Free Brother Odd by Dean Koontz

butt-pinch the cocktail waitresses, but he wouldn't steal. So when he stops payin' the vig, Tony sends a guy to discuss Hoobner's moral dilemma with him."
        "A guy not you," I said.
        "A guy not me, we called him Needles."
        "I don't think I want to know why you called him Needles."
        "No, you don't," Knuckles agreed. "Anyway, Needles gives Hoobner one last chance to pay up, and instead of receivin' this request with Christian consideration, the preacher says 'Go to hell.' Then he pulls a pistol and tries to punch Needles's ticket for the trip."
        "The preacher shoots Needles?"
        "He might've been a Methodist, not a Lutheran. He shoots Needles but only wounds him in the shoulder, and Needles pulls his piece and shoots Hoobner dead."
        "So the preacher would shoot somebody, but he wouldn't steal."
        "I'm not sayin' that's traditional Methodist teachin'."
        "Yes, sir. I understand."
        "Fact is, now I think on it, the preacher was maybe a Unitarian. Anyway, he was a preacher, and he was shot dead, so bad things can happen to anyone, even a monk."
        Although the chill of the winter night had not entirely left me, I pressed the cold can of Coke to my forehead. "This problem we have here involves bodachs."
        Because he was one of my few confidants at St. Bartholomew's, I told him about the three demonic shadows hovering at Justine's bed.
        "And they was hangin' around the monk you almost stumbled over."
        "No, sir. They're here for something bigger than one monk being knocked unconscious."
        "You're right. That ain't the kind of fight card that draws a crowd anywhere."
        He got up from his chair and went to the window. He gazed out at the night for a moment.
        Then: "I wonder… You think maybe my past life is catchin' up with me?"
        "That was fifteen years ago. Isn't the Eggbeater in prison?"
        "He died in stir. But some of those other mugs, they got long memories."
        "If a hit man tracked you down, sir, wouldn't you be dead by now?"
        "For sure. I'd be parked in an unpadded waitin'-room chair, readin' old magazines in Purgatory."
        "I don't think this has anything to do with who you used to be."
        He turned from the window. "From your lips to God's ear. Worst thing would be anyone here hurt because of me."
        "Everyone here's been lifted up because of you," I assured him.
        The slabs and lumps of his face shifted into a smile that you would have found scary if you didn't know him. "You're a good kid. If I ever would've had me a kid, it's nice to think he might've been a little like you."
        "Being me isn't something I'd wish on anyone, sir."
        "Though if I was your dad," Brother Knuckles continued, "you'd probably be shorter and thicker, with your head set closer to your shoulders."
        "I don't need a neck anyway," I said. "I never wear ties."
        "No, son, you need a neck so you can stick it out. That's what you do. That's who you are."
        "Lately, I've been thinking I might get myself measured for a habit, become a novice."
        He returned to his chair but only sat on the arm of it, studying me. After consideration, he said, "Maybe someday you'll hear the call. But not anytime soon. You're of the world, and need to be."
        I shook my head. "I don't think I need to be of the world."
        "The world needs you to be out there in it. You got things to do, son."
        "That's what I'm afraid of. The things I'll have to do."
        
        "The monastery ain't a hideout. A mug wants to come in here, take the vows, he should come because he wants to open himself to somethin' bigger than the world, not because he wants to close himself up in a little ball like a pill bug."
        "Some things you just have to close yourself away from, sir."
        "You mean the summer before last, the shootings at the mall. You