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

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