Around him rose walls of iron and steel, down one of which a sheet of water dropped like a curtain in a mortuary viewing room. At the bottom of this particular wall was a rectangular trough, constructed of hand-hewn stones, into which the water spilled. Stories inside the Well told of this trough being bottomless, like the myth of the sacred cenote at Chichen Itza, a thousand years old. So many blood sacrifices had been made at that cenote, the bodies of so many of the Mayan enemies had plunged into its depths, that it had come to be known as The Well of Souls.

The stench of the Well filled his nostrils, clogging them with the fetor of terror, human excrement, blood, and flesh stripped from its rightful place on the body. In this Charlie was right, he had made a fatal error in taking her there. Why had he? No, so many years later, he could not say. He had told himself that he’d wanted to share everything with her, but truth could be a terrible thing, especially when it came to the Well.

He knew he couldn’t long survive this kind of introspection; he was not the suicidal type. He also knew memories of the Well had been triggered by Alice’s terrible death. For someone so young to die was agony enough, but that it should come from her own hand spoke of a despair beyond comprehension. But that was another lie he was feeding to himself. Of course he could comprehend her despair; he’d seen it every night he had worked down in the Well.

Fumbling in his backpack, he found his iPod and earbuds, plugged them in, and listened to the original 1927 recording of Hoagy Carmichael playing “Star Dust,” which in the years following the addition of lyrics, became known as “Stardust.” Back in the day, he and Charlie would get dressed up, sneak into wedding receptions in order to foxtrot to the hired bands, the last of the venues where these bands could find work. But these happy memories only impressed upon him how his relationship with Charlie had deteriorated. A final blowup, then atrophy. And here they were, in the bleakness of the enemy’s stronghold, at each other’s throats.

How could his life get any worse?

*   *   *

It came as a revelation to Preach that death could be a good thing—a wanted thing—a powerful thing. This had never occurred to him, and why should it? He had never died. Unlike Crow.