Indisputable Proof by Gary Williams, Vicky Knerly Page B
Authors: Gary Williams, Vicky Knerly
Ads: Link
and filled her tiny glass. He filled the other two shot glasses from the contents of the second bottle: a 25-year-old Chivas Regal Scotch. He held onto one glass and placed the other one on a side stand.
“Who’s that one for?” Reba Zee asked.
“Frank.”
Reba Zee gave an appreciative nod.
By odd coincidence, this was their fourth time working together on the infamous anniversary, and this would be their fourth time sharing a traditional moment of remembrance.
“How’s my girl, Tiffany, doing?” Reba Zee asked, passing the minutes until it was time.
Tolen grinned. “She’s coming along. I forgot to mention earlier, she said to tell you hello.”
“I haven’t seen the child in over a month. I hope to get to DC soon and stop in for a visit.”
Tiffany Bar had formed an unusual relationship with the elder pilot, bordering on a mother/daughter kinship. Bar’s mother and father had divorced when she was eight years old. Her mother had turned to alcohol, and their relationship had been strained ever since. Reba Zee had lost her husband, Frank, to a terrorist attack when his plane exploded just after takeoff from Belfast two years ago. Yet Reba Zee swore that she spoke to Frank every day. After Tolen introduced the two last year, Reba Zee had taken Bar under her wing. They had even vacationed together in Mexico. The stout, gray-haired pilot with the brusque mannerisms who spoke English with a pronounced Texas drawl, and the diminutive, blonde-haired girl who spoke Spanish better than the inhabitants of Cancun made quite the pair.
Tolen checked his watch: 8:45. He waited patiently for the next minute to tick off. Once 8:46 arrived, he hoisted his shot glass into the air, as did Reba Zee.
“To those who have fallen…,” Reba Zee said, a tear threatening to fall from her eye.
“We will never forget,” Tolen finished solemnly.
They both gulped down their respective shots, and on the exact minute of the anniversary when the first airliner was flown into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, Samuel Tolen and Reba Zee commemorated all the people in the world whose lives had been lost as a result of terrorist activity, including Frank.
For a long moment, Reba Zee stared at the third, full shot glass sitting stoically to the side. “Okay, back to business,” she finally said, forcing a grin.
Tolen rose and was about to return to the cabin when he paused. “Would you like to take a break? I can take the wheel for a few hours.”
“Are you kidding?” Reba Zee said with a smirk. “No one who’s sipped alcohol is touchin’ my baby.”
CHAPTER 14
September 11. Tuesday – 2:04 p.m. Northwest coast of Costa Rica
Tolen had to keep the speed down as the vessel pushed west through the waves, rising and falling with each comber. The salt in the breeze was strong, and, in a way, invigorating. The sky was clear and bright. To starboard, the shoreline of Costa Rica fell away and blended seamlessly into the Nicaraguan coast in the distance. Ahead, the dark blue horizon stretched out to infinity. Yet it was the port side Jade was watching with building anticipation, as they paralleled the barrier of gray, mountainous walls which abutted the sea and reached to lofty cliffs overhead.
If she had not been so anxious about their quest, Jade might have felt more sympathy toward the inspector. It had taken Pascal Diaz all of five minutes riding aboard the 25-foot boat to turn green from seasickness as they pitched and swayed in the choppy waters of the Pacific Ocean. The Spaniard had quickly disappeared below deck where he now lay on a mattress in a small cabin, hugging a pillow. Diaz’s attitude was vexing at times, but no one deserved to suffer as he was at that very moment.
Jade held onto the rail beside Tolen on the upper wheelhouse deck as he guided the boat. He occasionally lifted his sunglasses to glance at a handheld GPS display on his iPhone to mark their position. His mastery of the vessel was
“Who’s that one for?” Reba Zee asked.
“Frank.”
Reba Zee gave an appreciative nod.
By odd coincidence, this was their fourth time working together on the infamous anniversary, and this would be their fourth time sharing a traditional moment of remembrance.
“How’s my girl, Tiffany, doing?” Reba Zee asked, passing the minutes until it was time.
Tolen grinned. “She’s coming along. I forgot to mention earlier, she said to tell you hello.”
“I haven’t seen the child in over a month. I hope to get to DC soon and stop in for a visit.”
Tiffany Bar had formed an unusual relationship with the elder pilot, bordering on a mother/daughter kinship. Bar’s mother and father had divorced when she was eight years old. Her mother had turned to alcohol, and their relationship had been strained ever since. Reba Zee had lost her husband, Frank, to a terrorist attack when his plane exploded just after takeoff from Belfast two years ago. Yet Reba Zee swore that she spoke to Frank every day. After Tolen introduced the two last year, Reba Zee had taken Bar under her wing. They had even vacationed together in Mexico. The stout, gray-haired pilot with the brusque mannerisms who spoke English with a pronounced Texas drawl, and the diminutive, blonde-haired girl who spoke Spanish better than the inhabitants of Cancun made quite the pair.
Tolen checked his watch: 8:45. He waited patiently for the next minute to tick off. Once 8:46 arrived, he hoisted his shot glass into the air, as did Reba Zee.
“To those who have fallen…,” Reba Zee said, a tear threatening to fall from her eye.
“We will never forget,” Tolen finished solemnly.
They both gulped down their respective shots, and on the exact minute of the anniversary when the first airliner was flown into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, Samuel Tolen and Reba Zee commemorated all the people in the world whose lives had been lost as a result of terrorist activity, including Frank.
For a long moment, Reba Zee stared at the third, full shot glass sitting stoically to the side. “Okay, back to business,” she finally said, forcing a grin.
Tolen rose and was about to return to the cabin when he paused. “Would you like to take a break? I can take the wheel for a few hours.”
“Are you kidding?” Reba Zee said with a smirk. “No one who’s sipped alcohol is touchin’ my baby.”
CHAPTER 14
September 11. Tuesday – 2:04 p.m. Northwest coast of Costa Rica
Tolen had to keep the speed down as the vessel pushed west through the waves, rising and falling with each comber. The salt in the breeze was strong, and, in a way, invigorating. The sky was clear and bright. To starboard, the shoreline of Costa Rica fell away and blended seamlessly into the Nicaraguan coast in the distance. Ahead, the dark blue horizon stretched out to infinity. Yet it was the port side Jade was watching with building anticipation, as they paralleled the barrier of gray, mountainous walls which abutted the sea and reached to lofty cliffs overhead.
If she had not been so anxious about their quest, Jade might have felt more sympathy toward the inspector. It had taken Pascal Diaz all of five minutes riding aboard the 25-foot boat to turn green from seasickness as they pitched and swayed in the choppy waters of the Pacific Ocean. The Spaniard had quickly disappeared below deck where he now lay on a mattress in a small cabin, hugging a pillow. Diaz’s attitude was vexing at times, but no one deserved to suffer as he was at that very moment.
Jade held onto the rail beside Tolen on the upper wheelhouse deck as he guided the boat. He occasionally lifted his sunglasses to glance at a handheld GPS display on his iPhone to mark their position. His mastery of the vessel was
Similar Books
