Nina slipped the towel from her shoulders as she stood up straight. She pat Harry on the back, “I know, sir, I know. If I had one on me, we’d be sharing it.”
“You are a terrible example, Dr. Gould,” the mayor chuckled.
Burying her hand in her side, she took a cocky stance and raised her eyebrow at him. “You should be grateful that I even came out tonight, Mayor. I had a date with too much YouTube and a bottle of ale, but I made the effort of gracing you with my presence and beating the snot out of these pensioners, so…”
He laughed and shook his head. “That you did. I retract my criticism. Will you join us for a post athletic tipple at the pub, then?”
“Aye, but I cannot stay long. I have a dissertation due to submit to the Cultural Sciences Institution in Glasgow in two days and I am two weeks behind on my research as it is,” she explained, wiping her sweat-drenched hair with the towel.
“That’s good enough!” Mavis approved from the other side. “We’re going to McGallow’s Sports Bar this time, dear. Will you walk with me?”
“Of course,” Nina smiled. “If you excuse the delightful odor of sweat exuding from my skin.
The old lady raised her own arms and pulled up her nose. “Not above these grottos, my dear. I won’t smell a thing off you.”
Nina snickered and grabbed Mavis by the arm. “Come on then, let’s go. We’re not getting any younger.”
After several drinks, Nina noticed that the clock had already paced too quickly for her quota tonight, and she began to gather her things to leave for home. Outside it had begun to rain and the night was chilly, contrary to the interior of the sports bar. Nina enjoyed her last whisky, just relaxing in the roasty ambience of the establishment. She was not one for sports bars. In fact, she was not one for sports, period. But most of the football oafs had gone home and her friends from the old age home had done the same, long before the clouds had gathered over the town.
One for the road. We both know you’re not going to do an ounce of work tonight. You’re too pissed.’
She tested her perception by stepping down from the chair, but her balance held steady. Appeased by her abilities, she ordered another last whisky. Nope, her inner voice retorted, just too pissed to work. Otherwise I’m just fine.
On each of the four walls of the medium-sized sports bar a mounted flat screen monitor echoed the same visuals from the chosen channel of the hour. Most of the patrons were busy shouting out conversations over the loud sound of the channel advertisements and unnecessary ‘Coming Ups’ and nursing their drinks as the end of the shift drew nearer.
Like a swarm of alcoholic insects, those still left in the bar hastily ordered enough to last them in case of last call. The bartender could see that the sport on the screen was not really appreciated, so he switched the channel to News Action 24. The usual slots came up every few minutes. Corrupt presidents, scandalous celebrities and war coverage infested the LED squares that made the walls come to life, but Nina couldn’t care any less. She looked forward to a wonderful long hot bath and a slumber true to proper inebriation to prepare her for the hellish soreness the morning would no doubt bring.
Nina looked back to the bartender in passing, but her eye caught something on the television screen that filled her with alarm and horror. Although she was not positive that what she saw on the news was actually what she thought it was, a tether of terrible apprehension wrapped itself around her stomach as she squinted to see. A female reporter was standing aboard a fishing boat of sorts, looking solemn, gesturing toward the dark sea behind her.
“Um, excuse me, Milton,” she stammered slightly under the finger of the whisky, “can you turn that up real quick?”
“Sure,” the bartender said. But when the sound came on, she wished she had never asked to hear better. The reporter’s babbling came and went through the blur of Nina’s impaired state of mind, but she heard the name David Purdue. Behind the reporter was a heinous scene of scattered debris floating in the ocean, large fragments of white fiberglass were dancing in the tide with pieces of propeller and panels painted in orange. Her fears were confirmed when she heard Purdue’s name again, in confirmation that he was presumed dead.
“Oh Jesus,” she moaned, her heart fluttering in pain like a skinless butterfly. “Please don’t let this be true.”
The reporter continued: The Spanish Coast Guard has confirmed that the billionaire’s yacht was registered a few days ago, and charter details filed at Melilla indicate that Mr. Purdue was on vacation.
“Yeah right,” Nina mumbled her disagreement. “Purdue does not take vacations.”
Nina’s reddening eyes took notice of as much detail as she could gather in the background of the news report, as the reporter added another blow she was not ready for.
According to the air traffic authorities at the Málaga-Costa del Sol airport, the helicopter that collided with Purdue’s yacht carried only two people, the pilot and a journalist, who was on his way to join the crew on board the yacht.
“Sam?” Nina shrieked weakly, unable to process the horror in the condition she was in. She hated herself for being drunk. Even while intoxicated, Nina felt the frustration of her retarded reactions keeping her from properly assessing the news. “Not Sam. Oh please God, not Sam too!”
We have confirmation that the pilot’s body has been recovered, but the other occupant has not yet been found. The identity of the deceased man will be made public as soon as his next of kin has been notified. This is Clare Winslow for News Action 24, off the coast of Málaga, Spain.
“Miss, are you alright?” a man asked from somewhere. His voice came from all around Nina, as if he were sitting in a giant empty tin. She felt that she was losing her senses as the culmination of alcohol and shock took her down. The bartender and his staff rushed to her aid, while two locals caught the collapsing beauty. Quickly they gathered her up.
“I know her,” Milton said. “I’ll take her home.”
“You will do no such thing!” his supervisor protested. “Anything can happen to her and then you will be held liable. No, no. You take her to the hospital right now. They can get her home after they’ve checked her out. Let’s not take any chances, lads.”
“Aye, you’re right,” Milton agreed, lifting Nina effortlessly to carry her to the car. “Willy, you go with him,” the supervisor ordered one of the locals. Willy nodded. He took the historian’s gym bag, towel, and handbag, and trailed the bartender into the rain, the bartender covering her only with his coat.
Nina was aware of what was happening, but it felt like a dream. She was unable to speak or move as they clumsily put her in the back seat of Milton’s car. With her hair under her face she felt so uncomfortable, while she listened to their mundane discussion while they drove her. All Nina could think about were Sam and Purdue’s bodies sinking slowly to the depths of the ocean. All she could do was weep in her heart, because physically her eyes were held ransom by shock.
11
Water Wolves
Three hours before Nina saw the horrible newscast in Scotland, Sam was trying to pull the throttle back from the grip of the disturbed pilot.
“Stephen! Pull up!” he bellowed through his clenched teeth. Sam’s face was blood red as he strained to wrestle the stick from the irrational pilot, but Stephen’s strength was unnatural. His eyes were frozen in front of him as he leaned on the cyclic to nosedive with the machine, heading straight for the luxury yacht. From the yacht, Peter was the first one to notice that the oncoming drop was not going to turn out as planned.