by shadowy foes. Koontz marvelously sets the scene in the tight, heart-stopping first chapter: One December night, Odd Thomas, a 21-year-old hard-luck kid from Pico Mundo, Calif., now a guest of several months at St. Bartholomew's Abbey in the Sierra Nevada, follows some ghosts on a mission to Room 32 of the monastery's school for handicapped children. Called "bodachs," after evil spirits in British folklore, these horrifying protean spirits prefigure some kind of disaster to the children-and Odd, using the paranormal gift shared exclusively by the dog, Boo, has only a day or two at most to try to find out what the danger is and how to block it. Odd, tragically, lost the love of his life, Stormy, 16 months before, when she perished in a fire, and yet she now seems to be speaking through one of the paralyzed children, indicating to him who among them might know more about the imminent threat. Indeed, evidence points to Jacob, a retarded artist at the school, who renders in his drawings startlingly realistic depictions of a ghoulish, bony creature at the window that he calls the Neverwas. Meanwhile, Odd interviews numerous folks at the monastery, including a former New Jersey hit man for the Mafia, a world-renowned physicist who turned increasingly self-tortured and the inimitable Mother Superior, as steely as General George Patton. Terrific characterization and patient plotting mark Koontz's work, and this novel about the triumph of modesty over hubris proves exemplary on both counts. A work both exciting and engaging-and with its heart in theright place.
From the Publisher
“The final chapter of Brother Odd is delightful and makes a promise to readers that Odd will return. Hooray.”—Sacramento Bee

“Odd Thomas' latest adventure will make a believer out of even the hardest-nosed soul.”–Denver Post

“The nice young fry cook with the occult powers is Koontz’s most likeable creation.”—The New York Times

“Odd's strange gifts, coupled with his intelligence and self-effacing humor, make him one of the most quietly authoritative characters in recent popular fiction."—Publishers Weekly, starred review

“Odd Thomas [is] exactly the kind of hero that’s needed.”—South Florida Sun-Sentinel

“Odd Thomas is another name for courage, truth, and devotion to your fellow man.” —Baton Rouge Advocate

From the Hardcover edition.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780553804805
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 11/28/2006
  • Series: Odd Thomas Series , #3
  • Pages: 384
  • Lexile: 1070L (what's this?)
  • Product dimensions: 5.60 (w) x 8.40 (h) x 1.50 (d)

Meet the Author

Dean Koontz, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of their golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California.

From the Paperback edition.

Biography

He is one of the most recognized, read, and loved suspense writers of the 20th century. His imagination is a veritable factory of nightmares, conjuring twisted tales of psychological complexity. He even has a fan in Stephen King. For decades, Dean Koontz's name has been synonymous with terror, and his novels never fail to quicken the pulse and set hearts pounding.

Koontz has a lifelong love of writing that led him to spend much of his free time as an adult furiously cultivating his style and voice. However, it was only after his wife Gerda made him an offer he couldn't refuse while he was teaching English at a high school outside of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, that he had a real opportunity to make a living with his avocation. Gerda agreed to support Dean for five years, during which time he could try to get his writing career off the ground. Little did she know that by the end of that five years she would be leaving her own job to handle the financial end of her husband's massively successful writing career.

Koontz first burst into the literary world with 1970's Beastchild, a science fiction novel that appealed to genre fans with its descriptions of aliens and otherworldly wars but also mined deeper themes of friendship and the breakdown of communication. Although it is not usually ranked among his classics, Beastchild provided the first inkling of Koontz's talent for populating even the most fantastical tale with fully human characters. Even at his goriest or most terrifying, he always allows room for redemption.

This complexity is what makes Koontz's work so popular with readers. He has a true gift for tempering horror with humanity, grotesqueries with lyricism. He also has a knack for genre-hopping, inventing Hitchcockian romantic mysteries, crime dramas, supernatural thrillers, science fiction, and psychological suspense with equal deftness and imagination. Perhaps The Times (London) puts it best: "Dean Koontz is not just a master of our darkest dreams, but also a literary juggler."

Good To Know

Shortly after graduating from college, Koontz took a job with the Appalachian Poverty Program where he would tutor and counsel underprivileged kids. However, after finding out that the last person who held his job had been beaten up and hospitalized by some of these kids, Koontz was more motivated than ever to get his writing career going.

When Koontz was a senior in college, he won the Atlantic Monthly fiction competition.

Koontz and Kevin Anderson's novel Frankenstein: The Prodigal Son was slotted to become a television series produced by Martin Scorsese. However, when the pilot failed to sell, the USA Network aired it as a TV movie in 2004. By that time Koontz had removed his name from the project.

Some fun and fascinating outtakes from our interview with Koontz:

"My wife, Gerda, and I took seven years of private ballroom dancing lessons, twice a week, ninety minutes each time. After we had gotten good at everything from swing to the foxtrot, we not only stopped taking lessons, but also stopped going dancing. Learning had been great fun; but for both of us, going out for an evening of dancing proved far less exhilarating than the learning. We both have a low boredom threshold. Now we dance at a wedding or other celebration perhaps once a year, and we're creaky."

"On my desk is a photograph given to me by my mother after Gerda and I were engaged to be married. It shows 23 children at a birthday party. It is neither my party nor Gerda's. I am three years old, going on four. Gerda is three. In that crowd of kids, we are sitting directly across a table from each other. I'm grinning, as if I already know she's my destiny, and Gerda has a serious expression, as if she's worried that I might be her destiny. We never met again until I was a senior in high school and she was a junior. We've been trying to make up for that lost time ever since.

"Gerda and I worked so much for the first two decades of our marriage that we never took a real vacation until our twentieth wedding anniversary. Then we went on a cruise, booking a first-class suite, sparing no expense. For more than half the cruise, the ship was caught in a hurricane. The open decks were closed because waves would have washed passengers overboard. About 90% of the passengers spent day after day in their cabins, projectile vomiting. We discovered that neither of us gets seasick. We had the showrooms, the casino, and the buffets virtually to ourselves. Because the crew had no one to serve, our service was exemplary. The ship dared not try to put into the scheduled ports; it was safer on the open sea. The big windows of the main bar presented a spectacular view of massive waves and lightning strikes that stabbed the sea by the score. Very romantic. We had a grand time.

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    1. Also Known As:
      David Axton, Brian Coffey, K.R. Dwyer, Deanna Dwyer, John Hill, Leigh Nichols, Anthony North, Richard Paige, Owen West, Aaron Wolfe
    2. Hometown:
      Newport Beach, California
    1. Date of Birth:
      July 9, 1945
    2. Place of Birth:
      Everett, Pennsylvania
    1. Education:
      B.S. (major in English), Shippensburg University, 1966
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Embraced by stone, steeped in silence, i sat at the high window as the third day of the week surrendered to the fourth. The river of night rolled on, indifferent to the calendar.

I hoped to witness that magical moment when the snow began to fall in earnest. Earlier the sky had shed a few flakes, then nothing more. The pending storm would not be rushed.

The room was illuminated only by a fat candle in an amber glass on the corner desk. Each time a draft found the flame, melting light buttered the limestone walls and waves of fluid shadows oiled the corners.

Most nights, I find lamplight too bright. And when I’m writing, the only glow is the computer screen, dialed down to gray text on a navy-blue field.

Without a silvering of light, the window did not reflect my face. I had a clear view of the night beyond the panes.

Living in a monastery, even as a guest rather than as a monk, you have more opportunities than you might have elsewhere to see the world as it is, instead of through the shadow that you cast upon it.

St. Bartholomew’s Abbey was surrounded by the vastness of the Sierra Nevada, on the California side of the border. The primeval forests that clothed the rising slopes were themselves cloaked in darkness.

From this third-floor window, I could see only part of the deep front yard and the blacktop lane that cleaved it. Four low lampposts with bell-shaped caps focused light in round pale pools.

The guesthouse is in the northwest wing of the abbey. The ground floor features parlors. Private rooms occupy the higher and the highest floors.

As I watched in anticipation of the storm, a whiteness that was not snow drifted across the yard, out of darkness, into lamplight.

The abbey has one dog, a 110-pound German-shepherd mix, perhaps part Labrador retriever. He is entirely white and moves with the grace of fog. His name is Boo.

My name is Odd Thomas. My dysfunctional parents claim a mistake was made on the birth certificate, that Todd was the wanted name. Yet they have never called me Todd.

In twenty-one years, I have not considered changing to Todd. The bizarre course of my life suggests that Odd is more suited to me, whether it was conferred by my parents with intention or by fate.

Below, Boo stopped in the middle of the pavement and gazed along the lane as it dwindled and descended into darkness.

Mountains are not entirely slopes. Sometimes the rising land takes a rest. The abbey stands on a high meadow, facing north.

Judging by his pricked ears and lifted head, Boo perceived a visitor approaching. He held his tail low.

I could not discern the state of his hackles, but his tense posture suggested that they were raised.

From dusk the driveway lamps burn until dawn ascends. The monks of St. Bart’s believe that night visitors, no matter how seldom they come,must be welcomed with light.

The dog stood motionless for a while, then shifted his attention toward the lawn to the right of the blacktop. His head lowered. His ears flattened against his skull.

For a moment, I could not see the cause of Boo’s alarm. Then . . . into view came a shape as elusive as a night shadow floating across black water. The figure passed near enough to one of the lampposts to be briefly revealed.

Even in daylight, this was a visitor of whom only the dog and I could have been aware.

I see dead people, spirits of the departed who, each for his own reason, will not move on from this world. Some are drawn to me for justice, if they were murdered, or for comfort, or for companionship; others seek me out for motives that I cannot always understand.

This complicates my life. I am not asking for your sympathy. We all have our problems, and yours seem as important to you as mine seem to me.

Perhaps you have a ninety-minute commute every morning, on freeways clogged with traffic, your progress hampered by impatient and incompetent motorists, some of them angry specimens with middle fingers muscular from frequent use. Imagine, however, how much more stressful your morning might be if in the passenger seat was a young man with a ghastly ax wound in his head and if in the backseat an elderly woman, strangled by her husband, sat pop-eyed and purple-faced.

The dead don’t talk. I don’t know why. And an ax-chopped spirit will not bleed on your upholstery.

Nevertheless, an entourage of the recently dead is disconcerting and generally not conducive to an upbeat mood.

The visitor on the lawn was not an ordinary ghost, maybe not a ghost at all. In addition to the lingering spirits of the dead, I see one other kind of supernatural entity. I call them bodachs.

They are ink-black, fluid in shape, with no more substance than shadows. Soundless, as big as an average man, they frequently slink like cats, low to the ground.

The one on the abbey lawn moved upright: black and featureless, yet suggestive of something half man, half wolf. Sleek, sinuous, and sinister.

The grass was not disturbed by its passage. Had it been crossing water, it would not have left a single ripple in its wake.

In the folklore of the British Isles, a bodach is a vile beast that slithers down chimneys at night and carries off children who misbehave. Rather like Inland Revenue agents.

What I see are neither bodachs nor tax collectors. They carry away neither misbehaving children nor adult miscreants. But I have seen them enter houses by chimneys–by keyholes, chinks in window frames, as protean as smoke–and I have no better name for them.

Their infrequent appearance is always reason for alarm. These creatures seem to be spiritual vampires with knowledge of the future. They are drawn to places where violence or fiery catastrophe is destined to erupt, as if they feed on human suffering.

Although he was a brave dog, with good reason to be brave, Boo shrank from the passing apparition. His black lips peeled back from his white fangs.

The phantom paused as if to taunt the dog. Bodachs seem to know that some animals can see them.

I don’t think they know that I can see them, too. If they did know, I believe that they would show me less mercy than mad mullahs show their victims when in a mood to behead and dismember.

At the sight of this one, my first impulse was to shrink from the window and seek communion with the dust bunnies under my bed. My second impulse was to pee.

Resisting both cowardice and the call of the bladder, I raced from my quarters into the hallway. The third floor of the guesthouse offers two small suites. The other currently had no occupant.

On the second floor, the glowering Russian was no doubt scowling in his sleep. The solid construction of the abbey would not translate my footfalls into his dreams.

The guesthouse has an enclosed spiral staircase, stone walls encircling granite steps. The treads alternate between black and white, making me think of harlequins and piano keys, and of a treacly old song by Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder.

Although stone stairs are unforgiving and the black-and-white pattern can be disorienting, I plunged toward the ground floor, risking damage to the granite if I fell and struck it with my head.

Sixteen months ago, I lost what was most precious to me and found my world in ruins; nevertheless, I am not usually reckless. I have less to live for than I once did, but my life still has purpose, and I struggle to find meaning in the days.

Leaving the stairs in the condition that I found them, I hurried across the main parlor, where only a night lamp with a beaded shade relieved the gloom. I pushed through a heavy oak door with a stained-glass window, and saw my breath plume before me in the winter night.

The guesthouse cloister surrounds a courtyard with a reflecting pool and a white marble statue of St. Bartholomew. He is arguably the least known of the twelve apostles. Here depicted, a solemn St. Bartholomew stands with his right hand over his heart, left arm extended. In his upturned palm is what appears to be a pumpkin but might be a related variety of squash.

The symbolic meaning of the squash eludes me.

At this time of year, the pool was drained, and no scent of wet limestone rose from it, as in warmer days. I detected, instead, the faintest smell of ozone, as after lightning in a spring rain, and wondered about it, but kept moving.

I followed the colonnade to the door of the guesthouse receiving room, went inside, crossed that shadowy chamber, and returned to the December night through the front door of the abbey.

Our white shepherd mix, Boo, standing on the driveway, as I had last seen him from my third-floor window, turned his head to look at me as I descended the broad front steps. His stare was clear and blue, with none of the eerie eyeshine common to animals at night.

Without benefit of stars or moon, most of the expansive yard receded into murk. If a bodach lurked out there, I could not see it.

“Boo, where’s it gone?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. My life is strange but not so strange that it includes talking canines.

With wary purpose, however, the dog moved off the driveway, onto the yard. He headed east, past the formidable abbey, which appears almost to have been carved from a single great mass of rock, so tight are the mortar joints between its stones.

No wind ruffled the night, and darkness hung with folded wings.

Seared brown by winter, the trampled grass crunched underfoot. Boo moved with far greater stealth than I could manage.

Feeling watched, I looked up at the windows, but I didn’t see anyone, no light other than the faint flicker of the candle in my quarters, no pale face peering through a dark pane.

I had rushed out of the guest wing wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. December stropped its teeth on my bare arms.

We proceeded eastward alongside the church, which is part of the abbey, not a separate building.

A sanctuary lamp glows perpetually, but it isn’t sufficient to fire the colorful stained glass. Through window after window, that dim light seemed to watch us as though it were the single sullen eye of something in a bloody mood.

Having led me to the northeast corner of the building, Boo turned south, past the back of the church. We continued to the wing of the abbey that, on the first floor, contains the novitiate.

Not yet having taken their vows, the novices slept here. Of the five who were currently taking instruction, I liked and trusted four.

Suddenly Boo abandoned his cautious pace. He ran due east, away from the abbey, and I pursued him.

As the yard relented to the untamed meadow, grass lashed my knees. Soon the first heavy snow would compact these tall dry blades.

For a few hundred feet, the land sloped gently before leveling off, whereupon the knee-high grass became a mown lawn again. Before us in the gloom rose St. Bartholomew’s School.

In part the word school is a euphemism. These students are unwanted elsewhere, and the school is also their home, perhaps the only one that some of them will ever have.

This is the original abbey, internally remodeled but still an impressive pile of stone. The structure also houses the convent in which reside the nuns who teach the students and care for them.

Behind the former abbey, the forest bristled against the stormready sky, black boughs sheltering blind pathways that led far into the lonely dark.

Evidently tracking the bodach, the dog went up the broad steps to the front door of the school, and through.

Few doors in the abbey are ever locked. But for the protection of the students, the school is routinely secured.

Only the abbot, the mother superior, and I possess a universal key that allows admittance everywhere. No guest before me has been entrusted with such access.

I take no pride in their trust. It is a burden. In my pocket, the simple key sometimes feels like an iron fate drawn to a lodestone deep in the earth.

The key allows me quickly to seek Brother Constantine, the dead monk, when he manifests with a ringing of bells in one of the towers or with some other kind of cacophony elsewhere.

In Pico Mundo, the desert town in which I had lived for most of my time on earth, the spirits of many men and women linger. But here we have just Brother Constantine, who is no less disturbing than all of Pico Mundo’s dead combined, one ghost but one too many.

With a bodach on the prowl, Brother Constantine was the least of my worries.

Shivering, I used my key, and hinges squeaked, and I followed the dog into the school.

Two night-lights staved off total gloom in the reception lounge. Multiple arrangements of sofas and armchairs suggested a hotel lobby.

I hurried past the unmanned information desk and went through a swinging door into a corridor lighted by an emergency lamp and red EXIT signs.

On this ground floor were the classrooms, the rehabilitation clinic, the infirmary, the kitchen, and the communal dining room. Those sisters with a culinary gift were not yet preparing breakfast. Silence ruled these spaces, as it would for hours yet.

I climbed the south stairs and found Boo waiting for me on the second-floor landing. He remained in a solemn mood. His tail did not wag, and he did not grin in greeting.

Two long and two short hallways formed a rectangle, serving the student quarters. The residents roomed in pairs.

At the southeast and northwest junctions of the corridors were nurses’ stations, both of which I could see when I came out of the stairs in the southwest corner of the building.

At the northwest station, a nun sat at the counter, reading. From this distance, I could not identify her.

Besides, her face was half concealed by a wimple. These are not modern nuns who dress like meter maids. These sisters wear old-style habits that can make them seem as formidable as warriors in armor.

The southeast station was deserted. The nun on duty must have been making her rounds or tending to one of her charges.

When Boo padded away to the right, heading southeast, I followed without calling to the reading nun. By the time that I had taken three steps, she was out of my line of sight.

Many of the sisters have nursing degrees, but they strive to make the second floor feel more like a cozy dormitory than like a hospital. With Christmas twenty days away, the halls were hung with garlands of fake evergreen boughs and festooned with genuine tinsel.

In respect of the sleeping students, the lights had been dimmed. The tinsel glimmered only here and there, and mostly darkled into tremulous shadows.

The doors of some student rooms were closed, others ajar. They featured not just numbers but also names.

Halfway between the stairwell and the nurses’ station, Boo paused at Room 32, where the door was not fully closed. On block-lettered plaques were the names ANNAMARIE and JUSTINE.

This time I was close enough to Boo to see that indeed his hackles were raised.

The dog passed inside, but propriety made me hesitate. I ought to have asked a nun to accompany me into these students’ quarters.

But I wanted to avoid having to explain bodachs to her. More important, I didn’t want to risk being overheard by one of those malevolent spirits as I was talking about them.

Officially, only one person at the abbey and one at the convent know about my gift–if in fact it is a gift rather than a curse. Sister Angela, the mother superior, shares my secret, as does Father Bernard, the abbot.

Courtesy had required that they fully understand the troubled young man whom they would be welcoming as a long-term guest.

To assure Sister Angela and Abbot Bernard that I was neither a fraud nor a fool,Wyatt Porter, the chief of police in Pico Mundo, my hometown, shared with them the details of some murder cases with which I had assisted him.

Likewise, Father Sean Llewellyn vouched for me. He is the Catholic priest in Pico Mundo.

Father Llewellyn is also the uncle of Stormy Llewellyn, whom I had loved and lost. Whom I will forever cherish.

During the seven months I had lived in this mountain retreat, I’d shared the truth of my life with one other, Brother Knuckles, a monk. His real name is Salvatore, but we call him Knuckles more often than not.

Brother Knuckles would not have hesitated on the threshold of Room 32. He is a monk of action. In an instant he would have decided that the threat posed by the bodach trumped propriety. He would have rushed through the door as boldly as did the dog, although with less grace and with a lot more noise.

I pushed the door open wider, and went inside.

In the two hospital beds lay Annamarie, closest to the door, and Justine. Both were asleep.

On the wall behind each girl hung a lamp controlled by a switch at the end of a cord looped around the bed rail. It could provide various intensities of light.

Annamarie, who was ten years old but small for her age, had set her lamp low, as a night-light. She feared the dark.

Her wheelchair stood beside the bed. From one of the hand grips at the back of the chair hung a quilted, insulated jacket. From the other hand grip hung a woolen cap. On winter nights, she insisted that these garments be close at hand.

The girl slept with the top sheet clenched in her frail hands, as if ready to throw off the bedclothes. Her face was taut with an expression of concerned anticipation, less than anxiety, more than mere disquiet.

Although she slept soundly, she appeared to be prepared to flee at the slightest provocation.

One day each week, of her own accord, with eyes closed tight, Annamarie practiced piloting her battery-powered wheelchair to each of two elevators. One lay in the east wing, the other in the west.

In spite of her limitations and her suffering, she was a happy child. These preparations for flight were out of character.

Although she would not talk about it, she seemed to sense that a night of terror was coming, a hostile darkness through which she would need to find her way. She might be prescient.

The bodach, first glimpsed from my high window, had come here, but not alone. Three of them, silent wolflike shadows, were gathered around the second bed, in which Justine slept.

A single bodach signals impending violence that may be either near and probable or remote and less certain. If they appear in twos and threes, the danger is more immediate.

In my experience, when they appear in packs, the pending danger has become imminent peril, and the deaths of many people are days or hours away. Although the sight of three of them chilled me, I was grateful that they didn’t number thirty.

Trembling with evident excitement, the bodachs bent over Justine while she slept, as if studying her intently. As if feeding on her.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 386 )
Rating Distribution

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(203)

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(48)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 387 Customer Reviews
  • Posted March 29, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Great new characters!

    It wasn't the plot that kept me reading but the likable, funny and well developed characters of Brother Knuckles and the mysterious, witty and unpredictable Rodion Romanovich.

    I really liked the fact that Koontz goes back to creating wonderful characters and dialog but sadly he didn't utilize Odd's ability to see the dead as much as I expected and enjoy.

    However, Odd Thomas still gives me enough promise and excitement that I'm eager to start book #4 hoping it will head back into the direction of Odd Thomas #1. He's just too likable of a character not to want to read more!
    xoxo_leigh

    6 out of 7 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted September 25, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Wow!

    This book has indeed rendered me speechless. I even shed a few tears at one point. When you read it, you'll know the precise moment I speak of. By far, this is my favourite of the series! I read this one in one day because I just couldn't manage to put it down. Was eager to find out what the next page will reveal. I highly recommend reading these!

    5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 21, 2012

    Odd Thomas fails to let down again

    Brother Odd is like a true sequel in comparison to the interludesque Forever Odd, and by each chapters end you wont be able to put it to rest. If your a fan of the first book or any of Koontzs' plethora of other offerings theres no dissapointment here if your looking for a deep story filled with revealing backstory and characters as well as writhing suspense and horror.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 22, 2010

    A good read

    This book grabbed me right away. It's not a work of classic literature, but it does what it is supposed to do and it engages and entertains.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 6, 2011

    Can i get an "AMEN!!!!!"

    This is a really good read. So good befoe you know it your done. What would you do if you had a room where all you had to do is think of something and it appears? Add some Nuns and Munks a few ghosts with Odd right in the middle of it. You get............well a great story.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 26, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    Better than the second

    First off, this book can't even compare to the first Book in this series. However, I feel that since I read the third directly after the second, it boosted my opinion about Brother Odd. The second one was horrible in plot and writing style.

    I feel Brother Odd does a little bit better as there are some new characters and the plot is slightly better. Unfortunately, it is a disaster when comparing to Odd Thomas.

    2 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 29, 2012

    All of the Odd Thomas books were fantastic!

    Read all 4 if u can! You won't beable to put them down!

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted April 6, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Yet again Odd is asked to do and he does....

    Yet again Mr. Koontz shows us Odd's unwavering selflessness as he puts everyone else ahead of his own 'wants' r/e: his broken heart, his yearning for a little peace- or any semblance of normality in his life. As well as the other 'unsung heroes' we are introduced to in this portion of the 'Odd' series. The book is so descriptive (as is almost all of Mr. Koontz work) you get in and you'll be there till the "read" is finished.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 25, 2009

    Non Stop

    This chapter in the Odd Thomas collection is great. Once you pick it up you cannot put it down. It is packed with the twists and turns that we have came to expect from our friend Odd.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 22, 2009

    Loveable, Intriguing Characters, but a Little Weak on Plot

    I loved the first Odd Thomas book I read--so much so, that I visited the library to find another in the series. I don't think this one was the second, so perhaps it being a bit out of order made things a little less enjoyable. Odd Thomas is a wonderful, funny character, as is Rodion Romanovich, Brother Knuckles, and a few other key characters. In fact it was the characters and witty dialogue much more than the plot that kept me reading. I'm curious if others felt the same.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted March 1, 2009

    Bone Monsters vs. Odd Thomas

    A shadowy figure roams the night once again, known as a bodach. Odd Thomas's attempt to live in peace for awhile is abruptly ruined. In Brother Odd by Dean Koontz, Odd is faced with a new challenge and the pressure of saving many lives. Koontz leads you through an interesting adventure in this third book of the series.

    Odd Thomas decides to get away from the busy town of Pico Mundo and moves into St. Bartholomew's Abbey. Trying to avoid his special gift, he attempts to live in peace at the monastery. Everything is going fine until he sees the dreaded bodach lurking in the night. Odd goes looking for a reason why the bodach would be there. He then finds a monk is missing and is attacked by a mysterious assailant. Koontz leads you through an adventure similar to the first book of the series, Odd Thomas but instead of a human being the bad guy; bone-monsters horrify the children of the abbey. Odd comes to find out these monsters were created by the "neverwas" or known as Brother John. Does Odd defeat the neverwas and save the children of St. Bartholomew's Abbey or is this the end of Odd Thomas? That's for you to find out.

    I recommend this book to anyone who enjoys the series and enjoy mystery, adventure books. This book is a fairly easy read and keeps you guessing until the end. Koontz throws a twist in this book and I think it makes the series more interesting.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted December 11, 2008

    I Also Recommend:

    Third Time's A Charm

    For a while now, I've been interested in Dean Koontz and his unique writing style. His stories are always a good read due to the fact that he puts so much information into his books.<BR/><BR/>The Odd Thomas series has always been a series of interest for me and I read the books "Odd Thomas" and "Forever Odd" in about two days flat. When I heard that Koontz wrote another book to go with the previous two, I flipped and decided that I needed to get it as soon as possible. I found out that my friend had it, so I borrowed the book from him for an English project and found that I liked it better than the first two.<BR/><BR/>This book was very well written and he researched the topic of quantum physics was well researched. I found that it made me think and it made me wonder whether or not these kinds of things could actually ever happen.<BR/><BR/>I think that this book is very apprpriate for any avid Koontz reader over the age of 14 and has read the other "Odd Thomas" books. I deffinately recommend this book for anyone who would be interested in continuing a brilliant journey through the world of Dean Koontz.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 4, 2014

    Brother Odd (Odd Thomas Series #3)

    Terrible reading.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 26, 2014

    Great

    An unexpected turn in the series.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted May 28, 2013

    more from this reviewer

    Odd Thomas can see and communicate with the 'lingering' dead and

    Odd Thomas can see and communicate with the 'lingering' dead and also see some creatures (possibly supernatural, but perhaps something else entirely) he calls Bodachs, who are attracted to up-coming tragic events. In this book Odd is still recovering from the emotional impact left from a mass shooting in a mall and the death of his long-time love &amp; fiance, Stormy. Leaving his hometown of Pico Mundo where the events took place, Odd is spending time in a monastary/orphanage in the mountains. He is also spending time helping in the monastary's kitchen.

    As he awaits watching his first snowfall, Odd notices several Bodach that have also been sighted by the dog Boo that roams the monastary. When the two discover the Bodachs hovering over several children, Odd knows that he must reveal his gifts and his knowledge of possible events to the monks &amp; nuns to care for the children. It would also be helpful to know something about the Russian who is also staying at the monastary. Is he really just a Librarian, or is there more to him then he lets on. As the story progresses we learn a lot more about the pasts of the other people who have come to the monastary for a variety of reasons and discover that something horrible is stalking the grounds and walls of the monastary. Can Odd find enough allies to aide him when the confrontation with the unholy begins?

    As usual in the Odd Thomas stories, Koontz has Odd telling the story in flashback as he writes of it for his friend and benefactor the detective/mystery writer, Little Ozzie. In this way we get some foreshadowing of events, but the author keeps enough hidden from the reader that there are still surprises. While Odd is out of his usual surroundings, he is accompanied by the ghost of Elvis who may finally be ready to move on.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 12, 2013

    In Patri Et Filli

    This is an awesome addition to the Odd Thomas series! If you like surprising plot twists, and being led to sympathize with the bad guy at times, by all means read this!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted January 29, 2013

    Odd Thomas is an annoying character; he pretends to humility but

    Odd Thomas is an annoying character; he pretends to humility but is devoured by pride about his so-called gift.  the behavior of the other characters defies belief also; in what community of sensible adults would an uneducated, unemployed young twetp be deferred to and his apparently senseless orders followed, asthey are in this book?  I son't care how many police chiefs (also unbelievable) vouch for him.  on the other hand, I keep reading the books, so something about them must be right.  If I ever figure out what it is, I'll let you know.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 21, 2012

    Another awesome Odd Thomas adventure!

    This third book about Odd Thomas is just as amazing as the other two. I guess Mr. Koontz has a new dedicated follower. I am so excited about reading "Odd Hours" now.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted August 22, 2012

    Really well done continuation of the series. Instead getting st

    Really well done continuation of the series. Instead getting stale,
    Koontz wrote the Odd character with more depth and introduced new
    characters/friends. Also, instead of keeping a formula, I appreciate
    the the Bodachs and impending deaths (as goes with all the Odd series)
    wasn't typical - definitely a new twist. This was a vacation read and
    just perfect for a summer read.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted August 16, 2012

    more from this reviewer

    I love the Odd Thomas character, I have read all of the books!

    I love the Odd Thomas character, I have read all of the books!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
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