Shadow Show: All-New Stories in Celebration of Ray Bradbury (7 page)

“After all the trouble you took?”

“It takes a real man to admit a mistake.”

“That ‘real man’ stuff turns me on. Yeah, let’s go home.”

T
he parking lot was well lit. Even so, the low clouds made everything gloomy as Frank and Debby stepped over puddles, trying to find their car.

“Has to be around here someplace.” Frank sensed that the angry sky was going to unload again. “Keep that umbrella handy.”

Behind him, from the theater, he heard faint music as the orchestra started the second act. The only two people in the parking lot, he and Debby walked along another row of cars when movement to the left attracted his attention. He turned toward the edge of the lot, seeing two men emerge from the darkness and approach them.

Alexander and Brother Richard.

“What are
you
doing here?” Frank asked in surprise. “You left ahead of us.”

“We’re looking for our car,” Alexander told him.

“There.” Brother Richard pointed. “Over there.”

With a tingle of amazement, Frank saw that his SUV was next to the sedan that Brother Richard indicated.

“Good heavens,” Debby murmured.

Thunder rumbled, as the four of them went to their two cars.

“Drive safely.” Alexander eased his frail body into the passenger seat.

“You, too,” Frank said.

Brother Richard got behind the steering wheel.

Watching them drive away, Frank said, “Can you believe that? All those coincidences?”

“Weird,” Debby said.

Following them down the winding road that led to Route 285, they watched Alexander’s headlights find an opening in the speedy traffic. The sedan headed north.

“And weird again,” Frank said.

“What do you mean?” Debby asked.

“They told us Alexander lived in Albuquerque and that Brother Richard had driven down there to get him.”

“So?”

“Why are they going in the opposite direction, north instead of south?”

“Maybe Alexander’s too tired for a long drive and they’re taking a shorter trip up to the monastery.”

“Sure.”

Another thunderstorm hit just as they arrived home.

T
he next morning Frank opened the
Santa Fe New Mexican
and found an article about the return of the monsoons. A weather expert commented that the storms were expected to linger for several weeks and would help to replenish the city’s reservoirs, which were low because of a dry spring. A forest-service official hoped that the rains would reduce the risk of fires in the mountains. Along with the good news, however, there had been numerous traffic accidents, including one that had killed two men the previous evening.

One of the victims had been a monk, Brother Richard Braddock, who lived at Christ in the Desert Monastery, while the other victim had been a companion, Alexander Lane, from Albuquerque.

“No,” Frank said.

Debby peered up. “What’s the matter?”

“Those two men we met last night. It looks like they got killed.”

“What?”

“In a traffic accident. After they left the opera.” Frank quoted from the story. “ ‘Wet pavement is blamed for causing a pickup truck to lose control Saturday evening and slam into a vehicle driven by Brother Richard Braddock on Route 285 one mile south of the Santa Fe Opera exit.’ ”

“South of the opera exit? But we saw them go north.”

Frank stared. “You’re right. They
couldn’t
have been hit south of the exit.” He reread the story to make sure he’d gotten the details right. “ ‘Last evening’?”

“What’s wrong?”

“ ‘Saturday evening
’? That doesn’t make sense.” Frank went into the kitchen, looked for a number in the phone book, and pressed buttons on his cell phone.

“State Police,” a man’s Hispanic-accented voice answered.

Frank explained what he needed to know.

“Are you a relative of the victims?”

“No,” Frank said. “But I think I met them at the opera last night.”

The voice paused. Frank heard a page being turned, as if the officer were reading the report.

“Not likely,” the voice said.

“Why not?”

“The operas usually start at nine, I hear.”

“Yes.”

“This accident happened almost two and a half hours before that. At six-forty.”

“No,” Frank said. “At the opera, I talked to a man named Richard who said he was a monk at Christ in the Desert. He had a friend named Alexander, who lived in Albuquerque. That matches the details in the newspaper.”

“Sure does, but it couldn’t have been them, because there’s no mistake—the accident happened at six-forty. Must have been two other guys named Richard and Alexander.”

Frank swallowed. “Yes, it must have been two others.” He set down the phone.

“Are you okay?” Debby asked. “You just turned pale.”

“Do you remember when we were driving to the opera last night, we passed an accident?”

Debby nodded, puzzled.

“You saw a body with a sheet over it being loaded into an ambulance. There were actually
two
bodies.”

“Two?”

“I think we’d better take a drive to Christ in the Desert.”

A
map led them through a red canyon studded with juniper trees. With a wary eye toward new storm clouds, Frank rounded a curve and navigated the narrow, muddy road down to a small pueblo-style monastery on the edge of the Chama River.

When he and Debby got out of their SUV, no one was in sight.

A breeze gathered strength, scraping branches together. Otherwise there was almost no sound.

“Sure is quiet,” Debby said.

“Looks deserted. You’d think somebody would have been curious about an approaching car.”

“I think I hear something.” Debby turned toward the church.

“We pray to the Lord,” a distant voice echoed from inside.

“Lord, hear our prayers,” other distant voices replied.

“We’d better not intrude. Let’s wait until they’re finished,” Frank said.

Quiet, they leaned against the SUV, surveying the red cliffs on one side and the muddy, swollen river on the other.

Storm clouds thickened.

“Looks like we’ll have to go inside soon whether we want to or not,” Debby said.

The church’s front door opened. A bearded man in a monk’s robe stepped out, noticed Frank and Debby, and approached them. Although his expression was somber, his eyes communicated the same inner stillness that Richard had the night before.

“I’m Brother Sebastian,” the man said. “May I help you?”

Frank and Debby introduced themselves.

“We’re from Santa Fe,” Frank said. “Last night something odd happened, and we’re hoping you might help explain it.”

Brother Sebastian, looking puzzled, waited for them to continue.

“Yesterday . . .” Debby looked down at her hands. “Was a monk from here killed in a car accident?”

Brother Sebastian’s eyes lost their luster. “I just came back from identifying his body. We’ve been saying prayers for him. I wish he’d never been given permission.”

“Permission?”

“We’re Benedictines. We’re committed to prayer and work. We vowed to live the rest of our lives here. But that doesn’t mean we’re cloistered. Some of us even have driver’s licenses. With special permission, we’re sometimes allowed to leave the monastery—to see a doctor, for example. Or, in yesterday’s case, Brother Richard was given permission to drive down to Albuquerque, get a friend who often comes for retreats here, and attend the opera, which has a religious theme and which we thought might have a spiritual benefit.”

“It wasn’t very spiritual,” Debby said. She explained about the bleak nature of the opera and then said, “Last night at the theater we met a man named Richard who said he was a monk here. He had an elderly friend named Alexander who said Richard had driven him up from Albuquerque.”

“Yes, Brother Richard’s friend was named Alexander.”

“They sat next to us at a pre-opera dinner,” Debby said. “Then it turned out they were just a few seats away from us in the same row at the opera. When we left early, we crossed paths with them in the parking lot. Their car was next to ours. The whole thing felt strange.”

“And strangest of all,”“ Frank said, speaking quickly, “the state police say Brother Richard and his friend Alexander died at six-forty, south of the opera house, so how could we have met them at the opera and watched them drive north afterward?”

Brother Sebastian’s inner stillness changed to unease. “Perhaps you’re misremembering the names.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t misremember that one of them said he was a monk here,” Frank said.

“Perhaps the newspaper got the time and place of the accident wrong. Perhaps it happened
after
the opera.”

“No,” Frank said. “I phoned the state police. They agree with the newspaper. The accident happened at six-forty.”

“Then you couldn’t have met Brother Richard and his friend at the opera.”

“It certainly seems that way,” Debby said. “But this is making us crazy. To help us stop thinking about this, if you have a photograph of Brother Richard, would you mind showing it to us?”

Brother Sebastian studied them. “Superstition isn’t the same as spirituality.”

“Believe me, we’re not superstitious,” Frank said.

Brother Sebastian studied them another long moment. “Wait here, please.”

Five minutes later the monk returned. The wind was stronger, tugging at his brown robe and kicking up red dust. He held a folded newspaper.

“A journalist from Santa Fe came here last summer to write a story about us. We saw no harm in it, especially if it encouraged troubled people to attend retreats here.” Brother Sebastian opened the newspaper and showed Frank and Debby a color picture of a man in robes standing outside the church.

Frank and Debby stepped closer. The photograph was faded, but there was no mistaking what they saw.

“Yes,” Frank said. “That’s the man we met at the opera last night.” The wind brought a chill.

“No,” Brother Sebastian said. “Unless the state police are wrong about the time and place of the accident, what you’re telling me isn’t possible. Superstition
isn’t
the same as spirituality.”

I
don’t care how logical he insists on being,” Frank said. “Something happened to us.” Guiding the SUV along the muddy road, he added, “Last night, do you remember how bad the storm was when we arrived home?”

“Yes. I was glad we weren’t on the road.”

“Right. The storm didn’t quit until after midnight. It shook the house. If we hadn’t left the opera early, we’d have been caught in it. The newspaper said there were several accidents.”

“What are you getting at?” Debby asked.

“If Brother Sebastian heard me now, he’d say I was definitely superstitious. Do you suppose . . .”

“Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

Frank forced himself to continue. “Alexander and Brother Richard gave us the idea of leaving early. We followed them. As crazy as it sounds, if we’d stayed for the entire opera and driven home in the storm, do you suppose we might have been killed?”

“Are you actually suggesting they saved our lives? Two ghosts?”

“Not when you put it that way.”

“It’s impossible to know what might have happened if we’d driven home later,” Debby said firmly.

“Right. And as for ghosts . . .” Frank’s voice drifted off. He reached the solid footing of the highway and headed back to Santa Fe.

O
ne year later, Frank again saw Alexander and Brother Richard.

It was a Saturday morning in late August. He and Debby were in downtown Santa Fe, buying vegetables at the farmers’ market. As they carried their sacks toward where they’d parked on a side street, Frank saw a short, slight, elderly man with white hair and a matching goatee. Next to him was a tall, well-built young man, with short, dark hair and a square-jawed face. Unusual in the farmers’ market atmosphere at nine in the morning, they both wore dark suits and white shirts. Their eyes were very clear.

“Those two men over there,” Frank said, pausing.

“Who?” Debby asked. “Where?”

“Next to the bakery stand over there. An old guy and a young guy. You can’t miss them. They’re wearing black suits.”

“I don’t notice any—”

“They’re staring straight at us. I feel like I’ve seen them before. They have a . . .”

“Have a what?”

“Glow. My God, do you remember the two guys from . . .”

As Frank moved toward them, they turned and walked into the crowd.

He increased speed.

“What are you doing?” Debby called.