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blue pair and a black pair. From above, Cecil caught a quick glimpse of the stranger’s empty sockets, black holes drilled into his skull.
    They weren’t bleeding.
    His own, on the other hand, began to ooze thick red streams down his cheeks. The stranger chuckled once and slapped the two black-marble eyes into Cecil’s sockets in one smooth motion, as if plucking and replacing eyeballs was an art long ago perfected by his kind. He flung Cecil’s blue eyes into his own skull and then wiped the blood running down the old man’s cheeks with his palms. The bleeding stopped, but his eyelids had flapped closed, so Cecil couldn’t see what his new eyes looked like.
    The man wiped his own eyes as if brushing away tears and adjusted his collar. “Now I have their eyes,” he mumbled. He turned to his left and strode toward Steve Smither’s saloon.
    The black-clad stranger had taken three steps when he stopped and turned back to Johnny, who was still fixed in shock. For one horrifying moment Cecil believed the stranger was considering another victim.
    â€œYou ever see a trick like that, boy?”
    Johnny couldn’t have answered if he’d wanted to.
    The stranger winked, spun on his heels, and walked toward the saloon.
    The pain was back. It washed over Cecil’s cranium and spread like a fire, first through his eyes and then directly down his back.
    Oh, God Almighty, help me!
    Cecil’s world began to spin in crazy circles. From somewhere in the dark he heard a thump echo through his mind. My book , he thought . I’ve dropped my book again.
    JOHNNY CRINGED in horror. He gaped at the stranger, who appeared frozen on the steps to Smither’s Saloon. Everything had stopped. Everything except for his heart, which was crashing in his ears.
    The saloon door slammed.
    He tore himself from the bench, tripped on a rock, and sprawled to the dirt. Pain knifed into his palm. He scrambled to his feet and spun. The old man was slumped on the bench, eyes closed, mouth open.
    â€œCecil?” Johnny whispered. Nothing. A little louder. “Cecil!”
    He stepped forward cautiously, put a hand on Cecil’s knee, and shook it. Still nothing.
    Johnny lifted a trembling thumb to the old man’s left eye and pulled up the eyelid. Cecil’s blue eyes, not the stranger’s black eyes.
And there was no blood.
    He released the eyelid and stood back. It occurred to him that Cecil’s chest wasn’t moving. He leaned forward and put his ear against his shirt. No heartbeat.
    He bolted, nearly toppling again, and ran for home, ignoring the pain in his leg.

CHAPTER TWO
    PARADISE
    Wednesday
    STEVE SMITHER stood behind his cherry bar and polished a tall Budweiser glass. Paula Smither, his wife, sat at the end of the bar, next to Katie Bowers and the minister’s secretary, Nancy. Behind the women, Chris Ingles and his friend Mark had herded six others into a poker game. Waylon Jennings’s mournful baritone leaked out from the old jukebox. But it wasn’t the poker or the beer or the music that had brought the crowd today.
    It was the fact that the town’s one and only mayor/marshal, Frank Marsh, had run off with his “secretary” three days ago.
    Katie Bowers pulled a string of gum from her mouth, balled it into a wad, and dropped it into the ashtray. She lifted her beer and glared at Steve. Strange how a pretty valley girl like Katie, who wore her makeup loud and talked even louder, could be so unattractive.
    Katie set her bottle down. “Lighten up, Paula. It’s not like we haven’t been here before.”
    â€œThat was different,” Paula shot back.
    â€œWas it?” Katie glanced at Steve. “Be a doll and give us some peanuts.”
    â€œShe’s right, that was different,” he said, reaching under the counter for the Planters tin. The air had thickened with the last exchange.
    Katie’s husband, Claude Bowers, spoke without