Zeke watched curiously as the two waitresses took off their ap.r.o.ns, said quiet good-byes to several of those gathered, and then departed. Skyler walked within five feet of him and barely glanced up as she pa.s.sed. For the first time, he noticed that the people in the Magic Wagon all seemed to have coffee or some other beverage, but not a single plate of food had been set before them. None of them had come here to eat.Whatever Vickers had in mind, the whole diner had been put at his disposal.

And why not? Zeke thought. He's the landlord.

Vickers wore the smile of a heartbroken man trying his best. Zeke figured his own smile must have looked like that and vowed to himself to try to avoid smiling ever again. It was a wretched, pitiful expression, but Vickers cast it about with the confused air of excitement and apology found in men who'd sought truths better left unspoken.

"I want to thank you all for coming," he said, his face reddening. "I'm not going to waste your time. I know most of you don't want to be here. h.e.l.l, looking around at each other, knowing there's only one thing everyone in this room has in common . . . it makes me want to scream."

Vickers paused and took a breath.To Zeke's surprise, n.o.body called out for him to get to the point. Maybe because they recognize the pain in his eyes from the mirror, Zeke thought.

Vickers went on. "I could give you a whole long buildup, folks. But I'd lose you halfway through, because no matter how long you've known me, you're gonna have a hard time believing a d.a.m.n word I say. So here's the only preamble I'm gonna give you. Reality is a consensus. It is what we agree it is, and by 'we' I don't just mean the people in this room, I mean society.We all grow up with an idea of what's possible and what's impossible. Most of you folks believe in G.o.d, or you did, once upon a time. We spend-"

His voice broke, thick with emotion, and then he smiled that painful smile again and forged on.

"We spend our lives building up these walls between what we believe in and what we don't believe in, and it's never easy when one of them gets broken down."

Vickers gestured to the little man seated on a counter stool just beside him. The stranger had been sitting as still and silent as a monk in meditation, but now he blinked as if coming awake and glanced around at the mourners. His face held no expression and his storm-gray eyes were cold.

"This fella here is Enoch Stroud. His daughter, Lena, dated a small-time drug dealer out of Houston by the name of-well, his name doesn't matter, really; point is, he stole from the Matamoros cartel. They could've just killed this kid, but there's always some fool who thinks he's smarter, thinks he can get away with something, and the cartel wanted to teach a different kind of lesson.They took Enoch's daughter-"

The little man interrupted with a choking laugh that gave Zeke chills.

"Took 'er," Enoch said, glaring at the gathered mourners one by one, as if accusing them of the crime. "Raped 'er. Left pieces of her for the boyfriend to find, wrapped up like birthday gifts and set on his bed or in the backseat of his car. Hands. Feet.Teeth. b.r.e.a.s.t.s.Then her head, just to make sure we knew she was dead."

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Alma Hawkins said, covering her eyes so n.o.body would see her cry.

Tommy Jessup swore under his breath, but in the silence between Enoch's words, they all heard it.

Enoch went on. "It was after we got her head that we buried her. Oh, we waited a week or so, but then we understood that the message had been sent and that we wouldn't be getting any more of Lena back."

Vickers had turned away from the man, and for the first time Zeke noticed that he was fiddling with something in his righthand pocket, clutching it like it was some sort of talisman. For some reason it unnerved Zeke, as if he'd peered inside the man's secret sorrow. He'd known Alan Vickers for most of his life but they'd never been friends, never had much in common besides geography. Now they had pain.

Zeke shifted his gaze. He wanted to bolt from the diner, from Lansdale, from f.u.c.king Texas, and go somewhere he could watch the snow fall and sit by a fire and feel like a stranger to the world. Because something was coming; he felt that very powerfully.This moment was building up to something that clearly frightened Vickers. And Zeke would have run from it, would have gone north until there were only white mountains and warm hearths, except for the single word he'd heard out of anybody's mouth today that had tantalized him. The word Lester had used as bait to get him here.

"You want revenge," he said, surprising even himself by speaking aloud.

Every pair of eyes in the diner shifted toward him, but Zeke kept his focus on Enoch.

The little man did not smile. He nodded, just once. "Yes, Mr. Prater. It is Mr. Prater?"

"I'm Zeke Prater," he confirmed. Though how you knew that, I'd like to know.

"Here it is, then, Mr. Prater," Enoch said, then took in the others with a sweeping glance. "I know a way to have my revenge on the Matamoros cartel and if you will all cooperate, you can have your revenge as well. Revenge and more."

"What do you mean, 'more'?" Lester asked, arms crossed.

A chair squeaked across the floor as Arturo Sanchez shifted to look at Enoch directly. "The Lord has a poor opinion of revenge, Mr. Stroud."

"Not in the Old Testament he don't," Linda Trevino said. "Go on, Mr. Stroud. If there's a way to fix these sons of b.i.t.c.hes, we're all ears. It won't bring my son back, but it'll ease my soul when I go to bed at night."

Enoch looked at her, head bowed slightly, dark shadows beneath his eyes. "Interesting that you should put it that way, Mrs. Trevino."

"What way?" she asked, and Zeke could see she was unsettled. "And how do you know my-"

Enoch clapped his hands on his thighs, still seated on the stool by the counter-so tiny in comparison to Vickers and yet somehow the focus of all attention.

"That's enough of what Mr. Vickers called 'preamble,' don't you think?" Enoch said, nodding as if in conversation with himself. "I think so. There's only one way you folks are going to listen to the rest of what I've got to say without laughing me out of town or maybe stoning me in front of the town hall, and that's if you see what I can give you with your own eyes."

Zeke frowned. His skin p.r.i.c.kled with a dark sort of antic.i.p.ation that he didn't like one bit.Whoever Enoch Stroud was, Zeke didn't want anything to do with the man. But when Enoch nodded to Vickers and Vickers produced the object he'd been fiddling with from his pocket, Zeke couldn't turn away. Several people muttered and Zeke saw the same unease he felt ripple through the diner.

"What the h.e.l.l's that supposed to be, some kind of tin whistle?" Lester asked.

"I don't-"Vickers started, a strange combination of apology and relief flooding his face.

"Just play the tune, Mr. Vickers," Enoch said. "Just play the tune."

With a hitching breath,Vickers put the yellowed instrument to his lips and blew into it, one finger shifting across a trio of small holes on top. It was a kind of flute, strangely carved and with little streaks of dark brown along its shaft like war paint. The sound it emitted could not rightly be called music, but Vickers managed a sequence of discordant notes that had a certain melody when he repeated them a second and third time. It was one of the strangest displays of incongruity Zeke had ever seen, but something about the tune tugged at the base of his skull as if part of him remembered it, down in what Lester always called his lizard brain-the part that hadn't changed in people since cave days.