The Night of the Mosquito (4 page)

Chapter 6

St Michael’s Church. 8:36 a.m.

Timothy Salter looped a piece of string around the stems of the wildflowers he’d collected and tied it. Every year he performed the same ritual, increasing the number of species collected by one. He had to find twenty-seven this time.

Kneeling on the grass by the grave, he put them in the vase he’d filled with water earlier. He teased the spray of multi-coloured blooms to best effect, the delicate reds of Burning Love fashioned into a heart-shaped centrepiece, then placed the vase on the weathered Yorkstone slab at the foot of the headstone. He shuffled in close and ran his outstretched fingertips over the letters carved in the light riven face.

Russell Timothy Salter July 8, 1955 – Aug. 9, 1987

May Marie Salter May 31, 1956 – Aug. 9, 1987

Sarah Grace Salter Feb. 29, 1976 – Aug. 10, 1987

Tragically taken . . .

On a tour of the graveyard, soon after Father Raymond had provided him with shelter, the priest had told him how the grandparents of the little girl had arrived from Australia to bury their daughter, only to discover Sarah, too, had died tragically while they were enroute, and their grandson was missing.

‘It was a hell of a thing, Timothy,’ the priest had said. ‘Can you imagine the upset? The children’s parents were murdered in the early hours of the Sunday morning on their way home from a night out. That poor family. They laid the three of them to rest in the same grave. The grandparents stayed a good long while, hoping the little boy would turn up, but despite a nationwide search, he was never seen again. They paid for an extra deep plot just in case the worst happened, though the grandmother wouldn’t accept he was dead. She said she hoped he’d find out where they’d been buried one day. And if he chose, when his time came, he could be buried there, too.’

Timothy marked the anniversary each year, only on the day Sarah had died. He carried her more in his heart than his parents. Head bowed, he crossed himself and prayed in silence, remembering her and what he could of his mum and dad.

‘Why were you screaming in your sleep last night, Timmy?’ Sarah asked.

‘I can’t remember,’ he’d replied.

The two of them were laid alongside each other outside, in the garden at home, on the lawn. Sarah plucked a blade of grass and carefully stood it between her thumbs, holding it firm. She blew over it gently, producing a low, reedy sound.

He’d plucked a blade for himself and tried it, but only succeeded in dribbling.

‘Here, Timmy,’ Sarah said, ‘let me show you.’

And he’d watched her and he’d learned. Soon, they played a chorus of screeching notes before falling about, overcome by laughter. Sarah lay on her back. ‘Timmy,’ she said.

‘What?’

Sarah rolled over towards him and blew a devastating shriek close to his face. Timothy retaliated, trying to match it for loudness. And on and on they went.

Five minutes later, their mother came out. ‘What’s all that awful noise?’

The children giggled.

‘Pack it in, before the neighbours complain.’

In the quiet moments that followed, remembering his nightmare, Timothy became sombre.

‘What is it, Timmy?’

‘I just remembered what I dreamt about.’ He began to wail. ‘I got lost and I couldn’t find any of you.’

Sarah sidled up close and put her arm around his shoulders. ‘Timmy, if you ever get lost, just do this.’ She blew between her thumbs. The blade of grass screamed its song into the air. ‘And no matter where you are, if I hear it, I’ll find you.’ She smiled. ‘Better now?’

‘Oi, you two.’ Their father stood, hands on hips in the doorway. ‘Your mum says, stop making that racket and get inside for your supper.’

Timothy plucked a blade of grass, clamped it top and bottom between his thumbs the way Sarah had shown him years ago, and replicated the sound he’d heard her blow.

No one came.

Chapter 7

Hilltop Cottage. 8:42 a.m.

Anderson looked in the mirror. The eye the mosquito had bitten had not only swelled, it itched him like a nest of tiny vipers.
He couldn’t find anything in the bathroom cabinet to provide relief other than calamine lotion. He dabbed it over the affected area before returning downstairs to the kitchen.

He filled the kettle and switched it on. A brief silence followed as the element heated to optimum temperature. The water began to fizz, pop and rumble. Anderson swilled his cup clean under the tap, drying the outside and bottom surface only before placing it ready on the worktop. He turned to pick up the teaspoon he’d left on the drainer earlier and paused.
Something’s wrong.
The light outside grew brighter and flashed with brilliant intensity. Instantly, every shadow was scoured from the walls and ceilings. Plugs exploded. The burglar alarm signalled power failure, its stand-by battery beeping a warning. He smelled burning. The smoke alarm kicked in. The pulsing pitch pierced his ears. He covered them.
Shit! I’m going to need an electrician.

Unholstering his mobile, he took it from his hip. Looking at it, he frowned. The screen was blank. Turning it off and on made no difference. Lightning flashed. Thunder grumbled.
My book!
He dashed outside as it started to rain. The pages seemed to have changed from white to yellow. He blinked, convinced the brightness of the light he’d just witnessed had affected his vision – and then he noticed the mosquito had vanished. He snatched the book out from under the shelter provided by the magnifier, checking to see if the creature had definitely gone before closing it. Puzzled, he scanned the table top looking for the insect. His brow furrowed.
Did I really kill it? If so, where is it now?
Great splats of water – two, three, a dozen – machine-gunned him, chasing him inside.

Clifton Bridge.

The cellular, purpose-built Ford Transit was, in effect, a mobile prison. Once Wolfe was secured in the wheelchair within one of the two cells, Chisolm split eight of the guards between the escort cars.

The vehicle cleared security and departed the exit gates. Confident he’d hear nothing from his prisoner for the duration of the journey, Chisolm stretched the length of the bench seat and closed his eyes.

The driver saw the simultaneous failure register on the instrumentation panel a split second before a brilliant surge of light blinded him. Instinctively he hit the brakes. The servo system cut out. No longer power-assisted, the steering wheel pulled left. The driver’s arms heaving, he hauled right to compensate for the unexpected drift.

Ahead, the lead vehicle screeched, braking hard. It collided with the back of a line of cars that had also stopped suddenly.

Desperate not to crash, the driver half stood, his body weight pushing down on the brake pedal, his face a mask of terror.

BANG. The bus slammed into the rear end of the escort.

Behind, the second car skidded and struck the transport vehicle, adding momentum to its superior weight. Unstoppable, it crushed the car in front, jamming it further up the line and compressing it to half its normal size. Metal creaked and crumpled. Tyres exploded.

Thrown from his seat, Chisolm leapt to his feet. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he shouted above the noise. ‘A hijack?’ Oblivious to the dazzling light outside, he anchored himself, feet planted square, hands clamped firm around two of the handcuff straps fitted to the wall. The van banked. Rose swiftly to forty-five degrees. Chisolm braced himself. The vehicle flipped, rising sharply on the driver’s side like it had hit a stunt ramp, smashed through a brick wall and left the road. Chisholm’s body twisted; his feet left the floor. Desperately gripping onto the straps, legs flailing, he was flung upward.

BOOM. He realised they’d hit something – hard. The vehicle’s trajectory changed; it spun in the opposite direction. His weight, combined with forces greater than he could handle, snapped his arm. He screamed, eyes bulging in disbelief as bone, piercing skin, dug through his sleeve. Unable to hold on one-handed, Chisolm tumbled end over end, smashing into the van walls, ceiling and seats, cracking ribs, battering his head, hips and thighs. He cried out in agony, helpless as a shirt in a washing machine, trying to make sense of the feeling of weightlessness that followed. Airborne, he thought he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of Wolfe looking out of the cell door at him. Long seconds later, the vehicle crashed down, the impact buckled the roof, twisting the chassis out of shape. Doors, bursting their locks, exploded open.

What’s that smell? Something alight?
He clutched at his arm. Useless. Wincing, ribs on fire and crippled by pain, he dragged himself outside, clear of the van. He passed out.

Copse Hall.

Kotlas shielded his eyes at the sudden glare. ‘What the hell was that?’

Rubenstein squinted, stood and approached the window. ‘I don’t know. Can you feel that heat?’ He stopped short of the glass. ‘I’m no expert, but the only thing I can think of that would do that is some kind of detonation or a solar flare. Either way, wouldn’t we have had a warning?

‘It wasn’t a bomb. If it were, we’d have heard an explosion or felt an aftershock. I don’t think you’d see a solar flare with the naked eye. I read something a while ago about sunspots being a precursor. As for predictability, I happen to know that the utility companies were supposed to redesign the power grids and so on to withstand a surge.’

‘Okay, so we agree.’ Rubenstein jerked a thumb in the direction of the sun. ‘And if we’re right, that has to be a solar flare like we’ve never seen before. Imagine what it would be like if the glass wasn’t tinted?’ He pressed the blackout blind control. It failed to work. ‘What’s wrong with this thing?’ He pushed the switch again. ‘Kotlas, do me a favour and turn the lights on.’

The younger man rose and flipped the switch. ‘They’re not working either,’ he said. ‘And I hate to say this, but your computer is off as well.’

Rubenstein sat down heavily. ‘Oh, God. I hope auto-save kicked in.’

‘If you’re connected to the server, you’ll be fine.’

The look on Rubenstein’s face told him he wasn’t. ‘I was working offline; we’ve had an IT problem. Contractors are coming in to fix it later.’

‘Had you done much since your last backup?’ Kotlas asked.

‘Some theory I wanted to test before going live, that’s all, and no, I haven’t backed up since last night. So much for you saying the grid’s been redesigned.’ He glared at Kotlas and flushed with anger as if he held him responsible.

‘I once lost a whole day’s work like that—’

‘Fucking hell.’ Rubenstein slammed the desktop with the flat of his hand.

Kotlas stared, uncomfortable with his senior’s display of anger.

‘Okay, so if it’s gone, I’ll just have to do it again. Shit.’ Rubenstein cocked his head. ‘Can you hear that?’

Kotlas opened the soundproofed door. Cacophonous noise poured through the gap. People running, shouting. Screaming. He grabbed at and caught the shirtsleeve of a maintenance worker as he ran past, stopping him. ‘What’s happening?

‘It’s chaos,’ the man yelled to make himself heard. ‘Power’s out. Auxiliary has failed. There’s been a surge. The generators are working, but the juice isn’t getting through.’ He looked at Kotlas’ hand still holding onto his sleeve. ‘Doctor, I have to go.’

‘Hang on. Are the patients secure?’

‘I think so, but with the cameras down there’s no co-ordination. Head of security is downstairs now, but I did hear one had escaped,’ the worker said, and pulling free, he made for the stairs.

‘Get that door shut, Kotlas, and lock it. I can’t believe we spent millions on a place like this and failed to protect the delicate circuit boards. And now someone’s escaped? That’s fucking unbelievable.’

‘I wonder if anyone’s called the police?’

‘No one could get out beyond the footprint of the building. Impossible. But call them just in case.’

Kotlas picked up the phone, transferred hands, and lifting it to his ear, listened. ‘Dead,’ he said.

Chapter 8

Avon Gorge. 8:47 p.m.

Chisolm floated in an unfamiliar realm of consciousness. Searing heat from the burning van scorched his skin. His body was battered beyond the threshold of pain. Chest tight. Arms and legs numb. Awareness slowly returning, he opened his eyes and stared in disbelief at the height of the cliff.
How the hell did I survive falling from that?
Flashes of recollection played out. His attempt to get up failed. Confused, he looked down at himself, expecting to see his legs broken and skewed at crazy angles. His gaze wandered across wide straps. He was strapped into a wheelchair and dressed in a blue gown. Blood dripped from his face.

Wolfe stepped into his line of sight and grinned. ‘That was some fall you took, big man. You should’ve worn a seatbelt.’ He dusted off his newly acquired uniform. ‘One good thing about you and me, we’re about the same size.’

The effort of drawing breath contorted Chisolm’s features. ‘You won’t get far,’ he gasped, ‘before they catch you, Wolfe.’

He stared up at the cliff face. ‘Is that right? Maybe. But I’m going further than you.’ He knelt by the stricken man, grabbed his head and ran his tongue along his chin, savouring the taste. ‘You know something?’ Wolfe licked his lips. ‘You’re sweeter than you look.’

For the first time, Chisolm seemed to comprehend the nightmare he faced. Wide-eyed fear and apprehension spurring him, he rocked violently against his bonds in a futile effort to break free.

Wolfe stood and unzipped his fly. His cock sprang out. Hard. Proud. Expectant.

‘Oh Christ,’ Chisolm croaked, pain no longer of primary concern. ‘I’m a married man, got kids. You don’t want to do that. I know you don’t.’

‘You don’t know anything about me. You see this?’ he said, his hand wrapped around the thick stalk. ‘This is what it does to me, and it won’t go away until it’s satisfied.’

‘C’mon, Wolfe, you’d best be going.’ Chisolm stared at the ground, afraid to meet the other man’s gaze.

‘You have no idea how this makes me feel,’ Wolfe whispered, moving closer.

‘The police will be here any minute,’ Chisolm wheezed. ‘The transponder will bring them.’

‘Right now, do you think I care?’ he said, stroking himself.

‘I’d sooner you killed me than do that.’

Wolfe laughed, then growled, ‘You think I want to drill you? What kind of a man do you think I am, huh?’ He shook his head in disapproval, straddled the other man’s lap, twisted his head to one side, and whispered, ‘Shush.’ Relishing Chisolm’s desperate screams, he mumbled, ‘Sing for me, baby,’ and bit into the flesh of his victim’s neck.

At the water’s edge, fully clothed, Wolfe eased himself into the river. It was colder than he’d expected; a shiver of delight ran through him. He rinsed his face and hands, scrubbing the clothes he wore, fully expecting a helicopter to appear overhead, or the sound of dogs and men at any moment. He didn’t care about losing his chance of escape. There were limits to how much a man of his size could disguise himself. Whatever happened, freedom would be short-lived. Might as well make the most of it.

Clambering out, he crossed the rocky shoreline, unsure which direction to take. In the distance he heard bells tolling. He turned and loped off along the valley, making for the sound.