Sam Weller - Shadow Show

“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.

The 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.”

Amap 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.”