Forever Odd

trouble, sir. But you better come to Dr. Jessup’s house.”
        “I’m hoping it’s a simple burglary.”
        “Murder,” I said. “Wilbur Jessup on the floor of his bedroom. It’s a bad one.”
        “Where’s Danny?”
        “I’m thinking kidnapped.”
        “Simon,” he said.
        Simon Makepeace-Carol’s first husband, Danny’s father-had been released from prison four months ago, after serving sixteen years for manslaughter.
        “Better come with some force,” I said. “And quiet.”
        “Someone still there?”
        “I get the feeling.”
        “You hold back, Odd.”
        “You know I can’t.”
        “I don’t understand your compulsion.”
        “Neither do I, sir.”
        I pressed end and pocketed the cell phone.

----

    THREE
        
        ASSUMING THAT DANNY MUST BE STILL NEARBY AND under duress, and that he was most likely on the ground floor, I headed toward the front stairs. Before I began to descend, I found myself turning and retracing the route that I’d just followed.
        I expected that I would return to the two closed doors on the right side of the hall, between the master bedroom and Danny’s room, and that I would discover what lay behind them. As before, however, I wasn’t drawn to them.
        On the left side were three other closed doors. None of those had an attraction for me, either.
        In addition to the ability to see ghosts, a gift I’d happily trade for piano artistry or a talent for flower arranging, I’ve been given what I call psychic magnetism.
        When someone isn’t where I expect to find him, I can go for a walk or ride my bicycle, or cruise in a car, keeping his name or face in my mind, turning randomly from one street to another; and sometimes in minutes, sometimes in an hour, I encounter the one I’m seeking. It’s like setting a pair of those Scottie-dog magnets on a table and watching them slide inexorably toward each other.
        The key word is sometimes .
        On occasion, my psychic magnetism functions like the finest Carrier watch. At other times, it’s like an egg timer bought at a cheap discount store’s going-out-of-business sale; you set it for poached, and it gives you hard-boiled.
        The unreliability of this gift is not proof that God is either cruel or indifferent, though it might be one proof among many that He has a sense of humor.
        The fault lies with me. I can’t stay sufficiently relaxed to let the gift work. I get distracted: in this case, by the possibility that Simon Makepeace, in willful disregard of his surname, would throw open a door, leap into the hallway, and bludgeon me to death.
        I continued through the lamplight that spilled from Danny’s room, where Demi Moore still looked luminous and the Elephant Man still looked pachydermous. I paused in the gloom at an intersection with a second, shorter hallway.
        This was a big house. It had been built in 1910 by an immigrant from Philadelphia, who had made a fortune in either cream cheese or gelignite. I can never remember which.
        Gelignite is a high explosive consisting of a gelatinized mass of nitroglycerin with cellulose nitrate added. In the first decade of the previous century, they called it gelatin dynamite, and it was quite the rage in those circles where they took a special interest in blowing up things.
        Cream cheese is cream cheese. It’s delicious in a wide variety of dishes, but it rarely explodes.
        I would like to have a firmer grasp of local history, but I’ve never been able to devote as much time to the study of it as I have wished. Dead people keep distracting me.
        Now I turned left into the secondary hallway, which was black but not pitch. At the end, pale radiance revealed the open door at the head of the back stairs.
        The stairwell light itself wasn’t on. The glow rose from below.
        In addition to rooms and closets on both sides, which I had no impulse to search, I passed an elevator. This hydraulic-ram lift had been installed prior to Wilbur and Carol’s wedding, before Danny- then a child of seven-had moved into the house.
        If you are afflicted with osteogenesis imperfecta, you can occasionally break a bone with remarkably little effort. When six, Danny had fractured his right wrist while snap-dealing a game of Old Maid.
        Stairs, therefore, pose an especially grave risk. As a child, at least, if he had