The Night of the Mosquito

by Max China

  ‘What you get, Timo, when you study these,’ she said, flicking through the stack, ‘is words of wisdom at the bottom and a small bite of history at the top. Look at this one. August 10, 1519, Fer-din-and Mag-ell-an sets sail to cir-cum-navigate the world.’ That was it. What had bothered him ever since he’d torn off this morning’s date? August 10, 1990, Magellan space probe reached Venus. It was no coincidence that the probe had been named after him, but to arrive on the anniversary of the day Magellan had set off? They couldn’t have planned it, could they? This day. The sky. The stranger. A sense of foreboding crept over him.

  Coming out of the woods, he walked along the road. He crossed at the churchyard, taking his usual shortcut over the wall, and approached the dilapidated set of buildings he called home.

  Timothy let himself in and immediately knew something was wrong. The door leading to the tower staircase was open. He listened to the low, mournful notes the pigeons cooed, and the incessant ship’s-deck creaking coming from the bell loft.

  He’d heard the bells earlier. He knew it could only have been the Fallows. He didn’t bother to investigate. On this day of all days, he wanted to avoid them. A sense of guilt tugged at his conscience. He hadn’t seen them in a long time. He should have come back. Then a thought occurred to him. Why hadn’t they closed the door when they left? A feeling of uneasiness edged into him. Something was definitely wrong.

  Timothy began to ascend the stairs. He gazed up. The birds were perched on the joists as usual, but had crowded together at one end. They queried each other like old women gossiping over a fence. Through the years, he’d become familiar with their behaviour, their language. Something had disturbed them. Step by squeaking step he climbed, turning around the winding stair, completely unprepared for the horror he was about to encounter.

  Chapter 42

  Yew Tree Cottage. 7:45 p.m.

  David Hall took the last of the candles from the cupboard, and trudged upstairs to place it on top of the toilet cistern. He hesitated before lighting it. ‘Molly,’ he cried, ‘are you sure we haven’t got another box of these somewhere?’

  ‘Candles?’ she said, coming out of the bathroom onto the landing. ‘That’s all I could find.’

  ‘Christ,’ David said. ‘I’d best not light this one then.’

  ‘Why don’t you nip to the church? I’m sure Timothy will lend us a few.’

  ‘Molly,’ he grinned. ‘That’s a great idea; he’s bound to have some. Still, seems a waste to light it. I’ll leave the matches next to it. Shall I ask him for some of those while I’m there?’

  ‘David Hall,’ she chided. ‘You are tighter than a duck’s arse.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘and that’s water—’

  A loud banging at the front door interrupted them.

  Molly’s eyes widened. ‘Christ. Who on earth can that be?’

  David took the stairs going down two at a time and rushed along the hall. ‘All right, all right. I’m coming. You’ll have the bloody door down in a minute!’ He peered through the bull’s-eye glass at the distorted shape of a black-robed and hooded man. ‘Molly,’ he yelled, wrenching the bolt back. ‘I think it’s Timothy.’

  Wild-eyed and shaking, the unofficial caretaker of the church thrust a sheet of paper into David’s hands.

  ‘What’s all this about, Timothy? Calm down, for God’s sake. You nearly gave the pair of us a heart attack.’

  Timothy jabbed a finger at the note.

  The handwriting reflected Timothy’s state of mind. David deciphered what it read. ‘Oh, Lord, Molly,’ he said as she appeared beside him. ‘There’s been a murder at the church.’

  ‘Timothy,’ she said calmly. ‘Would you mind waiting outside?’ She closed the door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Colin whispered.

  ‘How do we know he didn’t do it?’ she hissed.

  ‘No, he didn’t. Shame on you, Molly. Did you see how hurt he looked?’

  She covered her mouth and then quickly shouted, ‘We’ll be right out, Tim, just getting our shoes on.’

  David opened the door.

  Timothy had gone.

  Chapter 43

  Churchend Road. 7:55 p.m.

  Eleanor had ridden for three-quarters of an hour. Can’t be far now. Heavy-limbed, she rested her legs, allowing the bike to coast on a downhill stretch. Instinctively applying the brakes at the bottom, she slowed to clatter over a railway crossing. Slumbering birds on either side of the road shuffled and cawed low, complaining at the disturbance. A light breeze tugged at the leaves, rattling them. She rose from the saddle and trod hard on the pedals, coaxing her cadence higher. Her thighs burned. The hair on the back of her neck bristled. She’d be glad to get away from this lane. There should have been a turning. Am I lost?

  She stopped to check her bearings at a crossroads, looking left and right. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of something coming closer, before it moved out of sight. It’s only a rabbit. Her heart, already pounding from the climb, stepped up a beat. A shriek, unearthly, wailing like the high-pitched trumpeting of an elephant, cut through the night. Whatever had made that sound was now crashing through the undergrowth towards her. Unnerved, she made a decision. Rising from the saddle, terrified, she turned right, not daring to look behind and pumped the pedals as hard as she could, listing first left, then right as she pushed herself to go faster. The sounds of pursuit faded, and after another good minute of hard pedal-pushing, she sat back in the saddle and glanced over her shoulder. Her front wheel struck something in the road. She lost balance and fell, hands out ready to break her fall. Eleanor landed heavily. Palms grazed and sore, she sat up, gathering her senses. What tripped me? Her eyes focused on two smooth branches. Waxen-looking in the pale glow, they disappeared into the ominous shade of the bushes by the side of the road. Then, she spotted a discarded shoe. She knew intuitively the limbs she’d mistaken for branches were a woman’s legs. Suspended in disbelief, she was brought to her senses by a squeal of triumph. Whoever, or whatever, had killed her silent companion, was coming for her next.

  Eleanor scrambled to her feet, grabbed her bike and mounted it, feet slipping from the pedals three times in her haste to get going before finally, legs working like pistons, she rode thinking her lungs would burst. She wanted to go home, but it couldn’t be far to Michael’s house and safety. Where are you?

  Chapter 44

  Churchend Road. 8:10 p.m.

  Eleanor hadn’t cycled for such an extended period since she was a teenager. Her efforts to escape her pursuer had robbed her legs of power. Afraid if she stopped to rest, she’d not summon the will to get going again, she put her head down and pressed on.

  Five minutes later, she slowed and came to a halt. The stretch of road she’d taken seemed to lead her deeper into the countryside. Despite the luminosity of the night sky, she couldn’t see any landmarks against which to plot her position. Her ears strained, listening for signs of her stalker. The silence reassuring her, she swung the rucksack from her back and removed the map from its pocket.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ she whispered, studying the location of the crossroads she’d passed a few minutes ago. ‘I should have gone the other way.’ To return in the direction she’d come raised the unwelcome prospect of a further encounter with whoever had just chased her. ‘Eleanor, get real,’ she muttered. ‘I mean, logically, who in their right mind would be trumpeting around like that?’ She laughed nervously. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

  The dead woman’s image crept into her mind. She shuddered. Could it be the killer Nick Summer had spoken about? No, he’d be long gone, putting distance between himself and the guards out searching for him. He wouldn’t hang around looking for victims, would he? She couldn’t be sure. Nick had said he was a madman. If possible, she needed to find an alternative route. Her position located, she traced the road with her fingertip to where she’d joined it, stopping on a line marked with a continuous series of dashes, which indicated a bridleway looping off
in a wide arc. It would connect her to where she wanted to be, beyond the crossroads.

  She couldn’t recall seeing it on the way, but then she’d been distracted in her haste to get away and hadn’t been looking. She returned the map to the rucksack, zipped up the pocket and slung it over her shoulder. Reversing the direction of the bike, she remounted and began to pedal, the mouse-squeaking spring in her saddle and the light whirr and occasional pop of the tyres through the gravel the only sounds disturbing the stillness.

  Ten minutes later, she spotted the tell-tale horse-and-rider sign. She turned the bicycle and nudged it through the gap between two timber barriers flanked by bushes. The rough ground jolted the bike. In and out of ruts and over bumps she rode, the impact juddering through the handlebars into her wrists and arms. The bike’s frame rattled. She gritted her teeth, praying no one was within earshot. The trees and bushes crowding the track were more densely packed than the lane she’d just left, allowing little light to filter through. She could barely see where she was going. How much longer?

  After what seemed like an eternity, she cleared the bridle path and found herself on the smooth surface of the road. If she’d read the map correctly, she shouldn’t be far from Anderson’s house. Two or three hundred yards should do it.

  Something whizzed through the air and dropped into the bushes behind her. Startled, she turned to look over her shoulder. A single, tremolo shriek blasted from the undergrowth. Dread sucked at her heart. Her blood stalled. She couldn’t move. Dark and indistinct, a tall shape loomed among the leaves, triggering a wild thought. Nosferatu? Adrenaline surged. She tore herself free of inertia, and on legs rubberized by fear, hurtled downhill towards where Michael lived.

  Chapter 45

  Hilltop Cottage. 8:35 p.m.

  Partly obscured by tall trees, the house sat back from the road, the pale weatherboarded frontage glowing in the semi-darkness. Eleanor made the turn into the drive too fast and lost control of front and back wheels. The bike slewed over. She got a foot down. Her ankle gave. She yelped in pain and fell. Breathing heavily, she scrambled to her feet and hobbled up the path towards the front door. There, looming in the shadows, she saw the figure of a man. He looked as if he were about to go inside.

  ‘Michael?’ she wheezed.

  The figure turned towards her. His eyes lit up. ‘Hello, sweetie.’

  ‘Thank God it’s you,’ she blurted. ‘There’s someone following me.’

  He looked over her shoulder. ‘No one there now,’ he said, drawing himself to his full height. He grinned like a shark. ‘Whoever it was can see who the top dog is around here.’

  Eleanor squinted into the darkness. Something about Michael’s manner didn’t gel with how she’d imagined him to be. ‘My God,’ she gulped. ‘Is it really you? I wasn’t expecting you to be so tall.’

  The man stepped from the murk and moved towards her. Eleanor eyed him suspiciously. He had no swelling on his eye. ‘You’re not Michael, are you?’

  A knowing look crept onto his face. He realised she’d never met Michael before. Here was a new game to play. He smiled easily. ‘My dear, but of course, I am.’

  Michael’s radio voice played back in her head. Too tinny; it was impossible to match the tone. ‘I thought you were sick. What are you doing outside?’

  ‘I am sick.’ His eyes glittered. ‘I thought I’d get some air.’

  Unconvinced, Eleanor said, ‘Shouldn’t we go in? I’ve brought you some medicine.’

  He slapped a hand against his forehead. ‘I’ve locked myself out,’ he said, thin-lipped. ‘I’m always doing that.’

  Her gaze drifted over his crumpled clothes. Michael’s voice crackled in her memory. I was a hypnotherapist. This man was wearing a uniform. The possibility he was the escaped killer, dawned on her. She laughed nervously, and took a step back, unable to believe it. ‘Didn’t you say you have a raging thirst and a craving for salt?’

  ‘What?’ he said, taken aback.

  It isn’t Michael. Now she knew for sure. If she were to have any chance of survival, she had to think fast. ‘I’ve got supplies in my rucksack. It’s just over there.’ She smiled quickly, hoping she wouldn’t betray that she knew who he was. ‘I dropped it when I fell off my bike.’ She limped towards it. ‘I’ll just pick it up, and then we can take a look at you.’

  The killer’s boots crunched on the path behind her. Could she scoop the bike up, leap on and bolt for it? Doubtful. Her heart sank. She’d come to save a man she’d never met, and would now most likely die with him. A light breeze rustled through the leaves at the edge of the driveway. She caught a glimpse of movement, which had nothing to do with the passage of air. Who, or whatever was stalking her, had moved into the bushes.

  Eleanor stopped and turned to face the man masquerading as Michael. She took a gamble. ‘L-look,’ she stammered. ‘I know you’re not M-Michael. You’re that escaped prisoner, aren’t you?’

  He held his hands up. ‘Okay, I admit I’m not Michael, but I’m not Wolfe, either. You’ve seen the uniform. I’m his guard.’ His smile of reassurance didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stepped towards her. ‘Been out looking for him since this morning. Soon as I saw you looking so terrified, I knew you’d be game for some fun – you know, break the day up for me.’

  ‘It seems you’re not the only one out playing games tonight,’ she said, swaying as she focused on keeping her weight on her good leg.

  His dark eyes bored into hers. ‘What do you mean?’

  She tilted her head and gazed at a point beyond where the bike had fallen. ‘Someone’s in those shadows over there, and he isn’t impressed by your top-dog act.’

  ‘You think it’s an act?’ Wolfe narrowed his eyes, squinting into the gloom behind her. ‘Don’t worry; I won’t let anyone else hurt you.’ His fist swung up from nowhere and drove into her forehead.

  Eleanor crashed unconscious to the ground.

  ‘Don’t move – I’ll be right back,’ he said, and marched confidently into the shadows, out of sight.

  Chapter 46

  Hilltop Cottage. 8:40 p.m.

  Unearthly screaming snapped Anderson out of his stupor. What was that? His eyes narrowed as the sound replayed in his mind. It was strangely familiar, yet, unable to identify the noise, he clambered to his feet. Better have a look. He peered through the window into the garden beyond. Nothing out of the ordinary. Without thinking, he wrapped a hand around the double barrel of his shotgun, hoisting it to his hip. On his third attempt, he mustered sufficient strength to operate the opening mechanism. He exposed the breech and fumbled in his pocket for the shells he’d put there earlier. His hands trembled as he fed them home, one by one, and then snapped the gun shut. His fingers turned the key in the door and unlocked it. A voice inside cautioned. Don’t go out there. He didn’t listen. On unsteady legs, he stumbled outside, jumping at the sudden close proximity of the sound he’d heard a few moments before. It came from over there. He had the distinct impression he was being watched. The hairs on his arms rose as he peered into the shadows.

  Sweat streamed from Anderson’s forehead, trickling through his brows and onto his eyelids. He wiped it away, blinking his good eye rapidly to clear the salty sting, but it left his vision blurred. The act of wiping his cheeks confirmed he’d lost the feeling down the side with the bite. Numb all the way to his lips, they tingled, raising concerns the poison would soon infiltrate them too. Aware his breathing had grown heavy, he tried to slow it. In. Out. In. Out.

  His palms slick against the gun, he raised the barrel and moved forward, holding it at waist height. The moon’s unnaturally green light dissipated as he squeezed past the outer conifers, which stood sentinel-like, guarding the deeper shade stretching from the back of the house to the front. Apprehensive, Anderson felt his senses heighten to compensate for his impaired vision and lack of mobility. His ears tuned in to the whine of a mosquito to his left. He shuddered. In the relative darkness, his good eye adjusted, drawn warily in the direction
of the sound, seeking it out. He couldn’t afford another bite. Frightened for a moment, he considered retreating inside. And then, he saw it, hovering ghost-like, almost transparent in a thin shaft of moonlight and behind the insect: a dark, familiar shape. The crescent end of an old-fashioned scythe, and below it, someone stood half-concealed behind the thick trunk of a Douglas fir.

  Anderson eased the trigger back and took aim. About to call out a challenge, he registered a blur of movement to his right. Too late, he swung around.

  Wolfe, plucking the gun from his hands, slammed the butt into his abdomen, and in the same fluid movement, jerked it up, striking him under the chin. Anderson cried out as his legs folded. He dropped to his knees, cradling his stomach, before falling forward onto his hands.

  Wolfe administered a sharp kick to his victim’s ribs. The air whooshed from Anderson’s lungs. He curled into a ball, gulping for air like a landed fish on a trawler deck. His eye rolling, he desperately sought a way out of his predicament.

  ‘Why were you following that lady?’ Wolfe snarled.

  The question unnerved him. Anderson hesitated and then wheezed. ‘I’m not following anyone. I live here—’

  ‘Mikey?’ Wolfe grinned in the half-light. ‘Well, I would say I’m pleased to meet you, but you were going to shoot me, weren’t you? You know I can’t let you get away with that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have shot you,’ Anderson gasped.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, you say that now, but let me tell you, by the time I’m finished with you and your lady, you’ll wish you had’ve done.’

  ‘What lady?’ Anderson said, his voice ragged.