Death Drones

by Christopher Fox

  “Oh, Miguel,” Adriana said, holding their three-year-old in her arms. “We’ve been trying to get in touch with you. The police were here looking for you. There was an accident.” She started crying.

  “An accident? With Anna? Is she OK?”

  “No, she’s not,” she sobbed. “And Enrique.”

  “Enrique?” Miguel said. “What about Enrique? Listen. What’s happened?”

  “I’m so sorry Miguel for having to be the one to tell you this,” Lucas said. “But Anna and Enrique have been involved in a fatal car accident. I’m so sorry.”

  Miguel stood there for a while with his mouth open, trying to form words but couldn’t. Dizziness overcame him, and Lucas grabbed him by the arm.

  “Are you OK? Let’s get you inside where you can sit down.” Lucas said as he guided the zombie-like Miguel to the sofa .

  “I … I can’t believe it,” Miguel finally uttered. Adriana sat the child down and scurried to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water.

  “Here,” she said. “Drink this.”

  Miguel took the glass and gulped down the water. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Miguel,” said Lucas. “You need to go to the hospital and get all the details. If you’re up to doing that now, I will drive you.”

  “Sure,” he said in a daze. “Sure.”

  Adriana returned to their house with the child, and Miguel followed Lucas to his car. No one knew what to say, so they rode in silence, which for Miguel was good. After all, the man had just learned that his wife and son had been killed in a car accident. On his way, Lucas had called the station, and was directed to go to the hospital and an Inspector Martinez will meet him there, as an identification procedure was necessary.

  Lucas pulled up to the hospital’s entrance and let Miguel out.

  “I’ll go and park the car and come back,” he said. With that, he drove away.

  Miguel, still in a daze, was trying to process the information flowing around in his head. Of course, denial is the first reaction, because you just don’t want to believe it. He almost walked into the glass entrance door just before it opened sideways for him. Not knowing what to do, he stood there. The door closed, then someone walked up to the door, it opened again, and Miguel stepped through.

  “Can I help you?” the attractive young nurse said.

  Miguel just looked at her with a thousand-yard stare. The nurse took him by the arm and led him over to the reception counter. A large waiting room brimmed with people. Most did not appear visibly sick or in need of medical services, but who knew what internal issues they had? He surmised that anyone looking at him thought the same. He would trade any of their issues for his right now. The nurse sat him in one of the chairs and asked him again. “Is there something we can help you with?”

  “My wife … and my son … dead.”

  “Oh. My God!” she said. “I am so sorry. Can you give me their names?”

  “Anna. Anna Ameche. And Enrique. My son is named Enrique. ”

  “One moment,” she said, and left him as she disappeared through one of the doors.

  Miguel buried his head in his hands and tried to think straight, still not believing this was happening. Anna dead? And Enrique?

  Lucas came in and sat next to Miguel.

  “What’s happening?” he said.

  “Not sure,” Miguel slurred. “Someone asked me why I was here and I told her. Then she left.”

  The doors slid open again, and a tall dark man wearing a tan suit with beige, open-necked shirt and tan loafers walked through it. He scanned the room and his eyes settled on Miguel and Lucas. He gave Lucas a recognition look and headed for him.

  “Here comes Inspector Martinez,” Lucas said. “He’s the one who’s been trying to locate you.”

  “Señor Molina,” he said as he approached. “And you must be Miguel Diaz. I am so sorry.”

  Miguel looked up at him and stood. “Yes, I am Miguel.”

  “My name is Pablo Martinez, thank you for coming. I know this must be a terrible ordeal for you, but we need you to identify the bodies. Are you up for that?”

  “Sure,” he said, although he really wasn’t sure. The sight of their bodies will only confirm that they were gone, and that it was not just a bad dream. The inspector walked to the elevators and Miguel followed, watching him select the ‘down’ button. When the over-sized elevator arrived, they entered, and Pablo selected the down button next to the label ‘Morgue’. The notation ‘morgue’ gave Miguel another hurtful mental jolt. The elevator inched its way down until it stopped, and the doors opened. Miguel followed Pablo as they navigated through the corridors and came to a large set of double doors, which Pablo pushed open. The room they entered was decorated entirely in stainless steel. Several stainless steel tables occupied the centre of the room, and on one side, three levels of stainless steel doors with large handles, like those often seen on refrigerators, covered the walls. The low temperature in the room caused Miguel to shiver although it may not have been from the cold. A white-coated man approached them and addressed Pablo. Miguel was sure they saw each other often.

  “Doctor Castillo, this is Miguel Diaz, the partner of the accident victim Anna Ameche and father of the boy, Enrique. ”

  “Please accept my condolences,” the doctor said. He must have said that many times, and it likely doesn’t get any easier , Miguel thought.

  “Thank you,” Miguel said.

  The doctor walked over to the stainless steel doors and opened one, pulling on the gurney until it rolled out, revealing a body covered with a white sheet. When Miguel stood next to the gurney, he pulled back the sheet. Miguel hoped the face he was about to see belonged to someone else—but it didn't. Miguel stared at the colourless yet still beautiful face covered in lacerations and buried his head in his hands. The doctor replaced the sheet, slid the gurney back in and closed the door.

  “That’s her,” Miguel said, choking on his reply.

  “I’m sorry,” said the doctor, opening the next door, “but there is another one.” A similar-sized body was under the sheet and the doctor pulled it back, revealing the lifeless head of Enrique, again with obvious head injuries. Miguel looked at him and nodded to the inspector, then the doctor covered the body and returned it to the cooler. Miguel felt queasy and a little dizzy.

  “Are you OK?” said the doctor.

  Miguel placed his hand over his mouth and ran to one of the stainless steel tables where he threw up, retching for several minutes before the doctor offered him a capsule and a paper cup of water.

  “Take this … it will help.”

  Miguel took the pill and swallowed it with the water.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I just want to get out of here.”

  Pablo guided Miguel back to the elevator, and they returned to the waiting area where Lucas waited.

  “How did it happen?” Miguel finally asked the inspector. It was all questions now and Miguel needed answers. How could such a thing happen? What were the circumstances? Who was at fault?

  “As often is the case,” Pablo started, “a series of unfortunate circumstances led to the tragedy, the absence of any one of them likely would have changed the outcome. First of all, as in all such accidents, timing is one of the unfortunate circumstances—being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That being said, several other elements contributed to the crash. Your wife’s car was stopped at a traffic light behind a truck. A large transport truck bore down on them, seemingly not able to stop. The man in the car behind your wife’s car was able to see it, and he sounded his horn as he moved out of the way. Unfortunately, your wife did not have time to do the same, and the transport smashed into the rear of her car. That wasn’t the worse thing though. The truck in front of her was a flatbed and her car was propelled into and under it, the bed of the truck almost taking off the roof of the car.”

  Miguel listened to Pablo’s voice, although it seemed to be coming from afar.

  “Why did the truck
behind her not stop?” he said staring at the floor.

  “Seems the driver fell asleep at the wheel.”

  Pablo was at a loss to say any more. This was always the most difficult part of his job; dealing with people who have just suffered a tragic loss.

  “Will you be OK? Do you want a ride home? Is there someone else I can call for you?”

  “No thanks … Lucas is still here … he will drive me home.”

  “OK then. I’ll be on my way. If there’s anything else we can do …”

  “Thanks,” Miguel said with a forced smile, then turned to Lucas. “I think I would like to go home now.”

  Once again, they drove in silence; Lucas, again, not knowing what to say, and Miguel not wanting to say anything. As they pulled up outside of Miguel’s house, he said “thanks” and shuffled to his door, fumbled for a key, and then realized he had not even locked it. Lucas watched with concern as Miguel disappeared into the house and closed the door. Lucas then pulled into his own driveway, and Adriana came out to meet him.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “As well as can be expected. Imagine having to identify your dead spouse and son.”

  “My God. That is so awful,” she said and started to weep. Lucas got out of the car and embraced her.

  “Let’s go inside—I think he needs to be alone with his thoughts now.” With that they both went into the house.

  * * * *

  Flashes of memories entered Miguel’s mind of the accidental shooting of Casey, his first wife, by her ex-husband. Remembering the pain, he dreaded having to experience it again. Although not a habitual drinker of hard liquor, he walked over to the cabinet and pulled out the bottle of Crown Royal, half-filled a glass with ice and poured a healthy serving of rye. He sat down and stared at the TV, not even bothering to turn it on. As he sipped at his drink, he pondered the loss of the love of his life and his son. Slowly at first, he started to weep, then the floodgates opened, and he cried and cried until finally his emotions stabilized. He forced himself to gather his thoughts and try to eradicate the painful cerebrations. He refilled his glass and turned on the TV in the hopes that there would be something that would take his mind off the terrible thoughts running through his mind. Miguel knew that time was the only healer, and that the process of mourning had to take its course. A rerun of Mission Impossible III was about 15 minutes into the program, so he started watching it—it didn’t help. After a third drink, the alcohol seeping through his veins calmed him, and he became drowsy, eventually falling asleep on the couch.

  The pounding in his head woke him up at a little after 5 a.m., and he wondered if it was all a bad dream. But as his consciousness increased, so did the reality that it was not a dream. He grabbed the bottle of Tylenol from the bathroom and shook out two of the extra-strength capsules, washing them down with a glass of water. He looked at himself in the mirror—he looked like shit, but wasn’t in any mood to clean himself up, at least not yet. Anna’s presence could still be sensed in the house; the essence of her White Diamonds perfume and her unique scent. Anger welled up inside him, and he smashed the mirror with his fist, causing it to shatter. Shards of glass bit into his knuckles as blood oozed from the cuts. He wrapped a dampened facecloth around his hand, walked into the master bedroom and looked at the large empty bed, thinking that she will no longer be lying next to him. After opening her closet, he grimaced at the sight of all her clothes hanging there, never to be worn by her again. There is such a finality about death that is seldom understood until it visits you in the form of a lost loved one. He closed the closet door and walked out of the bedroom and into Enrique’s room. Somehow, this hurt even more, seeing all the paraphernalia on the walls and various sports equipment around the room. A skateboard leaning against the wall and a baseball glove carelessly thrown into a corner. He reminisced about how Anna would constantly be at him to clean up his room, which he would do, but a few days later it looked the same. His laptop lay open on the desk and clusters of books and paper surrounding it. Miguel sensed the emotions starting again, but he held them in check and left the room.

  So many things needed to be done, and Miguel was certainly in no mood to do them. Arrangements for the funerals were important, however, so he checked on-line for a funeral parlour in the area. After selecting one, he arranged to meet with them at 3:00 that afternoon to complete the necessary paperwork and selection of coffins. Anna, being Catholic, attended church often, so he called the priest of her parish to have him conduct the ceremonies. After his meetings with the funeral home and priest, he returned home, stopping off at the local liquor store to replenish his fast-declining stock of Crown Royal. He wasn’t even hungry, so he skipped supper—he hadn’t eaten all day—finished the old bottle of rye and started on the new one. He didn’t even bother with the ice this time, and in an hour or so, he was virtually comatose.

  Miguel’s head split again as he lay on the couch. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to get into the bed that he and Anna shared. He heard a ringing that seemed to be in the distance, but he realized it was the phone. He moved to get up off the couch and fell to the floor, knocking the coffee table over with the now-empty bottles and his glass. After vomiting and not eating, his stomach hurt because it was empty. After trying to get up, he stumbled again and fell—the ringing stopped. He eventually made his way over to the phone and noticed the message light flashing, but was in no state or mood to retrieve them. Grabbing another two Tylenol, he swallowed them and made his way back to the couch. There was another ring, different this time. It was the door. Christ! He didn’t want to be seen the way he was, so he ignored it. He had to pull himself together, so he returned to the bathroom, cleaned his teeth, gargled mouthwash, shaved and turned on the shower. Although his head didn’t feel much better, he forced himself under the cascading water and finished the clean-up. He had to go back to the bedroom, reluctantly, to find fresh clothes, trying to ignore the essence of Anna.

  Feeling somewhat better, Miguel tidied up the mess in the living room and checked his phone message—it was Maria asking that he call as soon as possible. He headed out the door to find a restaurant. A few that he and Anna had frequented were nearby, and he didn’t want to go to any of those, so he chose a nondescript diner-style location that offered desayuno all day.

  “Buenos días ”, the cheerful server greeted Miguel. “¿le gustaría un menú?”

  “Buenos días, ” he replied, “Si, y un café Americano por favor. ”

  The server returned with a menu and a pot of coffee, filling the cup on the table and leaving to serve another customer. Miguel perused the menu selections and settled on a Gallo Pinto , a traditional Costa Rican breakfast dish consisting of beans and rice. When the server returned, he ordered it con huevos frito , with fried eggs. The coffee tasted good, and he sipped away while awaiting his food. His stomach really hurt now, but thankfully, the headache had slowly receded. As the restaurant started to fill, he checked his watch and saw that it was almost noon. He hadn’t realized what time it was. Where did the morning go? His plate arrived and, as hungry as he was, he knew he had to pace himself. He punctured the egg yolks and used the pita bread to dip into them. Before long, he stared at an empty plate.

  “Mas café, por favor ,” he said to the server when she came to collect the empty plate. She returned with the coffee pot and refilled his cup. Miguel sat pondering what he should be doing. He had charters booked, but did not fancy mingling with people now. But, he realized that keeping busy and occupied would help pass the time and likely take his mind off the mourning. He decided to cancel the charters and call Maria back.

  Twenty

  Alberto selected Miguel, Maria, and Alex to go to Bluefields to apprehend the Cuban shipment, along with the FBI representative, Melinda Tinsdale. They had three days to prepare, but Miguel wanted to stay in San Jose to settle the estate of Anna.

  “When will you be back?” Maria asked Miguel.

  “Hopefully in a couple of
days.”

  “OK, we will plan the raid and download you when you get here,” said Maria.

  After Miguel hung up, Maria approached Alberto.

  “What’s with this FBI chick we have to play nursemaid to?”

  “I don’t think you will have to play nursemaid to her. She is a trained agent. It was the only way we could get access to their Intel, satellite feeds, etc.”

  “Another thing, I'm not sure Miguel is in a condition to be on this raid,” she said.

  “I know,” said Alberto. “I need him to get involved with something to take his mind off the tragic events in his life.”

  “I understand that,” she said. “But we don't want him breaking down while he’s on assignment.”

  “That won’t happen,” said Alberto. “He is too professional for that.”

  “If you say so,” Maria said, with a shrug of her shoulders.

  * * * *

  After the second day, a Wednesday, Maria called Miguel to ask how things were going. She got his answering machine, so left a message to call her.

  Miguel had finalized the arrangements with the priest and funeral home and arranged the funeral for Friday. That would give him time to complete the Bluefields raid on Thursday and be back for the funeral. He returned home and felt sorry for himself again. Making final arrangements for the burial of a loved one placed oneself into the acceptance part of the process—denial was now over. A new remorse set in, the knowing that things will never be the same, and both Anna and Enrique were gone from his life forever. He went to the liquor cabinet and reached for the Crown Royal, pouring a healthy dose into a large glass. He dispensed with the ice and took a long pull of the amber liquid. It felt good as the fiery fluid eased down his throat, settling into his stomach, giving him a warm sensation. A second and third swallow was enough to drain the glass, which he refilled. Before long, he emptied the bottle, fell back on the sofa, and fell into a deep slumber.