#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERBONUS: This edition contains an excerpt from Dean Koontz's Deeply Odd. Only 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.
Quirky humor and an endearing narrative voice lift bestseller Koontz's winning fourth Odd Thomas novel (after Brother Odd), set in the small California community of Magic Beach (whose motto is "Everyone a Neighbor, Every Neighbor a Friend"). Thomas, a 21-year-old fry cook, takes his prophetic dreams or visions, which often foretell trouble, very seriously. When three male thugs approach Thomas and Annamaria, a pregnant friend of his, on a lonely pier, he finds that physical contact with one of the men triggers his fiery nightmares. Thomas's chivalric impulses soon put his life at risk, and when he finds that his adversaries are ostensibly employees of the town's beach department, he must work to stave off disaster without the assistance of the local authorities, some of whom have conspired with terrorists to smuggle nuclear weapons into the country. Sensitive portrayals of minor characters whose lives Thomas touches are a plus. (May 20) Copyright 2008 Reed Business Information. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
Showing 1-3 of the 3 most recent reviews
1 . best series
Posted December 31, 2010 by erin b , sugar groveOdd Thomas is the best, Dean Koontz is hands down for me the best .I have read almost all his books and an a fan of pretty much all his books.
2 . A change for the series
Posted June 21, 2009 by Avery , The Woodlands, TXThis book is different in essence from all the other books in this series. In every other book, there is the main plot progressing - Odd Thomas' quest to fulfill his life. But within each separate book there is a very specific individual problem that needs to be solved. Unlike the rest, Odd Hours... Let me just say, when I got to the last page.. I was shocked that it was over.
3 . I love Odd
Posted January 14, 2009 by Nadine , Houston TXThere is something that is so endearing about the fry cook from Pico Mundo. This series is written in such a way, you are on the edge of your seat and smiling at the same time. The prose is cleverly written and Odd Thomas is the quintessential underdog that every one loves to root for. Getting out of unusual and terrifying situations, it's never predictable yet always believable. I thoroughly recommend the whole series and can't wait for the next one. Hurry up Mr. Koontz!
May 19, 2008
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Excerpt from Odd Hours by Dean Koontz
It'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 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.
Film money, book royalties, and a habit of regarding investment opportunities with paranoid suspicion had left Hutch financially secure in his old age. Nevertheless, he worried that an explosive rise in the price of oil or a total collapse in the price of oil would lead to a worldwide financial crisis that would leave him penniless.
His house faced the boardwalk, the beach, the ocean. Surf broke less than a minute's stroll from his front door.
Over the years, he had come to fear the sea. He could not bear to sleep on the west side of the house, where he might hear the waves crawling along the shore.
Therefore, I was quartered in the ocean-facing master suite at the front of the house. He slept in a guest room at the back.
Within a day of arriving in Magic Beach, more than a month previous to the red-tide dream, I had taken a job as Hutch's cook, doubling as his chauffeur on those infrequent occasions when he wanted to go out.
My experience at the Pico Mundo Grill served me well. If you can make hash browns that wring a flood from salivary glands, fry bacon to the crispness of a cracker without parching it, and make pancakes as rich as pudding yet so fluffy they seem to be at risk of floating off the plate, you will always find work.