The Night of the Mosquito

by Max China

  ‘There’s no leak. All this may seem presumptuous, but if you accept, you’re cleared to begin working with us right away.’

  Kotlas pulled on the lobe of his left ear. ‘Forgive me. I just have to be sure of a few things . . .’

  ‘I told you, this establishment is top-secret. We’re in partnership with the government. It’s an arm’s-length arrangement.’

  ‘In case things go wrong,’ Kotlas said, tight-lipped. ‘And if I don’t accept?’

  ‘Someone else will. But you are our preferred option. What do you say?’

  ‘I get to continue working with Wolfe?’

  ‘Under my stewardship, yes.’ Rubenstein paused. ‘Do you accept?’

  Kotlas reached for a sheet of paper. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rubenstein watched, puzzled, as Kotlas took a pen from his inside pocket and scribbled a list of notes. He pushed the paper across the desk. ‘Subject to these terms.’

  The older man took the sheet and read. ‘I can live with those things. We’ll get a contract drawn up. Now, tell me what you know about the man.’

  ‘I’m sure you know most of this already, but this is my resume. Wolfe weighed in at twenty-three pounds when he was born.’

  Rubenstein raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You didn’t know that?’

  ‘Of course I did, but hearing of such an abnormality never fails to stagger me,’ the older man said. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘I think it’s obvious he was delivered by Caesarean section. His parents were both six-footers, but neither side of the family had had a child that big before. Destined for greatness, some might say, but he was never going to have a normal life. He outgrew his parents by the time he was nine years old. He claims he first killed when he was ten, but there’s nothing to substantiate that. By the age of thirteen, he was uncontrollable. Killed two girls that year, and despite a massive police hunt, went on to kill five more before they caught him. Bad, isn’t it? The savagery of the killings shocked even hardened detectives. The method used was pretty much the same in each case. They all had something in common: He ate bits of them. Took different parts from each. Trying different things on the menu, he told me. As you’re aware, he’s been in the system ever since.’

  ‘You’ve worked with him for the last two years. How do you see him? Mad or bad?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Kotlas, I’m asking you,’ Rubenstein said.

  ‘He’s had dozens of psychiatric assessments, and not one of them agrees. To me, he’s both. He sees himself as a victim of his genes.’

  ‘He does? That one is news to me,’ Rubenstein said. ‘Elaborate.’

  ‘Wolfe,’ Kotlas said softly. ‘What’s in a name, eh? It comes from his mother’s side. As you probably know, he adopted it when his father died.’

  ‘Yes, I found that strange. You’d have thought he’d want to keep his father’s name alive.’

  ‘Maybe. You also know he claims a psychic link to Jack the Ripper?’

  ‘That wasn’t taken seriously.’ Rubenstein, perhaps sensing a change in tack, viewed Kotlas with suspicion. ‘Why do you bring it up?’

  ‘Wolfe became more difficult to deal with, complaining that no one listened to him. He went berserk during a routine transfer. Bit one of the staff. He almost overpowered eight burly nurses, all of them highly trained. He ended up in seclusion for a long time. It took me ages to get through to him again.’ Kotlas moistened his lips. ‘Can I have a glass of water?’

  ‘Over there,’ Rubenstein pointed at the water cooler. ‘Help yourself.’

  The young candidate got to his feet, continuing to speak as he approached the machine. ‘I told him there was only one way to prove what he was saying was true.’ He filled a clear plastic cup and took a sip. ‘Submit to a DNA test.’

  ‘They went along with that at Ashmore?’ Rubenstein seemed incredulous. ‘For that to work, you’d have needed a sample from the Ripper.’

  ‘There is genetic material,’ Kotlas said. ‘It was recently recovered from historic samples found at the scene of one of the murders.’

  ‘I heard about that, but honestly, that semen could have come from anyone.’

  ‘That’s what they said at Ashmore, but I wanted to take it further, if only to get Wolfe to see that what he was experiencing had no basis in fact.’

  ‘Did they relent?’

  ‘No. I took some of Wolfe’s hair. It wasn’t hard; he consented. I sent it for independent testing.’

  ‘I’m going to stop you there, Kotlas. What you did is in contravention—’

  ‘Hear me out, Rubenstein,’ he said harshly.

  The older man reddened, unaccustomed to being addressed in such a manner.

  ‘I’m sorry. But guess what? It was a match. He’s related. Now, you can argue till you’re blue in the face that it may not be the Ripper’s DNA, but even if it isn’t, what are the odds of Wolfe’s sample coming up positive? Answer me that. And what is even more bizarre, I read somewhere that the Ripper had a taste for blood, and that certain body parts were missing from his victims. The official line from those days was that he’d taken them as trophies, but I now believe he ate them. Maybe blood-thirst runs in the genes, and if we accept that, it could be where Wolfe gets it from.’

  Rubenstein stared, measuring the younger man. ‘It seems you’re not above a little experimentation yourself, Kotlas.’ He stood abruptly and strode around the desk, offering his hand. ‘Welcome aboard.’

  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.

&
nbsp; ‘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.