Ancient Eyes Read Online Free PDF Page A

old pickup they drove muttered and coughed, idling roughly; the scent of burning oil hung heavy in the air.
    Angel flipped off the ignition, and they sat in silence.
    Tommy had a shapeless hat pulled down over his brow.   Unruly bangs shot out from beneath that reached nearly to his heavy eyebrows. He opened the passenger side door and slipped out into the road without a word. There wasn't really a parking lot, more of an indentation in the trees that lined the rough road leading out of town. It was long enough so that four vehicles parked nose-in to the trees could fit without blocking the road. In all the years of his life, Tommy had never seen more than two vehicles parked there at one time, and when that had happened, one of the two had been the delivery truck from San Valencez.
    There was a porch on the front, and there were a couple of old rocking chairs, but somehow Greene's had never become a place to hang out. If that was what Silas had expected when he put the chairs out, Tommy doubted he felt the same now.   Still . . .
    Tommy walked up to the front of the store, cupped his hands against the window in its center, and peered inside.   Everything looked as it always looked, jumbles and piles haphazardly strewn across a few handmade shelves. There were crates in the corners, and the cooler hummed away behind the last aisle. There was the shadowed recess of the door leading to Greene's "office" in the rear, and the counter where he collected money.   Nothing had changed, and still a chill rippled down Tommy's spine.   He took a final look around, and shook his head. No one was in there, or if they were, they weren't looking for company. He started to tell this to Angel, but he only made half of the turn. His gaze fastened on the path that led into the forest beyond the store. Lines of shadow crossed and re-crossed the trail, an intricate maze of branches; but Tommy knew they weren't branches. He'd seen them before. His hand rose unbidden to his forehead and his fingers slipped through the greasy bangs to brush rough skin. He knew the mark was there, though he bore no scar. He felt the swirl of it seeping down through his thoughts and imbedding in his brain, and now it throbbed with a white cold, the fiery caress of ice.
    To his left, he heard Angel slam the door of the truck.   He didn't know if his brother had seen, but he knew what he felt. Angel wore a red bandana with stained paisley designs rippling across it.   He always boasted it was the same as the one in the song Bobby McGee, but Tommy knew the truth of it.   The closest Angel had come to that song was a stretched and worn cassette tape they played endlessly, and the nearest the two of them had been to the rhythmic slapping of windshield wipers was the once-a-month supply run to San Valencez in their truck.   Now that bandana covered a mark so similar to Tommy's own that they might have been traced from a stencil.
    Angel stepped up beside him, but neither of them turned. They were both mesmerized by the play of shadows. Without a word, they stepped forward and started down the trail. Tommy didn't see it, but Angel was scratching lightly at his forehead.   There was nothing in sight ahead, but neither of them hesitated.
    The shadows were deeper in the woods than they should have been, but Tommy barely noticed.   He wasn't thinking about the trail, or the trees. He wasn't thinking about Silas Greene, or his store, or about Angel and his bandana.   Not really.   He was thinking about the bonfire, and the dance, and those antlers. His heart pounded.
    Down the trail someone stood waiting for them. The man was alone, and very quiet, and after a few steps Tommy knew him.   It was Silas Greene. For a fleeting moment Tommy thought that maybe the man would open the store for them. Maybe they would just pick up the supplies they'd been sent for, and drive back up the mountain to listen to that Janis Joplin tape one last time. Then all thought was gone, and