Download Odd Interlude #1 by Dean Koontz PDF
By Dean Koontz
There's room on the resort. yet chances are you'll no longer get out.
Nestled on a lonely stretch alongside the Pacific coast, old fashioned roadside outpost concord nook deals every little thing a weary traveller needs--a comfortable diner, a convenient carrier station, a cluster of inn rooms . . . and the concord relations domicile presiding over all of it. but if unusual Thomas and corporate cease to spend the evening, they detect that there's extra to this secluded haven than meets the eye--and that among lifestyles and demise, there's something extra scary than both.
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Extra info for Odd Interlude #1
Hollingdale asked with a sarcastic smile. ‘I’m against any creature having its throat cut. ’ Hollingdale was silent for a long time. ’ ‘Not everybody. ’ ‘I bet you can. By the way, Miss Hollingdale,’ added Baird. ’ She started, as if in pain, and her expression hardened. ‘Nobody will tell me. ’ Loki was dressed in extravagantly varied fabrics, sewed together into a shapeless tunic over baggy white cotton trousers. His red hair was knotted into dreadlocks which hung down over his back at stiff angles, like giant pipe cleaners.
Opening the cat food at arm’s length, I filled Anatoly’s bowl and shoved it and him out of the back door. A breath of air blew a whiff of the tuna and rabbit in jelly back into my face, provoking a heaving cough and memories of seasickness. How could something like that be good even for a cat? I washed up Elsie’s bowl and mug from breakfast, and made myself a cup of instant coffee with water that hadn’t properly boiled, so the granules floated to the surface. Outside, rain dripped on to my waterlogged garden; the pink hyacinths that I’d been so excited about yesterday had tipped sideways in the rubbly soil, and their rubbery petals looked grimy.
She removed her gloves and clutched them in her left hand. There was a smell, now. It was heavy and sweet. It reminded her of something. The smell of a barnyard. No, inside. A barn maybe. Each morning at eight-thirty precisely Mrs Ferrer would nod a good-morning at Mrs Mackenzie, click past her across the polished wood of the Mackenzies’ hallway, turn right down the stairs into the basement, remove her coat, collect her vacuum cleaner from the utility room and spend an hour in an anaesthetized fog of noise.