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

. . .” 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.
    Frank caught a glimpse of the black suits within the crowd, but no matter how urgently he tried to push past people buying from various stands, he couldn’t get closer.
    “Wait!”
    Vaguely aware of people staring at him, he saw the black suits disappear in the crowd. After another minute of searching, he had no idea which direction to take.
    Baffled, Debby reached him.
    “The two guys from the opera,” Frank explained. “It was them.”
    “The opera?”
    “Don’t you remember?”
    People bumped past him, carrying sacks. Frank stepped onto a crate and scanned the crowd, looking for two men in black suits, but all he saw were people in shorts and T-shirts.
    “Damn it, I had so many questions.”
    Debby looked at him strangely.
    Tires squealed. Metal and glass shattered. A woman screamed.
    Frank ran toward a side street. Peering through the crowd, he and Debby saw what used to be their SUV. A pickup truck had slammed into it. A woman lay on the pavement, next to a bicycle, its wheels spinning.
    “I saw the whole thing,” a man said. “The truck was weaving. Driver must be drunk. He swerved to avoid the girl on the bicycle and hit that car parked over there. It’s a lucky thing no one was killed.”
     
    I f I hadn’t noticed them,” Frank said, watching a tow truck haul their SUV away, “if they hadn’t distracted me, we’d have been at our car when the accident happened. They saved us. Saved us for a second time.”
    “I didn’t see them. The opera? How could it be the same two men?”
     
    T he third time Frank noticed them was five years later. Thursday. December 10. Seven P.M. Debby had been recovering from a miscarriage, her fourth in their fifteen-year marriage. Finally accepting that they would never have children of their own, they discussed the possibility of adopting. Now that Debby felt well enough to leave the house, Frank tried to raise her spirits by taking her to a restaurant that had recently opened and was receiving fabulous reviews.
    The restaurant was near Santa Fe’s historic plaza, so after they parked, they walked slightly out of their way to appreciate the holiday lights on the trees and the pueblo-style buildings.
    “God, I love this town,” Frank said. Snow started to fall. “Are you warm enough?”
    “Yes.” Debby put her hood up.
    “Those two guys can’t be,” Frank said, noticing the only two other people in the area.
    “Where?”
    “There. Over by the museum. All they’re wearing is suits.”
    Frank realized that one of them was short, slight, and elderly, 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.
    “My God, it’s them,” he