Free Shadow Show: All-New Stories in Celebration of Ray Bradbury by Sam Weller, Mort Castle (Ed) Page A

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