The Killer of Oz

by Chelsea Field

  Connor’s phone shrilled loudly in our troubled silence. He answered it, and I leaned into him—partly for the comfort of his steady, unyielding warmth, partly to listen in.

  It was Connor’s handler.

  “We have an update about that missing courier case,” the man said.

  Connor’s chest moved as he replied, “So do we. But why don’t you go first?”

  His handler—his ever-accommodating handler—agreed. “All right. Remember that one antidote the lab didn’t have enough stock of to resend?”

  “Yes. The scientist here told us it was so obscure that the chances of needing it were pretty much infinitesimal.”

  “Yeah well, call the Pope because we have a freaking unholy miracle here. Some high-up department head in the Taste Society was poisoned with, you guessed it, the one substance we didn’t have an antidote for. The killer had about a two-day window between when the expired stock was disposed of and the backup shipment from a secondary supplier could be readied and delivered.”

  If the world and I were having a fight today, it had just delivered a knockout punch.

  What. The. Hell?

  “The killer left a calling card,” Connor’s handler went on. And with the next three words that came out of his mouth, every single thing fell dreadfully into place.

  “It was Stalenburg.”

  25

  My gut lurched sickeningly like it was on the worst (and most obnoxiously expensive) theme park ride.

  Stalenburg had masterminded the entire thing.

  Well, probably not the part where we’d gone sniffing down the wrong path all the way to the serial killer end. But the part where there’d been no clues left on the right path for us to sniff out.

  The fact that Stalenburg was behind the whole affair explained why we’d failed.

  I could remember—in chilling clarity—the day Connor told me that Stalenburg never makes mistakes. And Connor would know. He’d hunted her for months after she’d killed his fiancée. Then had to give up the hunt altogether or self-destruct. If it hadn’t been for his family’s intervention, he might’ve gone with the latter.

  I shivered. The tropical heat and Connor’s solid chest not quite enough to keep it at bay.

  So how on earth could he be faring? I shifted to look at him. I expected his beloved face to be set in the impassive mask he retreated to. But in that terrible moment, his mask had shattered. And beneath was raw anguish.

  I wrapped my arms around him. Words might have the power of life and death, but they sure seem to lack any sway over grief.

  We held each other for a while. I wouldn’t break the silence.

  Finally, Connor said, “There’s no point pursuing Stalenburg from Australia. If she hired anyone at all—and I’m not convinced she did—that person or persons would’ve had no clue who they were working for and nothing linking them to her. It wouldn’t surprise me if she engineered the whole thing from the US. Hacked the gas station footage. Shipped the package. And hacked Merlot’s computer. In fact, for all we know, she might’ve forced Merlot to drug Amy just to save herself the trip over here.”

  I swallowed past my tight throat. Could it be true? Could Stalenburg have engineered the entire scheme from America? Yet she must have had someone in place to carry out her threat to Dr. Merlot’s family if he didn’t obey.

  Or had she been so certain he would?

  This new possibility showed the whole chain of events in an even more disturbing light. How clever must Stalenburg be? How callous her regard for life?

  If this whole ordeal—Pasquel’s coercion, Amy’s death, and all their repercussions—was just the setup for murdering a department head within the Taste Society—Amy’s death was unnecessary. Sure, without the extreme weather (something I wanted to believe even Stalenburg didn’t have control over), Amy may not have died. But by flooding her system with judgment- and performance-impairing drugs, Stalenburg had all but ensured Amy would have an accident on her way to the airport. So death had been a distinct possibility even without the weather. And for what? Just so the antidotes she was carrying would be declared compromised and disposed of? As Pasquel had said, he could’ve caused the same antidote shortage by fudging the order or having a lab “accident.”

  But this way, no one had suspected the real target. Stalenburg’s opening moves had not tipped off what was coming next. Instead, they’d muddied the waters and made it impossible to see.

  And Connor and I had failed to see.

  How could we have done anything but? Stopping the shipment of a single courier wasn’t supposed to do anywhere near enough damage to the supply chain to engineer a successful assassination. The Taste Society had too many safety measures in place for that.

  Unless…

  Unless the person planning the assassination also had access to the Taste Society’s own heavily protected supply records.

  My heart thudded in my ears, and my fingers clenched around Connor’s shirt.

  “Stalenburg has a mole in the Taste Society.”

  My voice came out in a choked whisper, hoping with every fiber of my being that it wasn’t true. That my logic was incorrect.

  But Connor, his muscles so tense I could’ve been clinging to a rock face, only said, “Yes.”

  A section of my mind howled in protest, another part raced on. Had Stalenburg always had an in? Is that why she was so damn good and so damn unstoppable?

  And then a new question surfaced in the maelstrom of my thoughts.

  Why had Stalenburg allowed Merlot to talk after the fact? To keep him docile—more likely to stick to the terms since there was an end in sight? Or was it to toy with the investigators of the Taste Society? To show them her superiority. To unnerve them.

  I was unnerved.

  But I was also angry. No, more than angry. A white-hot rage was building, swelling inside me. Not an emotion I was used to feeling. But it gripped me now with furious strength. Who the hell was this woman that she would so casually destroy people’s lives? That she’d so casually destroyed Connor’s? Some part of me was aware that had Stalenburg not killed his fiancée, I would never have had a chance with him. But it didn’t slow my growing fury.

  When Connor had first armed me with a Taser for self-defense, I’d been hesitant to use the nonlethal weapon on a cardboard cutout. Yet right now, if Stalenburg had been standing in front of me, I could’ve shot to kill without flinching. Straight through the heart. Where she’d caused Connor so much pain.

  I didn’t know her story, her reasons. I didn’t want to. I just wanted her to be gone, forever incapacitated so that she couldn’t do any more damage.

  Slowly, I became aware of the nails digging into my palms. I’d drawn blood.

  The surprise of that let my uncharacteristic anger leak away, and I was left feeling strangely wrung out. Anger wasn’t the answer, but it sure was empowering at times. Without it, all I wanted to do was drag Connor home to the comfort of my family, lock them away from the outside world, and hold them tight while the world worried about its own problems for a change.

  But that wasn’t an option. Was it?

  I had to work to remember what Connor had said earlier. That there was no point investigating this from Australia.

  Which meant…

  My stomach clenched with realization.

  I took a deep breath, collecting my reserve, and made sure I could say the words without crying. “I’ll go tell Mum and Lily we need to head back to LA early.”

  I began to rise, but Connor’s grip tightened.

  “No.”

  The word was sharp and fractured like it was being forced through broken glass.

  I waited, not daring to speak.

  “No,” Connor said again. “This holiday was supposed to be about you. It’s important. I will always love Sophia, but she is my past. You’re my future.” He nodded, as if to himself, and pulled me closer again. “Stalenburg has been loose for almost ten years. Bringing her down can wait another two w
eeks.”

  26

  By the next morning, we’d wrapped up our Taste Society duties, dropped Merlot off at the police station, and still managed to make it to the airport in time to catch our flight to Adelaide.

  I was a mess of mixed feelings.

  We’d failed. My first case where we’d failed to find the murderer. Yet how could I regret getting it wrong when by doing so, we’d inadvertently taken down a smuggling ring and a serial killer so clever no one even knew he’d existed?

  Yet the real murderer—not Dr. Merlot but the woman who’d set up Amy to die, the same woman who’d murdered Connor’s fiancée—was still free.

  And Pasquel’s life had been irrevocably harmed. I hoped whoever judged his case would be merciful given the extenuating circumstances, his lack of foreknowledge about the results of his actions, and his voluntarily turning himself in. But Stalenburg had left him with zero proof of his claims. The message was gone. The capsule dissolved. And though the box of centrifuges and other lab consumables was there, Pasquel had confirmed it didn’t come from their usual supplier, and the sender address was fake. Two things he hadn’t realized until afterward since he and Amy shared the reordering of consumables as needed.

  I seethed at the injustice of it. For all the lives Stalenburg had destroyed. My white-hot rage had burned down, but the coals were still there, simmering in my gut, ready to be fanned into flames when we returned to LA to hunt her down.

  But underneath my anger were the cold seeds of doubt and fear.

  Stalenburg had already outsmarted us more than once. What hope had we of taking her on and winning?

  Based on history, we had a better chance of getting ourselves killed than her caught.

  Yet covering all that turmoil was a warm, comforting glow. A glow that came from Connor’s willingness to stay in Australia with me for another two weeks. To stay in Australia for me. And the delightful anticipation of those much-longed-for days of ordinary, idle pleasure with my loved ones stretching out in front of us.

  Days I would hold on to even more tightly now.

  I was standing in line at the airport baggage queue, and I couldn’t have been more relieved to be leaving muggy, crazy Queensland behind. Determinedly, I pushed all the other feelings deep down to deal with later.

  We’d decided to stay—to finish our holiday as planned. And I was damn well going to make the most of Connor’s sacrifice. It’s not as if Stalenburg was likely to kill again in the intervening days. Her elaborate machinations took time to set up.

  Right, not thinking about that.

  I was thinking about relaxing. About family. About enjoying myself. And fortune seemed to be on my side on this one. Etta was staying on in Queensland to go helicopter mustering with a new friend which meant the days ahead might even be free of misadventures…

  As if I’d jinxed myself, my phone rang. It was Dad.

  “Hey, love. Is your mother around?”

  “She’s out of earshot.”

  We’d all been separated for the time being. Mum had gone to drop Herbert off for his journey home, Connor was finishing up with the car rental company, and Lily was looking for a parenting book to read on the flight. Which had left me to save our place in the baggage queue and mull over my mishmash of feelings.

  “Good,” Dad said. “So, er, before you get home, I ought to update you on the wildlife park situation…”

  His trailing off couldn’t be a positive sign.

  “Go on,” I prompted in amused resignation.

  “Remember that little black devil of a pony?”

  “Of course.” Gosh, I hoped it hadn’t gotten ill from all those tarts.

  “Well, I followed your advice. Explained the whole story and apologized again to the park’s owner. Said I’d love to make it up to them somehow, and if there was anything I could do to help them out, I’d do it. He got this contemplative look in his eye and said, ‘You’re the family who took in Gertie the galah, right?’ I said yes, thinking it might win me a few brownie points. But then he says, ‘Well, that black miniature pony pulled through the night just fine, but he’s turning into a bit of a menace with the kids. Started snatching food or nipping them if they won’t give it over. And if I could take the pony off their hands, he’d appreciate it since it’s hard to rehome a naughty, unrideable miniature pony that bites.’”

  I shoved our four suitcases a few feet forward as the line moved up. “Dad, you didn’t.”

  “He’s currently chasing the chickens around the front lawn.”

  I groaned. Then started. “Wait. Why are there chickens on the front lawn?”

  “Because an hour ago that little bugger broke into their pen to steal their grain, and I haven’t finished repairing it yet.”

  I opened my mouth and then clapped a hand over it to prevent a laugh escaping. After the past week of shocks and horrors, I was absurdly cheered by this trivial, good-natured fiasco.

  “And now since you’re flying home today—you are still flying home today, right?—we’re going to have to devise a story for your mother about how we rescued this chap. Without mentioning the tart incident, or the camel incident that preceded it, or—”

  I bit my lip to keep the smile out of my voice and sighed loud enough for him to hear it. “I’ll get straight on that, Dad.”

  His voice was tentatively consolatory. “On the upside, the pony does seem to be doing a good job of spreading manure over your mother’s ruined garden.”

  For the second time in just over a week, we bumped down the familiar potholed driveway of my childhood, and I felt a surge of warmth at the sight of the garden that surrounded our family home.

  Even if that garden had been partially destroyed by my boyfriend. And might still have a devil pony and chickens running loose all over it.

  Dad came out to greet us, grinning like a loon, and rushed to embrace Mum. Dash loped along behind him and managed some grinning of his own.

  We got Herbert and our gear out of the car and started toward the house. But instead of the destruction I was anticipating—the missing dahlias, the trampled veggie patch, and the ring-barked magnolia—the decimated plants had been replaced, and the garden was almost as lovely as I remembered it.

  Mum and Lily were looking around with the same amazement as I was, and Dad’s grin widened farther.

  “Surprise!”

  I noticed with astonishment that Connor was smiling too.

  Mum’s hands drifted to her mouth as she took it all in. “What… Who… How did you manage this?”

  Dad caught one of her arms and secured it once again through his. “Connor passed me some cash to get professionals in to restore your garden back to its former glory while you were away. And as you can see, they did a great job.”

  We continued to wander and gawk as Dad told his tale. “Connor insisted that if I had any money left over, I should spend it on something nice for you, dear. So when I had a few hundred bucks to spare, I went down to the garden center and found just the thing.”

  “Found what?” Mum asked.

  Dad tugged her around a mature bottlebrush and gestured proudly at a seven-foot-tall, utterly hideous water sculpture. A man-sized mythical faun creature (half human, half goat) stood in a shallow bowl and clutched an ugly fish to its chest. The water spouted from the fish’s mouth and trickled down the faun’s muscular torso and furry hindquarters before flowing into the pool at its hooves.

  Dad beamed up at this marvel of poor taste. “Would you believe it was reduced by eighty percent?”

  “Yes,” Mum said faintly. “Yes, we would.”

  He looked at her in consternation. “What? You love goats!”

  On top of the mythical stone faun was a real live chicken.

  “What’s Myrtle doing up there?” I asked in an unsubtle attempt to change the subject.

  “Ahem. Well, I haven’t been able to get her back in the chook pen since the little devil busted it down to steal their grain.”

  Mum tore h
er eyes from the appalling garden ornament. “Little devil?”

  “That’s right. Um, we have a new addition to our furry and feathery family.”

  “We do?” Mum sounded pleased now. Poor optimistic thing.

  “Yes, er, I’ll show you.”

  I supposed our newest rescue was still a safer topic than the water feature. Lily and I abandoned our suitcases and followed along behind them, which was when I noticed Connor was no longer with us.

  I glanced around, then spotted him coming from one corner of the house carrying Herbert. Herbert was munching on what looked an awful lot like a dahlia plant. “Thought I ought to prevent a repeat performance,” Connor explained as he rejoined us.

  I slung my arm around him and kissed his cheek. “You seem to be getting the hang of this chaos thing.”

  He muttered something under his breath. Something that sounded like, “It was sink or swim,” and I pretended not to hear.

  We caught up to the others who were peering over the fence into our one small paddock.

  The short black fluffy pony was only a smidge taller than the hand-reared orphaned sheep he was sharing the enclosure with. It was hard to credit the miniature ball of fluff as being responsible for so much mischief.

  Then again, I’d known Etta too long to be fooled by appearances.

  Dad absently stroked the pony’s velvety nose, then yanked his hand away as that velvety nose bared teeth. The teeth caught the edge of his sleeve and perhaps a little skin beneath, judging by Dad’s muffled oath.

  I’d filled Lily in on the real story and saw her fight back a smile. But amusement was audible in her voice as she asked, “So what’s the pony’s name?”

  Dad gave his hand one last shake and let it fall to his side. “Well, it used to be Licorice, but I’ve renamed him Lucy.”

  Mum eyed the shaggy hindquarters dubiously. “Lucy? But it’s a boy.”

  “Lucy,” Dad repeated grimly. “Short for Lucifer.”

  Lily smirked and patted his unbitten arm. “Can’t wait to hear your name suggestions for my kid then.”