Old Man Lowery trudges into a small-town bar in New Mexico one day looking for two audiotapes that have been long forgotten. To get them, he's willing to kill the man who might have them.

While bar owner Sam Hewett survives the encounter, he can no longer focus on the present. Instead, he's forced to examine his past, back to his days in high school and his adventures with Jake, Michael, and Kevin.

As teenagers, they had not only discovered a treasure of gold on a Navajo reservation, but a lost civilization that mixed Christian and Navajo beliefs in terrible ways.

Now, Lowery's obsession to recover the forgotten treasure forces the men to revisit a terrible series of events that will connect them forever. If they don't find the treasure, a curse that has remained dormant for many years is certain to be unleashed.

Explore friendship, Native American culture, and the nature of evil in The Ancients.

The Ancients

By Gregory M. Tucker

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 Gregory M. Tucker
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4401-0967-6

Chapter One

The old man, fifty years ago, would have gone unnoticed in the small oilfield town in Northern New Mexico. His clothes were dusty and dry, his leather cowboy hat worn and cracked from the relentless beating of the sun's rays. He strolled slowly and deliberately down Main Street, appearing dull and lifeless, like he had stepped out of an old painting, clashing with the more colorful world that surrounded him. People stared at the man; he paid them no mind.

He stopped for a moment at the corner of Main and Fourth Streets surrounded by old buildings that appeared to have all been built at different times exhibiting inconsistent themes of architecture. The buildings were of varied heights made with a strange combination of stucco, brick and stone, as diverse as snowflakes. He was looking for the town's first modern microbrewery, assuming, like the other buildings, it would have some kind of fake antique sign written in calligraphy, something nearly impossible for him to read. After a few frustrating minutes of wandering, he was standing only a few yards from the entrance. He entered the brewery and was greeted by a young hostess who led him to the bar. The antique building had obviously received a modern makeover. The old oak hardwood floors, the pressed brass ceiling, and the exposed brick walls seemed dormant, overtaken by computer cash registers and ergonomically correct tables and chairs.

He sat at the bar and waited as the overweight greasy bartender tried fervently to strike up a conversation with a very young attractive girl who sat at the bar. She gained entrance by using the fake identification card she kept in the back pocket of her tight blue jeans. She deliberately refused to look at the bartender as he talked to her and seemed interested only in his leaving her alone. The old man tried to keep his mind focused on the task at hand but could not help observing the pair to see if the bartender really thought he could interest the girl. He wore a white T-shirt badly stained with grease and other unidentifiable stains which was several sizes too small for his build. His large belly hung suspended by his overworked belt, the white flesh and hair of his belly exposed below the shirt he pulled at repeatedly as if some miracle would occur and the shirt would remain stretched far enough down to hide his girth. The fat bartender shrugged his shoulder, more experienced in being turned down than flipping burgers, and came to the old man.

"What can I get you?" he asked, pulling again at his shirt.

"You can get me the owner," the old man replied.

The bartender smirked at the old man. "Can I tell him your name?"

"He won't know it, but he'll want to," the old man replied.

The bartender swaggered due to his weight as he walked away, stopping again to attempt more small talk with the girl. After another failed attempt, he climbed a long wooden stairway in the back of the brewery and went through a heavy wooden door at the top. The old man waited patiently as the bartender came back down the stairs followed by a man in his twenties dressed in very clean, pressed clothing. The owner stopped at every table on his way to the front of the brewery. He shook customers' hands and greeted them as he passed. When he reached the bar, he picked up a half-empty bowl of pretzels that sat on the bar-top and filled it up, winking at the girl sitting at the bar as he placed the pretzels in front of her. She blushed, trying unsuccessfully to fight off an awkward smile.

The owner approached the old man, smiling. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"Is there somewhere we can go to talk?" the old man asked.

"I guess that depends on who you are and what you want to talk about," the owner replied.

"Most who know me, which there are few these days, call me Lowery," the old man said.

"Nice to meet you, Lowery. My name is Sam Hewett," the owner said, shaking the old man's hand.

"What I want to talk about may not be good barstool talk with so many ears around," the old man said.

"Well, I know most everyone in here and they won't pay mind to...."

The old man cleared his throat and looked the young owner in the eyes. "When you were in high school you worked for a radio station and came across a tape recording of an interview with a Navy pilot ..."

Sam interrupted the man, "Let's go up to my office?" Sam turned to the bartender and patted him on the back as he walked past him. Curious if anyone had heard the old man's statement, Sam looked around. Satisfied that his customers seemed busy in conversation, he moved away from behind the bar and motioned for Lowery to follow him.

The smell of yeast and hops got progressively stronger as the two climbed the long wooden stairway at the end of the brewery. Lowery stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs to catch his breath as Sam opened the large wooden door. Once through the door, Lowery could see a storage room filled with bags of yeast, hops, and beer bottles. At one end of the room was a large metal desk that reminded Lowery of the one he sat behind for years when he was in the Army.

Sam grabbed two beers from a large cooling unit and handed one to Lowery. He pulled his chair from behind the large metal desk and placed it next to another chair that sat in front of the desk. Sam sat down and opened his beer. The old man pressed his thumb against the top of his beer until it shot off in a loud pop and smiled as he took off his hat and placed it in on his knee.

"I am 78 years old. I'm too damn tired and frankly don't have the time to play grab-ass. Do you still have the tape?" Lowery said before he took a long drink of his beer.

Sam wondered if the old man's mouth and tongue would soak the beer in before he could swallow. Everything about the man seemed dry. Even his eyes seemed waterless, slowly closing as the cold beer ran down his throat.

Sam sauntered to the desk and opened a drawer with a broken lock. He thumbed through some items, and without much delay, pulled a single cassette tape from the drawer. He sat back down in front of Lowery and handed the tape to him.

Lowery's eyes widened, and Sam wondered what thoughts were dancing through his head. He knew what Lowery was looking for but doubted that the tape would provide any help. Sam could almost feel the old man's excitement vibrating through him. A feeling Sam had not experienced in years began again to simmer.

"You know, about every other year a man comes into this town looking for it, but nobody has found a thing," Sam said.

The old man took one last look at the tape before sliding it into the chest pocket of his shirt. "I suppose I'd be just like the rest if I told you that I was the one who was going to find it. That I had spent a life time collecting information and knowledge so that one day I would be the one. I suppose I'm not the first to receive a copy of the tape from you, and not the first to say I'll be the one who'll know what to listen for."

The old man finished his beer and stood. "I'm not really sure what I would do with it if I found it. Not sure I care. The fact that this tape exists, and the fact that it's still out there, well ... what the hell else is there to do?"

Sam sat drinking his beer as the old man approached the stairs. Suddenly the old man stopped, locked the door, and turned around holding a gun. Sam's immediate thoughts were not of terror but of disbelief. He could see the pistol was small, black, and had a silencer attached to the barrel. This last fact is what bothered him the most. It would not be the first time a man pulled a gun after asking for the tape, but this gun ... it was out of place. He would have expected a large 45 six shooter to match the whole cowboy appearance, or that maybe the old man would have lunged at him with an old rusty bowie knife, but to have him pull a black semi-automatic with a silencer? This bothered him.

The old man cleared his throat. "I also suppose I'd not be aware of the other tape. That this tape, without the other, is as useless as my ex-wife."

"I don't...."

The old man raised the pistol. "I hope you don't take me as a bluffer, son. Like I said, I didn't come here to play grab-ass."

The desk was only a few feet away from Sam. He wondered if he could dive behind the desk and get his 35 out of the drawer. The man would fire, Sam knew he was not a bluffer, but maybe he would miss. He only had to miss once then the desk would protect him long enough to get his gun.

Then what? Sam thought. I would be pinned down behind the desk by an old dusty cowboy with a silencer.

"Look," Sam said, calculating when the best time to dive for the desk, "I have it somewhere else."

"Where?"

"It's in a safe deposit box at the community bank," Sam said, feeling his muscles twitch as if to send him airborne but willing the shaking to stop as he noticed the gun aimed between his eyes. He began to sweat.

"That won't do, son. That won't do."

The man began calculating a new plan in his head.

The gun lowered to Sam's chest, and without giving it anymore thought, he dove for the desk. Sam felt two quick snaps of pain before he hit the floor, their location not immediately known. Sam knew he'd been hit, but was terrified when he felt that he had been hit twice. The realization of how fast the old man was made his hands tremble uncontrollably. He had no time. Sam quickly reached for a drawer to the desk, and once opened, grasped his 35 with his right hand. He felt pain in his left arm, and his right calf began to throb. He could feel that his left arm was broken as he tried to use it to press himself into an upright position. Quickly, he spun into a sitting position and pressed his back against the desk. He raised the gun above the top of the desk to show the old man that he had one, and quickly lowered it so his hand did not get shot off.

"Son-bitch," the old man said. "You stupid, son-bitch."

"Get the fuck out of here, old man. Get the fuck out before I blast your goddamn ass off !" Sam grimaced with pain. He felt himself begin to black out and shook his head trying to stop it. If he passed out, he was dead.

The old man chuckled and reached for an old bar stool. He wiped the seat of the stool off with his sleeve and slowly propped himself onto it. He exhaled deeply as he took his hat off again, placing it back on his knee.

The old man pulled a Marlboro Red out of his pocket and lit it with a book of matches he had taken from the bar downstairs. "There was this girl I met in Weslaco, Texas. She was something. At first, ya know, all I wanted was to knock the plum fur off of her. But, she could smile. Oh, could she smile."

Sam turned his leg a bit so that he could see the wound to his calf. He was bleeding badly from the two wounds, and he knew that he had to get to the hospital soon. He wondered if the old man somehow knew this and was stalling, waiting for him to die. Sam promised himself that he would not simply sit against the desk and allow himself to bleed to death. It would be a gun fight. If the old man wanted the O.K. Corral, he'd get it.

"I bet you'd be hard pressed to find a man who loved a woman more, my friend. Hard pressed." The old man ran his fingers along a small feather that was held to his hat by a leather hat band. "She's gone, Sam. Gone from this earth, son. The only time I will see her again is when I die. That is, of course, if the book is true."

The old man heard Sam grunt with pain. He knew the boy would make his move soon.

"So, Sam, I don't think it bothers me too much for a young man to tell me that he is going to shoot my ass off . If you cut me down, Sam, good for you. You must know this though - all your suspicions about me are true. You won't win. You can't win."

"So what ... I just bleed to death?" Sam nearly coughed but fought the urge.

"Over a goddamned tape? You want to die over a tape that leads to something that can't be found? What are you ... stuck on stupid?"

Sam grimaced again. He was running out of time, and the old man was right. He had made a promise to protect the tapes, but to give his life? He wanted the tapes destroyed. He didn't see the reason for keeping the tapes around, but the others ... they wanted to keep them. No, he wanted to keep the tapes ... or did he? His mind was cloudy and losing focus.

"Okay," Sam said and pulled a key out of his pocket.

A key slid skidding along the ground toward Lowery from under the desk.

"Behind the painting behind you is a safe. The key unlocks the dial, and the combination is 34-2-17. The tape is in the safe."

The old man put on his hat and slid himself off the barstool. He thought briefly that Sam might try and shoot him in the back as he was unlocking the safe, but dismissed the thought, doubting Sam had the strength. The safe opened, revealing stacks of cash, some legal documents and a single cassette tape. Lowery took only the tape and closed the safe.

"On my way out, I'll tell one of your girls to call an ambulance."

Sam felt himself very close to unconsciousness. He bit his bottom lip hoping to keep himself awake. "Don't go after it, Lowery. You don't want to find it."

The old man smiled and slid the small silencer between his belt and the small of his back. "And why is that?"

Sam knew he did not have the strength to explain. "Just don't...." Sam's head fell limp as darkness overcame him.

Chapter Two

Michael O'Brian sat alone at the bar. He tried to appear preoccupied and uninterested in his surroundings as he tapped his fake wedding ring on the side of his crystal martini glass. He had told his colleagues at the law firm that the tap of the wedding ring had to be very calculated, not too loud, but loud enough so that the women would notice it; however, they should not know that he intended them to notice it. He proclaimed that women were far more immoral than men. A man without a wedding ring was not desirable, but a married man must have something that would keep a girl around. Most men in these types of clubs did not care if a woman was married or not, but the women seemed to be attracted more to the committed. He happily allowed the women to take advantage of his fake and apparently troubled marriage.

Michael squinted his eyes through his fake eyeglasses at a black, plastic clock with hands made out of glass that hung above the bar. His friend was already fifteen minutes late; this was expected. The new trendy club was very exclusive, and he doubted his friend was on the short list. He took a moment to see if he knew anyone in the bar, and noticed that some of the people were familiar, but none he could call by name. All the clubs in New York City would most likely be packed at eleven o'clock on Saturday night but this one would be especially so - this was the new club. A must-go for all the who's who of the New York elite, and although the club may change over time, he assumed that the elite do not. Soon this club would be yesterday's hot-spot, and he, along with most of the others in the bar that night, would snub their noses at anyone who would even suggest such a lame atmosphere.

He took advantage of his friend's tardiness and began to engage in one of his favorite pastimes - people watching. Not knowing exactly why he enjoyed the art so much, he knew he was quite good at it. He remembered many occasions at parties in high school when he spent nearly the entire night in the background refusing to participate in gossip, to get into a fight, or even trying to land a girl. He found himself curious if anyone in the bar could break free from the unimportant, lifeless form they were taking in his mind. Despite the large crowd of people all gathered under the same roof, he was simply an observer like someone in an empty movie theater watching animated figures move about the club engaging in conversation and insignificant acts of movement for his simple entertainment. Perhaps someone else in the bar would be looking at him, and dismissing him in the same flippant way that he did to all those around him. It was a joke, really, the same routine with the same dense people, all trying their best to sound unique and interesting to the other hollow souls.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Ancientsby Gregory M. Tucker Copyright © 2009 by Gregory M. Tucker. Excerpted by permission.
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