He finished his drink, had another, then paced. She should have been home more than an hour ago, even if she got stuck at the railroad crossing. Where can she be? Twice on the comphone and no answer, but it could be the satellite reception. Maybe it's down for updates, repairs. Maybe it's… maybe they're maneuvering it. The possibilities were borderline ridiculous. Come on, Murray. Cool it. She's a big girl. Look at the news or something.
       He did, but that was no good either. Back to pacing.
       How about the comphone extension? Maybe it had failed and the damned thing was out of charge. Nope, it was okay. Where the hell was she? Almost by habit he started walking down the quarter mile graveled driveway toward the gate, something he'd always done when the newspaper had been delivered rather than coming by satellite. As long as he was going to pace, he might as well be out in the air. He was nearing the midpoint of the drive when his comphone spoke up: Gate. Unknown visitor.
       He activated video. When the handscreen brightened, his heart missed a beat. That was a state patrol car at the gate, and behind it one belonging to the county sheriff's office. A quick pan to the insignia confirmed it. They looked real enough, even though there was a slim chance they weren't. Fake officials' cars and uniforms were occasionally used to gain entrance at security gates, a technique brought into the country from the murderous Gulf Wars.
       He focused in on the driver of the county vehicle. Alfredo Gomez! Alfredo was one of the sheriff's deputies. With a sinking heart he told the gate to open, then stepped away from the ruts of the driveway and waited. Moments later the two cars pulled to a halt. Ignoring the state patrol car, he went to the passenger's side of the deputy's vehicle, one of the newer sedans sporting composite armor and bulletproof glass. You could tell at a glance--it was built like a Brink's truck with rounded corners.
       The door clicked open and he slid inside. Al's hand was sweaty, just like the young man's dark brown face. "Hello Al. I take it you're not bringing good news, not with the state tagging along. What is it?"
       "Murray, it's bad. Why don't we go on up to the house. We need to talk to you, and--"
       "Just go ahead and tell me, Al. Was it Keith? Or Connie? What happened? How bad is it? Are they…" He couldn't go on.
       Al glanced over to be sure he was seated , then started up the drive. He pulled into the circular turnaround before answering. "Murray, God knows I hate to have to tell you this, but it was a wreck on the interstate. Some stupid wetbacks hit them head-on in an old pickup. They were going the wrong way on that bad curve right before you get into town; you know the one. A couple of the bunch survived and I guess they'll be prosecuted, for all the good it'll do you now. I'm sorry, Murray."
       Alfredo was a third generation immigrant, and talked like one. Hardly anyone in the area had much use for political correctness when it came to illegals, and a wetback would always be a wetback. Murray looked away and pounded his fist on his knee, saying nothing for a long moment. Finally he turned and let Alfredo continue.
       "The trooper… he… well, he was going to notify you, but I said I'd do it since I knew you. Murray, I hate that you have to go though this, but he's going to ask you to come in and identify the bodies."
       The words arrived as through a long tunnel, echoing over and over. Bodies. Bodies. Bodies.
       Murray forced himself to concentrate. Get a grip. You can't let down until it's over. You have to go through it. You've imagined such things a dozen times in your worst nightmares, but this time you can't switch your thoughts to something else. It's real. They're gone, Murray, gone.
       But the mention of bodies made getting a grip impossible. There was all that carnage he'd seen on the operation in Venezuela, from the time when the Marines and an army brigade had been sent in to rescue American citizens. For a lot of them, it had been too late. Dead bodies everywhere. Destroyed, eviscerated, burned--no longer people, just things--with expressions of pain or agony, if they still had faces. Would Connie look like… like them? A head-on collision… ah, no, no!
       He shook his head, feeling his vision blur. "I can't do it… Al… not that. I can't do that. I can't--"        "You have to, Murray. They need the identification.">br>        "It can't all end… not like this. Damn… damn… oh, damn!
       A hand was placed on his arm. "Murray, I'm sorry. You can do it. Just take a look, that's all. Take a deep breath, calm yourself, say it's them and it's over. That's all you have to do. The trooper's waiting. Go talk to him."
       "Not my own family, Al. Someone else can do it." He abruptly shouldered open the heavy door and staggered out. There's no way in hell they can force me to view the… they'll have to get someone else, someone from town, someone from the agency that cared for… Keith. They've got the DNA on both of them, so let 'em use that.
       But when the trooper's window rolled down, nothing came together, no coherent argument, just protest. The trooper stared straight ahead all through the outburst. He finally looked up.
       "Sir," he said gently, "we recovered some personal identification. If you could just look at one of the victims, we'll take that as conclusive for both. Or if you have some other close family member, that would do as well."
       "There's no one nearby. They're in… I'll… okay, I'll go in and look at… at my son. Only him. Not…not my wife. I can't… not her." I'll remember you as you were, Connie, my beautiful, vibrant, loving companion. I'll always remember your smile when you said you'd be back in a few minutes. Your freckles. They were you.
       It was the last thing he remembered clearly that day.

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