The Killer of Oz

by Chelsea Field

  Connor’s single concession to the smothering heat had been to roll up his shirt sleeves. And while a light sheen of sweat lay on his face too, it somehow contrived to look sexy. Maybe it was the fact that his complexion didn’t go bright red when he overheated like mine did.

  Nevertheless, I kept my complaints to myself. We had to rule out the innocuous and straightforward causes behind Amy’s disappearance before investigating the darker options.

  Despite the patchy flooding in the area, we were relatively certain of Amy’s route since the scientist at the lab said there was only one river crossing she could’ve taken to catch her flight in time. Connor and I eventually arrived at that crossing and made a new disheartening discovery.

  The crossing was not crossable.

  Water rose inches above the road, and we’d risk being swept away if we tried going through it. Would the rental insurance cover something like that? Even if it did, an unplanned swim was not an appealing prospect in a river populated by saltwater crocodiles.

  Connor stared at the muddy water with an expression I couldn’t read. “We’ll head downriver. Maybe Miss Cooley attempted to drive across.”

  Attempted and failed he meant.

  It was a grim thought. But people did foolish things all the time. Would she have hazarded a risk like that for the sake of catching her flight? In the dark and pelting rain, would she have even been able to gauge how high the water had risen?

  Either way, Connor was going the right direction. The next nearest crossing point was forty minutes downstream.

  The scenery that followed the river was similar to the stuff we’d been driving through, except wetter. Grass and shrubbery were squashed flat from the recent overspill of the river’s banks, and a lot of the water hadn’t found its way back yet. I guessed the water had only recently receded enough for the road to be passable. Even so, there were some parts where I was grateful Connor had rented a heavy 4WD.

  I rubbed my face, trying to pay as much attention to the road and riverside as I had at the beginning of our journey. Which was when I spotted it. The silver Mazda 3 sedan axle-deep in mud at the edge of the river.

  “Stop!”

  Connor hit the brakes.

  I couldn’t see a figure through the dirt-streaked windshield. Maybe Amy had escaped. I hoped she’d escaped. And lost her phone. And then just couldn’t remember the number of the person she’d meant to meet which is why she hadn’t contacted them. Or the number of anyone else either. Yeah. That was vaguely feasible.

  Unfortunately, getting to her car to find out wasn’t going to be pretty. The car’s mud bed extended far beyond it in every direction. On the plus side, the flattened grass and dense mud gave us a clear line of sight all the way to the river, which meant there was nowhere for a crocodile to hide. That, combined with the impressive distance the car had managed to travel out of the now-diminished waterway before coming to its new resting place, meant we were fairly safe. Crocs were opportunistic, lazy hunters. They preferred to use stealth and a powerful burst of speed than run long distances… All facts I knew thanks to Etta raving over their incredibly efficient predatory design.

  I hadn’t expected it to come in handy.

  I eyed my bare legs and sneakers and the mud that looked to be awfully deep in some places if the car was anything to go by. Then I eyed Connor and his expensive shoes and pants.

  “Can I have a piggyback?”

  He didn’t answer. Just rolled up his pant legs and sank one expensive shoe into the mud.

  “Or I could stay here,” I suggested.

  His lips twitched. “Fine by me.”

  Dammit. He knew me too well. No way was I going to stay here while he got first inspection of that car.

  “Although,” I tried one last time, “if we return to the hotel and you’re covered in mud and I’m squeaky clean, Mum might be super impressed by how chivalrous you are.”

  Connor turned at that and looked me over. His expression was dubious. “I think you’ve already failed your part of that equation.”

  I looked down at my filthy sneakers, grubby, scratched legs, and the damp, sweaty T-shirt which had a few green stains from squeezing past unhelpful tropical foliage and huffed. “All right, I’m coming. But you better at least hold my hand so I don’t end up face-first in it.”

  He clasped my hand in his. “Agreed.”

  I took a single step and mud oozed over the tops of my sneakers. It was warm and slippery and felt nothing like the mud mask facial I’d once been given as part of a mandated makeover. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider the piggyback thing? I thought people were supposed to be nicer on holiday. You know, relaxed, stress-free, happy…”

  “First of all, I’m working. Second, trying to win over your parents is the most stressful thing I’ve done in months.”

  Aww. He probably wouldn’t appreciate me telling him how cute that was.

  “And third, I am happy. I’m happy to be with you. Even shin-deep in mud.”

  By the time we neared the car, we were knee-deep in mud. I wondered if he was reconsidering.

  The front windows were open or ripped out. Every inch of the exterior was covered in streaks of mud that were drying in the sun, and there were several large dents in the panels I guessed hadn’t been there before the car had gone for a dip in the river.

  We clambered close enough to see inside. Muddy water still pooled in the floor wells, but not so much as to hide a body. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. She’d gotten out. Of the car at least. I didn’t know about the river yet. But at least this way there was hope for a happy ending.

  Connor handed me a pair of gloves, then squelched to the front of the car and cleared enough mud off the license plate to confirm we had the right vehicle. I snapped the gloves over my dirty hands and yanked open the driver’s door with a good deal of brute force. Water from the car’s interior pooled around my legs before merging with the mud and a wave of unpleasant air wafted out with it. Eau de parfum of carpet drenched in river water and baked in the sun for that desirable musty, mildew scent. Queensland did mold like nowhere else on earth.

  I was just grateful there weren’t any decomposing body smells to go with it.

  We went methodically through the car for clues. Well, as methodically as we could considering we weren’t sure what we were looking for. There wasn’t much there. Most of what Amy had kept in her car must have been swept away, and a number of things she hadn’t kept in the car had found their way in. The remaining (non-river-donated) items were a ruined Kindle, a bottle of sunscreen, a creamy pink nail polish called Roses Are Raunchy, the car’s operator’s manual, a handful of loose change, and a royal blue leather satchel with a handle that had tangled around the gearstick. We undid the buckle and pulled back the flap. Inside were a bunch of vials secured by leather holders, some of which had smashed, and a dead cell phone.

  Connor removed his glove and slipped out his own phone. He called the Taste Society first.

  On the way here, he’d told me that, unlike in LA where the Taste Society had a select law enforcement agent liaison in each precinct who knew about the underground poison scene, Australia was far too unpopulated and spread out for that. Which meant Taste Society investigators acted independently and without law enforcement authorization or cooperation—unless things went to absolute hell.

  The Taste Society did have ways of accessing police reports and pulling a few strings here and there though.

  Connor disconnected and picked up the royal blue leather satchel. “They want us to take this with us to prevent their classified antidotes raising unwanted questions or ending up in the wrong hands. Anyone who knows she had it with her should assume it washed away with the rest of her gear.”

  Then he had me call the police to report the car’s location. As a helpful passerby, of course.

  We were discussing what to do next when my phone rang. It was Etta.

  “Oh good, you answered,” she greeted me.
“What’s the number for emergency services in Australia?”

  1 Author’s confession: There is no airport in Port Douglas, but I invented one for logistical purposes. Fiction authors do have a naughty tendency of making stuff up, you know.

  6

  We left the car in the mud and rushed to Etta’s location. She happened to be by the same river we’d been skirting, except much farther downstream. What she’d been doing before making her gruesome discovery, I had no idea.

  The police hadn’t arrived by the time we got there. The one vehicle in sight was a mud-spattered and rugged Toyota HiLux that looked like it had done a lot of off-roading. Etta was leaning against the cab dressed in lightweight fitted cargo pants in hunter green, a camo-print T-shirt, and sturdy leather boots. Like an advertisement for outdoor apparel.

  My unease grew. That HiLux did not look like a rental, and her outfit was not typical tourist garb. But right now we had a bigger problem to worry about.

  “Follow me,” Etta said as soon as we opened our doors. Naturally she sounded excited.

  She led us to a crocodile resting on the riverbank. It was so big it had to be the saltwater variety—twice as long as Connor was tall and then some. Lucky it was dead or I might’ve wet my pants. I braved a step closer and eyed its giant teeth and alien appearance. “Are you sure it’s dead?”

  Etta put her boot on its head and posed like a hunter over their kill. “Yep. Can you take a photo of us?”

  My jaw dropped, but her request did the job of startling me out of my fear. The problem was, it raised a new fear.

  “How did you say it died again?”

  Etta shrugged. “Not sure.”

  I stared at her, holding her phone hostage in my stiff hands.

  “What? Don’t blame me. I didn’t kill it. I was wandering along, minding my own business, when I came across this fella. Once I realized he was dead, I figured I could pry his jaws open and stick my head inside to take a selfie. That’s when I saw the finger.”

  Right. The finger.

  I drew in a deep breath. “Are you positive it was a human finger?”

  Etta flapped her hand in disgust. “Well I don’t know, dear. Would you recognize my finger as human if I flipped you off with it? I might be old, but I’ll thank you to remember I’m not blind or senile.”

  Oops. “Sorry. It’s just… I didn’t want it to be a human finger.”

  Etta’s annoyance dissipated. “Oh. Sure. I guess that makes sense.”

  It did to everyone but Etta anyway.

  “Show us,” Connor said.

  I braced myself.

  Etta leaned down and opened the crocodile’s massive jaws. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if crocodiles followed the same rigor mortis timelines as humans or not.

  She pointed at a piece of meat stuck to one of the crocodile’s back teeth. Finger was being generous. It was half of one at best and only the fingernail made it recognizable for what it was.

  I swallowed hard, glad I hadn’t eaten since lunch. This didn’t make sense. What were the chances of Etta stumbling across a dead crocodile with a human finger inside? Could this be some kind of elaborate prank?

  Connor squeezed my arm in a show of support, then positioned himself to get a closer look. “I hate to say it, but that looks an awful lot like the Roses Are Raunchy shade of nail polish.”

  Cripes. Not even Etta could’ve contrived that detail up as a prank. In fact, she was looking at Connor like he’d sprouted a second head.

  I shook off my discomfort and squatted beside Connor for confirmation. Damn me if it wasn’t the exact shade of pale, creamy rose I remembered.

  My hope for finding Amy alive took a whopping great blow to its metaphorical gonads.

  But a person could lose a finger without dying.

  I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring a wave of dizziness. “She could still be alive.”

  “Unlikely,” Connor said at the same time Etta said, “I doubt it.”

  “But if there’s any chance she is, we should look for her, right? The sun’s about to set, and who knows how long the police will take to get here. She could be bleeding out as we speak.”

  Etta straightened. “Sure, I’m game. I don’t know about crocodiles, but gators like to bask in the sun after a big meal to help digestion. So whatever’s left of the former owner of that finger—whether it’s a body or just bits of body—is probably somewhere nearby.”

  Bits of body.

  I thought queasily of the crocodile I’d once seen given a wild pig carcass at the zoo. The croc hadn’t been able to gulp it down whole, so it had used its powerful body and jaws to thrash and tear the corpse into more manageable chunks.

  “All right,” Connor said. “But everyone should stay at least five yards from the water’s edge at all times.” He looked meaningfully at us both. “No need to feed the local wildlife any more today.”

  Scouring the crocodile-infested riverbank for a body—or bits of body—was not on my list of preferred holiday activities.

  But by now I was pretty used to the universe not going along with my plans. And if there was a chance—even a very slim chance—that Amy Cooley was still in a state where she could be helped, then that’s what I was going to do.

  For the second time that day, I squelched through the mud. But on this occasion, I was less concerned for my shoes and more concerned for my life. If a crocodile surged out of the river to sample the Izzy steak special, the mud would slow me down.

  “Did you know that saltwater crocodiles have the most powerful bite force ever measured?” Etta asked. “Three thousand seven hundred pounds per square inch. That’s like four grand pianos smacking down on a hammer. Only their teeth are a lot sharper than a hammer.”

  “Wonderful,” I muttered. “That’s exactly what I want to hear right now.”

  It wasn’t the first or the last time I would lament Etta’s decision to become a fountain of fun facts about Australia.

  I ignored the polite urge to look at the person I was conversing with and kept my eyes peeled on the muddy bank and more vitally on the river’s edge. My entire body was covered in sweat from humidity and maybe fear. My ears were pricked for any unusual sloshing noises. Or maybe screams. And my heart was drumming against my rib cage.

  It turned out it was damned hard searching for body parts when you were worried about becoming an ancient predator’s lunch.

  Like Amy may well have done.

  If Etta’s heart was drumming, it was with excitement. “Maybe we should’ve brought Herbert as bait.”

  My head snapped round to stare at her incredulously before self-preservation turned it back to the river. “We’re not trying to catch a crocodile, Etta! We’re distinctly trying to avoid crocodiles.”

  “I know, I know.” Her tone implied this was a great flaw in our plan. “But don’t fret, I’ve got your back.”

  I heard the sound of a gun being cocked, and despite myself, I looked her way again.

  Impossibly, she was holding some kind of large revolver.

  Crap. “Where did you get that?”

  “A friend let me borrow it.”

  “What do you mean? How could you have friends out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  She gave me a look that suggested we didn’t all have difficulty making friends.

  “Besides, that’s not how it works in Australia. We have laws, you know. We don’t just let people borrow guns!”

  “Sure. That’s why I promised not to shoot anything unless I had to. Don’t wanna get him in trouble.”

  I belatedly remembered to turn back toward the river. For good measure, I squelched my way a few feet in the opposite direction. So I’d have more time to react if an oversized reptile took advantage of my distraction. “Wild crocs are protected,” I reminded her. “It’s illegal to shoot them.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “And there’s no law against being eaten by a crocodile. But what would you prefer?”

  I le
aped a foot in the air as a bird splashed into the water for a quick cool-off. When I could speak again, I gave Etta a nod.

  “Okay, if one of those monsters comes at me, they’re all yours.”

  Etta grinned and resumed her search. I did the same except without the grin.

  Connor called from up ahead. “You can stop searching.”

  His tone told me a lot more than his words did. He’d found something. And it wasn’t good.

  7

  I wasn’t inexperienced when it came to seeing dead things. When I was four, my pet caterpillar died. Weeping over his limp, furry body is one of my earliest memories. And really, it all went downhill after that. Especially in the past seven months since completing my Taste Society training and becoming a Shade.

  But no matter how much death I saw, I was never prepared for it. This was no exception.

  Connor had found a brown leather ankle boot.

  With a foot still inside.

  It was resting innocuously on a tuft of grass that had survived the recent flooding as if its owner had just stepped away for a moment and left it there.

  But the stench was far worse than any foot odor I’d ever smelled.

  We had no way of knowing for sure whether the boot and its contents had belonged to Amy too, but the chances of it belonging to anyone else and ending up here were so remote that even I couldn’t hold out hope any longer.

  Amy Cooley was gone.

  Connor brushed my hand with his. “I could be wrong, but by the condition of the… foot, I’d say she was already dead when the crocodile found her.”

  It was small comfort. But comfort nonetheless.

  The wailing of sirens split the silence before I managed to muster a response.

  I followed Connor and Etta woodenly back to the dead crocodile and let them do most of the talking.