Free Forever Odd by Dean Koontz

three questions,” he said, “have the same answer.”
        “I’m listening.”
        “It’s no good if I just give it to you. You’ll resist it-and waste years of your life looking for an answer that pleases you more. When you arrive at it on your own, however, you’ll be convinced by it.”
        “That’s all you have to say?”
        He smiled and shrugged.
        “I come here with a burning philosophical question, and all I get is breakfast?”
        “You got quite a lot of breakfast,” he said. “I will tell you this much-you already know the answer and always have. You don’t have to discover it so much as recognize it.”
        I shook my head. “Sometimes, you’re a frustrating man.”
        “Yes, but I’m always gloriously fat and fun to look at.”
        “You can be as mystical as a damn…” Terrible Chester still sat on the top porch step, riveted by me. “… as mystical as a damn cat.”
        “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
        “It wasn’t meant as one.” I pushed my chair away from the table. “I’d better go.”
        As usual when I leave, he insisted on struggling to his feet. I am always concerned that the effort to get up will spike his blood pressure into the stroke zone and fell him on the spot.
        He hugged me, and I hugged him, which we always do on parting, as if we do not expect to see each other again.
        I wonder if sometimes the distribution of souls gets screwed up, and the wrong spirit ends up in the wrong baby. I suppose this is blasphemous. But then, with my smart mouth, I’ve already blown any chance of sainthood.
        Surely, with his kind heart, Ozzie was meant for slim good health and ten fingers. And my life would make more sense if I had been his son instead of the offspring of the troubled parents who had failed me.
        When the hug was done, he said, “What now?”
        “I don’t know. I never do. It comes to me.”
        Chester did not pee on my shoes.
        I walked to the end of the deep yard, through the woodlet, and left by the gate in the back fence.

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    TWELVE
        
        NOT ENTIRELY TO MY SURPRISE, AGAIN THE BLUE MOON Cafe.
        The cloak of night had dressed the alleyway with some romance, but daylight had stripped it of the pretense of beauty. This was not a realm of filth and vermin; it was merely gray, grim, drab, and unwelcoming.
        All but universally, human architecture values front elevations over back entrances, public spaces over private. For the most part, this is a consequence of limited resources, budgets.
        Danny Jessup says that this aspect of architecture is also a reflection of human nature, that most people care more about their appearance than they do about the condition of their souls.
        Although I’m not as cynical as Danny, and although I don’t think the analogy between back doors and souls is well drawn, I’ll admit to seeing some truth in what he says.
        What I could not see, here in the pale-lemon morning light, was any clue that might lead me a single step closer to him or to his psychotic father.
        The police had done their work and gone. The Ford van had been hauled away.
        I hadn’t come here with the expectation that I would find a clue overlooked by the authorities and, shifting into Sherlock, would track down the bad guys in a rush of deductive reasoning.
        I returned because this was where my sixth sense had failed me. I hoped to find it again, as though it were a spool of ribbon that I’d dropped and that had rolled out of sight. If I could locate the loose end of the ribbon, I could follow it to the spool.
        Opposite the kitchen entrance of the cafe was the second-floor window from which the elderly woman in the blue robe had watched as I had approached the van only hours ago. The drapes were shut.
        Briefly I considered having a word with her. But she had already been interviewed by the police.