The Darkfall Switch (6 page)

He drank quickly and left the bar. Back in his room, he changed, turned in and very quickly fell into deep sleep. But again he woke very early.

He had been tossing and turning, trying in vain to get more sleep, when the alarm sounded. He cursed when he heard the sound. It was still very dark outside. He lay in bed for a few minutes, hoping it was a false alarm but when he heard the sounds of people moving about in the corridor outside his room he thought he should investigate. He quickly threw on some clothes and left the room, carefully slipping his passport, wallet and car keys into his jacket pocket before leaving the room.

He joined the other grumbling, bleary-eyed guests in the darkness and chill of the car-park, where the hotel’s few night staff were checking off
names against a printout of the register. The first fire truck arrived about three minutes later and another followed on a minute or so behind. The fire crews piled out and cautiously entered the building, to emerge after half an hour or so and give the all-clear. They had traced the source of the alarm to a faulty detector. With a mixture of jokes and complaints, and abject apologies from the hotel staff, the shivering guests went back inside.

Foster tried to go back to sleep but it was useless. He was fully awake now, and there was no chance of convincing his body-clock that it was time for sleep. After an hour he gave up, switched on the TV and idly channel-hopped before electing to watch the meaningless prattling of an early-morning chat-show.

By the time he had showered and dressed he had recovered some of his sanity.

In view of Worzniak’s invitation to lunch, he decided to skip the ‘Full American Breakfast’ that was offered and instead took an alternative that only North Americans can make: a stack of fat, fluffy, mouth-wateringly light pancakes soaked in maple syrup, accompanied by a ball of whipped butter, washed down with several tall mugs of excellent black coffee. This way, he didn’t have to choose from the amazing options of eggs that he would have been offered.

While he ate, he idly scanned the newspaper which was full of local news with only a small scattering of reports from Washington and New York, and no reference to anything happening outside the continental USA. He sighed and wondered how Americans could hope to influence world affairs when their citizens were so starved of information about them.

By 9.00 he was back in his room with his laptop, compiling a report on his findings so far: it was pretty sparse.

The bedside phone rang at 11.58, to tell him that his visitor had arrived.

Worzniak’s physical presence matched his voice. He had the build of an all-American football player, his shoulders seeming to join his head with no trace of any intervening neck. His hair was dark brown and close-cropped and his eyes were jet black. He grasped Foster’s hand with a firm grip as he said, ‘Hi! Call me Joe.’

‘Dan,’ Foster responded.

They exchanged business cards and, from what he read on Worzniak’s
Foster saw that he did indeed work with the Office of Strategic Projects. He had never heard of such an office and he queried it.

Worzniak grinned, showing even white teeth against his swarthy skin. ‘Yeah!’ he said lightly. ‘Beats me how they dream up these names.’ He quickly returned his attention to the card in his hand. ‘Doctor?’ he queried.

‘Yes. Doctor of Physics. But I don’t usually use the title. It causes far too many people to assume I’m a medical doctor which, before I can stop them, usually makes them want to divulge the most detailed facts about their personal problems.’

Worzniak grinned salaciously and said, ‘I’d let them go on for a bit. Could be interestin’.’ Then he added, ‘Wanna eat here? We could find somewhere else, but I don’t know this area. I’ve taken a look. The dining room seems OK.’

‘Here’s fine.’

The dining room was decorated with memorabilia of the region’s industrial past: huge wooden patterns used by foundries to make the moulds for their fabrications, cast gear-wheels and several moulds. Foster knew that, like those in his own country, the industries had long since gone.

‘This is on me,’ Worzniak said, as they sat down. He grinned and added, ‘Or the OSP.’

‘Thanks,’ Foster said. ‘But at least let me buy the wine.’

‘Wine! Great! Yeah. Thanks.’

They both ordered steak and Foster asked for the wine list. He selected a Californian Merlot and the two men settled back to discuss the affair that had brought them to this place.

‘I spoke with the boy the other day,’ Worzniak said. ‘Couldn’t get a darned thing out of him though.’

‘Yes. I know. I tried yesterday. At one time I thought I’d got his attention, but then…. Well, I’m afraid I blew it.’

‘How come?’

Foster hesitated. He was still ashamed of his outburst. ‘I allowed my personal emotions to get the better of me.’

Worzniak shrugged. ‘Understandable,’ he said, looking solemn. ‘They told me you lost your fiancée in the blackout.’

The answer was one word. ‘Yes.’ What more could he have said? It said it all, and yet said nothing.

Worzniak’s response was equally trite. ‘Sorry. Must have been tough.’ But in spite of the words there was no sympathy in his tone.

The wine arrived and after Worzniak shook his head at his offer for him to try it, Foster swirled the fluid in his glass, took a sip, savoured it and nodded. It really was very good.

They clinked glasses and started. ‘This is great stuff,’ Worzniak said appreciatively and Foster nodded agreement. ‘Us folks in the city think that these places are, well, sort of Hicksville,’ the American continued. ‘And then I find a not-bad eatery out here, and it’s serving great wine.’

‘I like this area,’ Foster said. ‘Worked round here once. And Californian wines are really excellent these days. In fact they always were; people just didn’t appreciate them once.’

At that point the waitress brought them their starter salads and Foster blanched, feeling that his serving alone would be large enough to feed somebody from a Third-World nation for at least a week. Worzniak didn’t seem to notice as he liberally sprinkled blue-cheese dressing over his serving and noisily started to tuck into the enormous pile of vegetation.

‘We need to decide where we’re going with this hacking thing.’ Worzniak spoke through a mouthful of lettuce.

‘Exactly. It’s quite a worry—’

‘Nah!’ Worzniak interrupted. ‘It’s just some geek, a kid, who’s got lucky. We got him.’ He stopped, looking out of the window as he seemed to consider something. Then he added, ‘With your government’s help, of course. Anyways, that’s the end of it.’

Foster was astounded. If only it could be so simple. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’ he asked.

The American stopped with a forkful of salad part way to his mouth. He stared at Foster, an expression of disdain on his face. ‘Sure! Won’t happen again. We’ve scared the kid. The computer guys’ll put in a patch. Finito! Job done.’

‘I hardly think so,’ Foster said and, as he said it, he thought he could detect a darkening in Worzniak’s expression. ‘Because there’s still the mystery of how Luke managed to shut down the power stations.’

‘I told you. The kid got lucky. Fiddled about and then, wham!’

Just then their steaks arrived. After the waitress had left their table, Foster said, ‘But how could a kid who knows nothing about power stations shut one down?’

Worzniak’s eyes searched the table and he picked up a jar of mustard. ‘You use this stuff?’ he asked, and when Foster shook his head he opened the jar, and dumped a generous spoonful of the contents on his plate.

‘He’s a nerd. Up to his eyes with geeky technical stuff.’ He waved his knife around as he spoke, plainly dismissing the ‘geeky stuff’. Then he smeared his steak with mustard. Foster wondered how he would be able to taste any of the meat under the coating. ‘He’d have no trouble with the technology.’

‘No. That’s just not possible,’ Foster corrected him quietly. ‘OK, he might know a lot about computers, but that’s not enough—’

‘Sure it is,’ Worzniak interrupted, shovelling a large piece of meat into his mouth and chomping on it thoughtfully. ‘Geeks know about this stuff. Probably have wet dreams over it.’

Foster allowed himself a brief grimace. ‘Computers maybe. But I’ll say it again: not power stations.’

Worzniak glared at him, his jaws working on the meat. ‘So how do you think he did it?’

‘I don’t know. All I can say is that it was no fluke.’

‘You got some kind of conspiracy theory?’ Worzniak said, as he applied yet more mustard to his steak. He was looking down, concentrating on his plate.

Foster wondered if the American was, perhaps, deliberately avoiding his searching look. ‘Conspiracy?’ he said, surprised at the idea. ‘No, I hadn’t thought of that.’

Worzniak now looked at him with a smirk. ‘But that’s how you made a name for yourself, wasn’t it? Somethin’ in the Far East.’

Foster studied him coolly. Somebody had been doing some careful research on his credentials. ‘I don’t know about “making a name”,’ he said. ‘I found out a few things….’

‘Involving a politician.’

‘Yes. He had worked a trick or two. He thought he was helping British industry.’

‘And his scheme went belly up.’

‘Yes.’

‘A conspiracy then.’

Foster felt the beginning of annoyance. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean that there’s one here. I’m not a conspiracy expert: I’m an engineer. I troubleshoot engineering systems.’

Worzniak sniffed but didn’t raise his eyes from the remains of his meal. Eventually he cleared his throat, pushed the plate away, took up his glass and gulped down more wine while he eyed Foster warily over the brim. He seemed about to say something when his mobile phone rang.

He apologized, hauled out the phone, looked at the display briefly and then held the instrument to his ear. He listened for a while, muttered a curt ‘OK’ and then cut the call. He took a deep breath, his eyes focused on the distance behind Foster. Finally he looked at his companion and said, ‘Well. That’s that then.’ There was an icy cold finality in his tone.

‘What do you mean?’ Foster asked.

‘Darned fool kid,’ Worzniak said coldly, returning to the remnants of his wine without meeting Foster’s eyes. ‘He’s dead. Hanged himself.’

It was a tough decision. Foster could have left it there, returned to London and reported that he’d hit a brick wall. Luke had gone, and any chance of discovering the details of what he’d done had gone with him. Yes, he could have walked away, but his mind kept returning to the Proctors. With all his faults, the boy had clearly been their whole world. He felt that he knew something of the pain they must be feeling. They were partners in grief and he owed it to them to hold out a hand of friendly support.

His parting from Worzniak had been polite but without any warmth, and after the American had left Foster went to his room and rang the Proctors.

Cyrus Proctor had answered and after a brief exchange of condolences, he agreed to meet Foster at their home.

An hour later, he was sitting with them in their lovely colonial mansion and thinking how much it had seemed to change within the space of a day. Now a sad, silent emptiness hung in the air. It was more than just shared grief at the loss of a loved one: the house itself seemed to be in mourning. Sadness seemed to have seeped into the very fabric of the place.

Hilary Proctor had done her best to erase any trace of her anguish, but the carefully applied make-up failed to hide the deep lines of tiredness that showed in her face. ‘Thank you for coming, Dan,’ she said, in a very quiet voice.

They spoke briefly about Luke and then she said, ‘After you left, we managed to speak with him….’ Her eyes closed briefly. Then she composed herself and went on, ‘With Luke. He was very torn up, scared, even. He told us that Joe Worzniak had made him swear not to tell anybody about what he’d found. Not even you.’

‘Really?’ Foster said, frowning. This news cast a disturbing shadow over the mystery. Was the American not on his side after all?

‘Seemed strange to us,’ Cyrus Proctor said. ‘But anyhow, as Hilary said, Luke seemed torn. He said he trusted you. He said that, while you were here, he’d nearly broken his promise not to tell you. Later on, he even got out your card to call, then reconsidered it and didn’t.’

‘Then everything seemed to be returning to normal,’ his wife said. ‘Luke even watched some TV with us. OK, he was quiet, but that wasn’t unusual. I guess the only unusual thing was that he sat here, with us, to watch. Usually he’d go off and watch in his own room. Anyway, after a bit he went to bed.

‘Then, this morning, when he didn’t come down for breakfast, I went to his room, but … he wasn’t there.’ Her voice tailed off with a sob.

In the silence that followed, Foster looked from one of them to the other. Signs of their tragic loss were already deeply etched in their faces. They seemed to have aged ten years overnight. From his own experience he knew that it would be many days before they came to terms with their grief. He could see them trying to sleep and finally, when sleep came, waking – morning after morning – to the realization that what had happened was not a bad dream after all; it was real.

He knew. He’d been there.

Cyrus Proctor’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘I found him outside,’ he said finally, looking sadly out of the window and nodding in the direction of the barn. ‘There, in the barn. Over there. He’d found a hank of rope….’

He stopped as his wife sobbed and buried her head in her hands.

Foster felt an urge to reach out to the couple in their grief. Although he had met them only the day before, he already felt a strong bond of sympathy with them. He wanted to be able to make some gesture that would bring them a crumb of comfort. It was all so tragic, their dreams and hopes for their son simply extinguished. He could picture them agonizing about his final, lonely, moments as he silently knotted the rope in the darkness of the barn.

He felt guilty about his own part in the tragedy. Would it have been any different if he hadn’t come here? Could Luke’s mischief have stayed simply undiscovered? Would the boy have stopped there? Or would he have gone on to wreak more havoc? Killed more people?