He parked his car. Getting out, he took a deep breath, and forced himself to walk towards the station with a steady gait. As soon as he entered it, he found a pay phone and putting in his dime, dialed Della's number. Perhaps she was already home. He prayed that she would answer, and when she did not, he tried again. Still no answer.

Hands shaking, he hung up the receiver and stepped out of the phone booth. A lot of people seemed to be congregating at one particular alcove. He joined them.

Anxiety hung in the air. Perry Mason donned the poker face that he was famous for and forced himself to emit a nonchalant air. He would not jump to conclusions – he would follow the laws of evidence – he would…

"May I have your attention please?" an official, grim-looking man said as he stepped out onto a small podium in front of the passengers. Instantaneously, everyone in the room fixed their eyes on him, and with bated breath, waited for his next words. "We have confirmed the names of the passengers who were on the 9:30 am bus from Treeland to Los Angeles. Those whose names are on the list are those who checked their tickets right before boarding, so there is no doubt that they indeed were on the bus. We will be hanging the lists of their names on these bulletin boards. We ask that you come forward in an orderly fashion in order to read their names. We have already made an effort to inform the next of kin of the passengers, but some were not able to be reached. If any of you are the next of kin of anyone on this list, please present yourselves to myself in order that we may keep you informed of the investigation. Please accept our sincere condolences."

With that, the official hung up two copies of the list on the bulletin boards, and stepped away, as a deluge of people swept forward.

Perry was not among them. He stubbornly stayed in the back. He watched as some people walked up to the bulletin board, scanned the names, and gave a sigh of relief. Others were not so lucky. They read, screamed, and began to cry. Still in the gripes of denial, the attorney told himself that there was no need to rush. He would be among those who gave a quick sigh of relief after reading the list, and go back to his afternoon drive.

Only fifteen minutes later, when everyone else had satisfied their curiosity, did Perry Mason slowly start walking towards the bulletin board.

He stationed himself in front of it, and read it as deliberately as he would a law book.

Frank Kason

Lara Muller

Gisselle Irvington

Robert Quero

Victor Engelson

Della Street

The attorney fell back a step. He instinctively clutched his chest. No. It could not be!

He forced himself to come closer to the board. He reached out a trembling hand and fingered the ink which spelled out her name, wishing that he could erase it and all it signified.

The room spun around him. Somehow, he stumbled from the bulletin board, away from the other weeping friends and relatives, and sank down on a bench.

Was it possible to feel such pain and still live? How was he to go on, without Della? He could not imagine ever going to his office again – or even to his apartment – or to the courthouse – or anywhere she had ever visited or been. Della, his darling Della! He had delayed telling her for so long – now he would never tell her. She had died, thinking that he was indifferent to her. Had she thought of him, in those last, horrible moments? How much had she suffered? How could it be that he would never see her again in this life? How could it be that he had smelled her perfume, seen the light in her eyes, escorted her up the courtroom steps, taken her out to dinner for the last time?

He suspected that he could never recover from this. He had borne the death of two parents, several friends, and countless acquaintances and clients with equanimity, but this blow was of another caliber. Della had been his best friend, the support he had leaned on in the worst days. He could not practice law without her. He could not go on in any meaningful way without her. He already knew what he was destined to become – if his pounding heart did not give out as he sat in the bus station – he would go back to his car, and start driving – away from Los Angeles, away from everything he had built there, with her at his side – he would forever be a fugitive from painful memories. He would grow old sleeping in random motels, hoping no one recognized him, a shell of his former self, crying himself to sleep as mental images of Della's sweet face forced themselves upon his consciousness.

He drew in a painful breath, and surrendered to soul-shaking sobs and tears.

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