Hybrid

by Shaun Hutson

  the drive considerably faster than it had approached.

  Doyle holstered the automatic and looked first at the box then at Mel.

  Her gaze was fixed on the package.

  'What do you want to do?' she said again.

  Doyle knelt beside the box too, scanning every inch of it for any tell-tale signs of something amiss.

  Come on, you're the fucking expert You've seen bombs close up before. Very close. Close enough to put you in hospital.

  'If it is a bomb and it's on a timer then there's no way of knowing when it might go off,' he said. 'If whoever sent it can detonate it by remote then they could be watching us now. They could set it off whenever they like.' He looked at Mel who merely nodded.

  'We don't know that it is a bomb,' she said, as if trying to find reassurance in her own words.

  'No, you're right. And there's only one way to find out if it is or not. Open it'

  Wait, let's think about this logically.' Mel stood up, her eyes never leaving the package.

  'When it comes to bombs, there isn't much logic involved,' Doyle told her standing up too. 'They go off and people die. It's pretty simple.'

  'And if we open that box and there are explosives inside then we die.'

  'I'll do it, Mel. Just make sure that Mrs Duncan stays inside and you stay with her.'

  'Doyle, you can't do that.'

  He had already picked up the box and was walking across the drive towards the carefully manicured lawn.

  'Get inside the house,' he shouted.

  'Just leave it.'

  'And what if it is a bomb and it is on a timer?' He shook his head. 'Get inside.'

  She hesitated a moment longer then stepped back into the house and closed the front door.

  Doyle continued across the lawn. A hundred yards from the house. He kept walking. Two hundred.

  'Can you hear me, Mel?' he said, setting the box down.

  Two hundred and fifty yards. That should do it Even if

  the fucking box is full of explosive then the house won't suffer any damage. They'll only need a matchbox to bury you in too if it goes off.

  'Mel?' he repeated.

  'I can hear you, Doyle,' she said through his earpiece.

  He looked back in the direction of the house.Then the former counter terrorist regarded the object intently.

  Fairly light Nothing rattling about Whatever was inside was either packed in something or secured to one side of the box. A couple of ounces of Semtex would be enough to destroy a car.

  The box was sealed with masking tape.

  'How are you going to open it?' Mel's voice sounded loud in his ear.

  'Very fucking carefully,' he murmured, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small penknife.

  Come on. Get it over with. If it's going to blow, it's going to blow.

  Doyle rested the blade against the tape and swallowed hard. He drew the cutting edge along the masking tape as slowly as he could, the blade slicing the tape easily.

  'I'm opening it,' he said into the pin-mike.

  Just like old times.

  He dropped the penknife back into his pocket and slid his thumbs beneath the flaps of the box. With infinite slowness he began to raise them.

  If there's a trigger attached you'll know about it pretty soon.

  The flaps opened a little more. Doyle continued to raise them.

  There was a smell coming from inside the box. It was rancid. Not the marzipan scent of plastic explosive. This was more pungent.

  He wrinkled his nose as he opened the box wider.

  There was tissue paper inside.

  Doyle frowned. As he removed some of it he saw that the sheets further down were spotted with blood.

  There was something at the bottom of the box. Something wrapped in sodden, red tissue paper.

  Doyle retrieved the penknife and used the tip of the blade to remove the last few sheets. He gazed down at the contents of the package.

  'It's not a bomb,' he said quietly.

  Thank God,' Mel murmured. 'What is it?'

  'I'm bringing the box inside. I think Mrs Duncan should see this.'

  CAUGHT ON CAMERA

  Ward had bought the video camera in New York about eight or nine years ago. In the days when money was no object.

  Now he set it up in one corner of the office, squinting through the viewfinder until he was satisfied that the cyclopean machine was trained on his desk. He readjusted the focus once again then pressed the red record button.

  The tape inside the machine was a ninety-minute one. He'd return in an hour and a half and replace it. Check out what was on the first one.

  He locked the office door behind him as he left.

  It was 9.15 p.m.

  PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE

  10.50 p.m.

  Ward got to his feet and made his way swiftly through the house to the back door. He paused for a moment, looking at the office.

  In the darkness it seemed a hundred yards away. Almost invisible in the impenetrable gloom.

  He made his way quickly along the path that connected the house to his place of work. His hand was shaking as he pushed the key into its lock and turned it.

  Ward climbed the stairs and glanced at the monitor. It was blank. There were no pages overflowing from the printer.

  He moved to the camcorder and checked the battery. There was still some power left in it. The tape had run out. He had a full ninety minutes to view.

  But ninety minutes of what? Empty air?

  As he took the camera from its tripod he wondered what he was really expecting to see on the tape.

  He retreated back into the house and connected the necessary leads and wires from the camcorder to the television. Then he sat back on the sofa and pressed the play button.

  For forty minutes he gazed at the screen, waiting for something to happen. He was still waiting twenty minutes later.

  He fast-forwarded the remainder of the tape then slumped back wearily.

  Nothing. Just an endless shot of his desk and computer. No words appearing mysteriously on the screen. No paper pumping from the printer with newly created chapters on.

  Nothing.

  He sucked in a deep breath.

  The phenomenon, for want of a better word, seemed to happen more often at night. In the dead of night when he was sleeping.

  He decided to set up the camcorder again. It was already after midnight. Whatever he imagined he might record on film, he might have a better chance of getting in the small hours.

  He checked another battery for power then attached it to the camcorder and headed back out to the office where he went through the same procedure as before. He trained the lens on his desk, peering through the viewfinder like a scientist squinting through a microscope at some newly discovered organism. Then he pressed the record button and slipped quietly down the stairs.

  It was 1.17 a.m.

  MOVING PICTURES

  Ward woke at 8.45 the next morning. He was lying on the sofa, still fully clothed, the television burbling in the background.

  He could remember little of the previous night. Checking the camcorder the first time. Coming back inside the house. That was about it.

  He had no idea what time he'd fallen asleep. Or blacked out. Whatever the hell he had done.

  He got to his feet and wandered through to the downstairs bathroom where he splashed his face with cold water. It did little to clear his head but he could at least see a little better by the time he emerged.

  With a mixture of trepidation and anticipation, Ward made his way to the back door, let himself out and made for the office. He ran up the stairs.

  Sheets of paper had spilled from the printer. The screen still had words on it.

  He swallowed hard and crossed to the camcorder.

  The tape was still. There was nothing but blackness when he looked through the viewfmder.

  He clenched his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing. What time ha
d the camcorder battery run out? How much did he have on tape? Thirty

  minutes? An hour? Had the unblinking eye of the camera caught what he wanted?

  There was only one way to find out.

  However, before he made his way back inside the house, he crossed to the desk, sat down and carefully numbered each newly printed page. There were over two hundred and fifty. The manuscript must be close to completion.

  Ward wished he knew how close.

  Helen Duncan sniffed back more tears and shook her head uncomprehending!/.

  Doyle and Mel hung back, wondering whether or not to approach the woman who stood motionless inside the stable. She was gazing at a bay that was tossing its head agitatediy. Occasionally kicking out with one powerful hind leg.

  'What kind of people are they?' Helen Duncan said finally.

  'What I want to know is how the hell did they get inside the stables to do this?' Mel murmured quietly.

  Doyle merely shook his head, his eyes fixed on the bay.

  Both of its ears had been hacked off. The mane and coat around them were matted with dried blood. Flies buzzed around the horse, attracted both by the excrement in the stall but also by the open wounds.

  'An animal that size isn't just going to stand there while its fucking ears are cut off, is it?' Doyle mused. They must have sedated it.'

  Helen Duncan clapped ironically. 'You should have been a detective, Mr Doyle,' she said.

  'When was the last time you were in here, Mrs Duncan?' Mel asked.

  Two days ago,' Helen Duncan said, her voice catching. 'Christ, you're meant to know where I've been, I can't move a fucking muscle without one of you following me.' She rounded angrily on the two bodyguards. 'Why did you let this happen?'

  'We had no way of stopping it,' Mel answered.

  'Someone breaks into my stables and cuts the ears off one of my horses and you can't stop them. What makes you so sure you'll be able to stop them when they come after myself and my husband?'

  The horse whinneyed as if in agreement.

  'You'd better check the others,' Doyle said. There were two more horses in the stable. A grey and a chestnut.

  Helen wiped her face hurriedly then moved to each stall in turn. The other two animals seemed unharmed although both were understandably skittish. The grey in particular tossed its head wildly as Helen reached out to touch its muzzle.

  'I'll call the vet,' she said.'He'll have to look at them. Just to be sure. They could have been given poison or anything.'

  'You're lucky they didn't kill them,' Mel offered.

  They did it to show how close they can get if they want to,' Doyle said. 'How far's the stable from the house? Two hundred yards? Less? This was a warning.'

  Helen Duncan glared at Doyle then stalked out of the stable and headed back towards the house.

  Mel hesitated a moment then hurried after her.

  Doyle remained in the stable, walking slowly back

  and forth between the stalls, peering intermittently at the bay. Or, more specifically at the bloodied stumps of torn flesh where its ears used to be.

  He waited a moment longer then left the stable and walked slowly around the red-brick house. Beyond, the fields and hills stretched away into the distance. He could also see the maze towards the bottom of the long garden. As he looked, his eyes narrowed.

  'Mel,' he said into his microphone.

  There was a crackle of static. 'What is it?' she asked, her voice clear in his earpiece.

  'I'm going to walk around the grounds again.There's something I want to check out.'

  He lit up a cigarette and began to stroll towards the maze.

  BELFAST:

  Declan Leary slid down in the driver's seat and turned up the heater, blowing more warm air into the car. The clock on the dashboard showed 5.09 a.m.

  The sky was grey and smeared with banks of grubby clouds that promised more of the drizzle that had been falling since dawn first hauled itself reluctantly into the sky.

  Leary watched as George Mcswain stopped the milk float, got out and took two bottles from the back of the vehicle. Mcswain hurried up the short path to the front step of the house and left the bottles then returned. He wrote something on a notepad then clambered back into the float and drove on, the engine making its familiar droning sound.

  Glass clinked against glass as the float moved over several speed bumps.

  Mcswain stopped the vehicle again and placed the required number of pints at the doors of each house.

  Leary reached towards the passenger seat and picked up a bottle of his own. It was Lucozade. He

  swigged and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  One or two people were on the streets. On their way to work at this ungodly hour of the morning, Leary imagined. But, for the most part, Mcswain was alone as he manoeuvred along the narrow streets of the Woodvale area of the city.

  Leary had been tracking him for the last two days. It had been easier than he'd thought. Once he'd found his man (courtesy of www.peoplesearch.com) it had been a small matter to keep a watch on him.

  Planning. Waiting for the moment.

  Leary was helped in this by the fact that Mcswain was so regimented in his movements. Driven, it seemed, by routine.

  He began his milk round every morning at 4.15. It took him approximately three hours. When it was finished he would return to the depot, complete his paperwork and return home to the house he shared with his wife and two children. A boy of twelve and a girl of thirteen. He usually stayed in until six in the evening when he would go out for a drink. He returned around ten.

  Like fucking clockwork.

  If Mcswain knew he was being watched then he'd certainly given no indication of it.

  Leary finished off his Lucozade and flipped open the glove compartment of his car. The Scorpion CZ65, a twenty-round clip already jammed into it, lay there until he needed it.

  He had decided that it would be best to take the Proddie bastard out during his milk round. Early in the

  morning when the streets were at their most desolate.

  On more than one occasion he had thought about completing the job this very morning but had finally decided against it. He could wait one more day.

  Leary slipped the car into gear and, after allowing the milk float a minute's start, he followed, overtook it, then parked up once more. Just watching.

  And waiting.

  CHESHAM, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND:

  The sunset stained the sky crimson. It looked as if the clouds had been soaked in blood.

  Doyle glanced across at the large garage as he made his way back to the house.

  Joe Hendry was reversing the Mercedes 300SL through the doorway. Inside, Doyle could also see two other vehicles belonging to the Duncans. All would be checked before they were used the following day. Brake cables would be inspected, tyres would be looked at for faults and, as ever, the entire chassis and interior would be scrutinised for anything even vaguely resembling an explosive device. That was Hendry's job. The cars and everything to do with them were his province.

  He had brought William Duncan home safely some two hours ago and listened whiJe Helen Duncan related the news about the mutilated horse. Duncan himself had nodded as his wife had spoken then hugged her tightly.

  Doyle had looked on impassively then decided on one more tour of the grounds before darkness threw its impenetrable blanket over the land.

  As he had done earlier in the day, he had wandered as far as the maze. Except this time he had not ventured inside the privet-lined walkways. The hedges were fully eight feet high, immaculately trimmed and decorated with topiary animals that seemed to look down mockingly upon those who were foolish enough to enter their domain.The paths that turned left and right were gravel and Doyle had managed to find his way into the centre of the puzzle earlier that day, dropping pieces of cigarette packet to guide him out.

  At its heart the maze boasted a delightful ornate centrepiece comprising two stone benches
and sculptures of lions and swans. Like their topiary counterparts, these sentinels seemed to gaze upon newcomers with disdainful eyes. Doyle had sat and smoked a cigarette before making his way out again.

  Hendry closed and locked the garage and wandered over to join Doyle. 'Maybe whoever's doing this will leave it at the horses,' the driver offered.

  'Yeah, right,' Doyle said dismissively. 'No, they're not going to be happy until Duncan's six foot under. And his missis too.'

  The two men made their way inside.

  Doyle secured the front door.

  Mel emerged from the sitting room and smiled at her colleagues.

  'Are they okay?' Hendry wanted to know.

  They're just talking,' Mel explained. 'I left them to it.'

  The grounds are clear, as far as I can tell,' Doyle told her.

  Mel looked at her watch. 'One of us ought to keep

  an eye on the monitors,' she said. 'Just in case.'

  'I'll do it,' Hendry offered.

  'No, you get something to eat, Joe. I'll watch,' said Doyle.

  'Want some company?' Mel asked.

  Doyle nodded.

  The bank of monitors flickered and Doyle rubbed his eyes, his gaze moving slowly from one screen to the next. Every now and then he would press a button and alter the angle of a specific camera.

  Mel reached over and turned on some of the security lights around the house. Others were triggered by motion sensors and would be activated if anything passed before them.

  Doyle yawned and sipped his coffee, wincing when he realised it was cold.

  'Boring, isn't it?' Mel said. 'All this sitting around.'

  'It beats the shit out of sitting in a car,' he replied, patting the chair he sat on.

  'Did you do a lot of that when you were in the CTU?'

  'My share.'

  'Do you still miss it?'

  He nodded. 'It was all I knew,' he told her. 'It was what I was best at.'

  'You seem to have taken to this kind of work very well.'

  'Needs must and all that crap.'

  There was a long silence between them, finally

  broken by Mel. 'What do you think of Mrs Duncan?' she asked smiling.

  'I think you've got more chance with her than I have.'

  Mel raised her eyebrows quizzically.

  'She likes sleeping with women,' Doyle continued. 'She told me. Fuck knows why. Perhaps she was trying to shock me.'