Possibly, snowflake shapes followed the same sort of distribution pattern as ceiling tiles. Maybe there were a billion or a trillion or a quadrillion different sizes, shapes, and patterns, and then they began to repeat themselves. Or more likely, it was even more complicated than that. Perhaps certain patterns were more prevalent than others repeating more frequently than relatively rarer patterns. Who made the rule about snowflakes, anyway? Would it be possible to write a computer program that could analyze all existing snowflakes to determine if any two matched? Probably he’d need Bill Gates to help him with that.

What if two were identical in size, weight and shape but varied in chemical composition? For example, one contained a minute quantity of chlorine and the other either contained none or contained a different amount. Would that constitute a match? Probably not. Detailed and precise rules would have to be written to address and answer such questions. Of course, those rules would have to be coordinated throughout the scientific community, and that, thought Russ wryly, would probably be more difficult than writing the required programs and procedures.

How would the rules consider the billions and billions of tons of snow permanently frozen in Antarctica or trapped in glaciers throughout the world? Could each individual flake be reconstructed to its exact original form so that the required comparisons could be made?

Maybe he could dedicate the rest of his life to this effort. Instead of finding only two of the illusive identical flakes, he might find three, four or even ten perfect matches. He could possibly even find sets of matching groups. He would have to preserve them very meticulously so that they would not melt or otherwise be destroyed. The scientific and lay communities alike would be astonished by his accomplishments. The doubters and the envious would certainly try to discredit his work. In the final analysis, truth would prevail, and Russ would win the Nobel Prize in science. The matching sets would be donated to the American people and would be displayed, permanently frozen, in the Smithsonian Institution.

He rejoined the conference and realized that Colonel Bradford was no longer speaking. The meeting was now open for general discussion. He noticed that the Navy captain had the floor. His nameplate identified him as Captain Charles T. Stanley.

“—the documentation and the related statistical analysis must be integrated into a unified and balanced system. Both Documentation Managers and Occurrence Pattern Analysis Managers must use these tools to help the appropriate agencies, bureaus and similar organizations to incrementally allocate personnel resources to those specific locations that will result in the maximization of their utility. Now, ladies and gentlemen, you have heard me stress the word ‘system.’  That is the key. We are much more interested in maximizing system effectivity than in attempting to target individual penetrations.”

“You are certainly correct; correct indeed!” That from the Air Force colonel, a William Roper.

Colonel Bradford then stated, “Our office, that is Fred’s office, is ready to move on this. We are completely in bed with the policy people. Is anyone here from the AIMSO?” He directed his question toward the group.

Russ stood up. “Yes sir. I’m from AIMSO. My name is Russ Paxton.”

“Well, Mr. Paxton. I understand that Mr. Homburg is ready to run with this. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir. That’s my understanding.”

Bettina was on her back fast asleep. Her face in repose was exquisite in its beauty. He softly touched her cheek, and she smiled, still sleeping. He took her into his arms turning her to face him. She snuggled lazily against him. She was still wearing her blouse and panties. Here he was buck-assed naked, and she hadn’t even got undressed.

He worked his hand down her back and into her panties and held her shapely little ass. She squirmed closer to him, and he felt his d*ck getting hard. Well, he thought, now I will show her what a good man is really like. He moved his other hand slowly into the front of her panties but suddenly jerked it away as though it had touched a red hot stove. Sh*t. He felt a rigid dick where her p*ssy ought to be! He had to be wrong. He moved it cautiously back, and the d*ck was still there.

He just lay there, too dumbfounded to move. What was she? he wondered. She must be some kind of freak that was half man and half woman. He had heard of them, but he had never believed they really existed. And then it hit him. That wasn’t what she was at all. She wasn’t even a she. She was a f**king queer.

He jumped out of the bed and began dressing. The goddamned queer, whatever his name was, sat up.

“Honey,” he said, “what’s wrong? You don’t have to go.”

Billy was all tangled up. He had put his shorts on hurriedly, and they were wrong side out; he wasn’t about to take the time to remove them and put them on right. One pant’s leg was also inside out, and he was trying to get it straightened out.

“Shut up, you f**king queer,” he screamed. “You’re lucky that I didn’t kill your ass, you c**k-s*cking son of a bitch. But if you don’t shut up I will.”

Bettina, or whatever his name was, just sat there watching him. Billy tried to ignore him and continued trying to put on his clothes.

“You better hope you ain’t gave me the AIDS, you son of a bitch because I’ll come back and kill you. I swear I’ll kill your miserable queer ass.”

He finally finished dressing. Nothing was on right. Not his pants, his shirt or his socks. He just held his shoes in his hands, not even attempting to put them on. It seemed like it took him about an hour, but it was only a few minutes. As he left the bedroom, Bettina was still watching him from the bed. He stormed out the front door and went to his car. As he drove away he was really scared.

He figured it was unlikely that he would get AIDS from this encounter, although he knew it was possible. But that wasn’t what scared him the most. He had always heard that if a fag ever gave you a bl*w job it was just like taking heroin or cocaine. That one time could be enough to get you hopelessly hooked and change you into a queer yourself for the rest of your life. If that happened to him, he would sure as sh*t kill his goddamned self. But before he did that, he would come back and kill that f**king Bettina. You could bet your goddamned life on that.

Offie glanced around the room. It seemed that the glance was casual but actually he was very carefully studying the place. The security system was one with which he was quite familiar and which he knew he could easily disarm. The place was full of restaurant supplies, but Offie had an idea that it served as a front for the dope operation. A storage room was in one corner. Through its open door, he could see paint, drop cloths and an assortment of supplies, tools and equipment that apparently had been used recently in sprucing up the place.

He wondered if they actually kept any drugs there or merely used the building as a meeting place. Well, he hoped he could find out the answer to that question later.

“It was bad news about Lobo,” Offie hazarded. “I just heard.”

“Yeah. So why are you here?” Moore didn’t sound a bit friendly.

“Well, like I said, I’m kinda between jobs. Lobo always said this was a good place to work. Now since he’s dead, I thought maybe I could take his place.”

“Where are you from? How did you happen to know Guardia?”

“I met him in Austin. Hell, I know everything he did. I told you, him and me were friends.”

“And just what did he do that you know about?”

“Look, I said me and Lobo were friends,” he said shortly. “I thought you might need somebody to take his place. If you don’t, that’s fine.”

The man who had been on the stepladder when Offie entered said, “Hey, man. Don’t talk to Mr. Moore like that. Maybe somebody needs to teach you manners, no?”

Offie looked at him coldly, “Sit down and shut up, Junior. Don’t interrupt when grownups are talking.”

The man’s face lit up in an ugly grin. “So,” he said, his eyes studying Offie’s stone-cold visage, “you think you’re a pretty big man, eh? Maybe I’ll see just how big you are.”

“I’m just going to tell you once,” Offie said softly. “Set your ignorant butt down somewhere, or I’ll set it down for you.”

The man looked like he was trying to decide what to do. He turned his eyes toward Moore as if expecting the big man to give him some type of a cue. Moore’s face was expressionless. The man then turned to look at his companion who was watching with an amused expression on his face.

“Kick his ass, Chico,” the man advised him. “Kick his f**king ass.”

Chico moved toward Offie, elbows bent, fists clenched in front of him, his face a dark menacing scowl. Offie stood perfectly relaxed watching him approach. When Chico was about six feet away, Offie moved smoothly with blurring speed. He spun in a three hundred and sixty degree turn bringing his right leg up and around in a karate kick as he did so. His foot grazed Chico’s shoulder and smashed into his temple. Chico collapsed unconscious to the floor.

Offie looked back to Moore as though nothing had happened. “Well, if you don’t need anybody, I guess I’ll be going.” He offered his hand, and after hesitating a moment, Moore took it. Offie was at the door when Moore said, “Wait a minute.”

Offie turned to face him. Moore continued, “Leave me your name and phone number. I’ll get in touch with you if I decide I need somebody. Okay?”

“Sure. No problem.” Offie wrote down the requested information on a slip of paper and handed it to Moore.

“This is my cell phone number,” he said. “They’ll have my other phone installed in a couple of days.”

He was pleased with what had taken place so far. It was a small first step toward what he was trying to accomplish. He had located Guardia’s boss and had verified, to his satisfaction, the location from which he operated his business.

Now, he would wait to see if Moore contacted him and offered him a job. Offie reasoned that if he could get inside the operation, he would find it easier to discover what was going on and hopefully to obtain and provide to the appropriate law enforcement agencies enough evidence to shut the operation down and throw a few people in jail. But whether or not Moore took the bait and hired him, he felt that he could still do what he needed to do. At least now he knew where to start.

He opened the door to leave and almost collided with someone else who was entering. They recognized each other at the same time. The last time they had met, Offie had kicked his butt. He was Weaver, the flunky who used to work for Benbow. “What the f**k are you doing here?” Weaver demanded harshly. Then he asked Moore, “What is this son of a bitch doing here?”

“What’s going on?” Moore asked softly.

“This is the son of a bitch that tried to put Mr. Benbow in jail.”

“Oh, yes. Now I remember that name. I knew I had heard it somewhere. So, Mr. Coker, you really weren’t a friend of Lobo’s, were you? And I doubt if you really need a job. Just what are you doing here, Mr. Coker?”

Chico had woken up and was trying to get to his feet.

“What’s the matter with Chico?” Weaver queried.

“No,” said Offie. “I was lying. I was just trying to find the sons of bitches that killed my nephew. It looks like I’ve succeeded.”

Weaver reached under his coat and brought out a gun. Before he could even point it, Offie’s hand flashed. Its edge, as hard as iron, struck Weaver’s and sent the weapon sliding across the floor like a hockey puck.

“You’re a slow learner,” Offie admonished him. “There’s something about me that seems to bring out your dumber personality.”

“Look, Mr. Coker. I don’t know what you are looking for or what you think you’ve found. I don’t really care. Since you are a guest, I’ll overlook your rudeness this time. But get out of my establishment and don’t come back. I won’t be so forgiving the next time.”

“Thanks for your forgiveness and your tolerance, Mr. Moore. It was a pleasure meeting you. Don’t bother escorting me to the door. I can find my own way out.”

When he turned his attention back to his driving, he was halfway in the ditch and halfway on the shoulder, and a concrete bridge abutment was directly in front of him. He grabbed the steering wheel and turned it to the left with all his strength. The tires squealed but seemed to hold, and it looked like Kyle would miss the bridge by inches. But at the last split second, the tires lost their grip, and the truck sideswiped the abutment with a loud ripping sound.

The impact caught the right side of the truck and spun it out of control. It crossed the road onto the left shoulder where it turned over. The door on the driver’s side sprang open. Kyle was not wearing his seat belt and was thrown through the open door about fifteen feet from the wreck. As he got unsteadily to his feet, he could see a small flame on the bottom of the truck where gasoline was leaking from a gas line.

He thought of trying to open the rear door that blocked the Mexicans’ escape but then changed his mind. The flames might flare up and catch him on fire, or the truck might explode. There wasn’t any use in taking that kind of a risk. And besides, he probably couldn’t open it anyway.

He could hear them screaming and pounding on the sides of their prison as they tried to escape. He watched and listened in fascination as the fire began to spread and engulf the truck. He belatedly remembered that he had been carrying a fire extinguisher. If he had thought of it earlier, he would have had a chance to put out the fire before it spread out of control.

He didn’t think he should just keep standing by the side of the road in plain sight. It would probably be only a matter of minutes before someone came by and called the police. Well, the cops were the last people on earth he wanted to talk to. If they found out he was involved with a truckload of illegal wetbacks, they would throw him in jail for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to be anywhere around when they showed up. There was only one problem. There was no way for him to get away.

Kyle made a quick decision. He would not try to flag down anybody, and he would not hang around. He started walking out into the pasture directly away from the burning wreck hoping to get as far away as he could before the cops arrived. He tried to walk fast but wasn’t able to. His feet moved so slowly that he felt like he was up to his knees in quicksand. He would just have to lie down out of sight somewhere until the wreck was cleared away and it got dark, and then he would decide what to do next. Maybe he could find a gully or ravine that would help conceal him. The sun was hot, and he was sick and weak and felt like throwing up. He couldn’t, but the dry heaves of trying seemed to be tearing his stomach apart.

He had hoped to walk about ten miles so there wouldn’t be any danger of the cops finding him. After just a few minutes, he knew he would be lucky if he went a mile. Off in the distance, he saw a dilapidated old barn. He would try for it. It wasn’t far from the highway, but it was the best he could do. When he finally got to it, he was so weak and exhausted that he couldn’t go any further so he went into the disintegrating old structure and lay down. In a moment he was asleep.