Oz Reimagined: New Tales from the Emerald City and Beyond (8 page)

“I didn’t really have the opportunity, Ambassador Boq,” I said with a polite bow. “We’ve come on business for Ozma. May we retire to your chambers?”

Boq was a consummate politician, but even he couldn’t have faked the look of surprise on his face. It had been a long, long time since I went anywhere on business for Ozma. “Yes, absolutely, my dear. You and your friends, follow me.”

“Thanks.” I offered the receptionist a little wave as we followed Boq down the hall to his private chambers, which
were larger than my entire apartment and appointed ten times as well. They still weren’t as nice as the quarters I’d shared with Ozma at the Palace.

I waited until Boq was settled in the chair behind his desk, giving him a few moments to feel like I’d been stunned into silence by the opulence of my surroundings. Then, without preamble, I said, “A Munchkin man was found dead in the old Wizard’s Square today. He was dressed in Quadling colors. It’s pretty clear that we weren’t expected to figure out where he was from. Do you have any idea who he might have been? Ozma has tasked me with finding his killers.”

Boq’s face twisted into a mask of revulsion. “You’ve come here to talk about Downtown, with
me
? Dorothy. I thought better of you.”

“No, Boq, I came here to talk to you about a murder. A Munchkin is dead. Surely that’s more important than your hatred of the crossovers.”

“Spoken like a girl without a country to defend,” he spat. “You deserted your precious Kansas for us. How long before you desert us for something better? It was only a matter of time before the crossovers began killing.”

“The fact that they had access to Quadling clothes and knew to re-dress him, that doesn’t concern you at all?”

“Crossovers are as cunning as Winged Monkeys and about as trustworthy,” Boq countered. “Really, you started killing the day you arrived. No wonder you speak for the rest of them. You’re the first murderess of the lot.”

“Since it got me a crown and made me a witch, I guess murder is pretty lucrative,” I said. “You’re the only one who might tell us who the man was, Boq. And you’re the one who stands to benefit most from an Ozite dying Downtown. That makes me wonder why you’re so defensive. I might just have to tell Ozma about this.”

“You can’t threaten me with Ozma,” said Boq. “She heeds my counsel now, not yours.”

“She heeds whatever counsel keeps Oz safest,” I corrected gently. “Who was he, Boq? You know every Munchkin in the City of Emeralds. Who’s missing?”

Boq hesitated. Then he sighed and said, “Taf. He’s a junior clerk here at the embassy. He didn’t report for work this morning.”

“Why didn’t you tell the guards?” asked Rinn. “We would have helped you find him.”

“Munchkins police their own.” Boq looked at me coolly. “We don’t depend on outsiders to fix our problems.”

“Funny,” I said. “I seem to remember an outsider taking care of your little ‘witch’ issue a few years back.”

Boq reddened, but he didn’t look away.

“Thanks for letting us know who he was,” I said. “You can probably collect his remains from the morgue later today.”

“Dust is a scourge,” he said. “I blame you and your kind.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said and turned to go. Jack and Rinn followed me.

We were almost to the receptionist’s desk when I froze, my earrings chiming madly with the sudden motion.

“I’m an idiot,” I said.

“What?” said Jack.

“I never told him it was Dust.” I turned, running back to Boq’s office.

He was in the process of emptying his desk when I burst in—with Jack, Rinn, and the shouting receptionist all close behind me. I didn’t hesitate before launching myself across the room, grabbing Boq by the shoulders and pulling him away from what he’d been doing before he could destroy any more evidence. He shouted and threw a sachet of fine gray powder in my face, where it burst and filled the air
around me in a choking cloud. I coughed and grabbed for him again. He shied away, stumbling right into Jack’s arms. Jack grabbed him and held fast. The pumpkin-head might be made of sticks, but he was stronger than a normal man. Magic can be funny that way.

Boq struggled against Jack’s grip for a moment before spitting in my direction and saying, “At least I get to see you die, crossover.”

“Uh-huh.” I coughed again before wiping the Dust out of my eyes. I was going to need another shower. “Funny thing, Boq. Crossovers can gather this stuff because they’re resistant. Crossing the shifting sands makes the Desert a little less potent for them. I’ve crossed the shifting sands more times than anyone.”

His eyes widened. Then he sagged, going limp in Jack’s arms. “You bitch.”

“It’s pronounced
witch
, but that was a good try.” I turned to Rinn. He was keeping his distance from me. Smart boy. At this point I probably qualified as a walking intoxicant. “Take him to Ozma. Tell her his clerk overdosed and Boq staged the murder to implicate the crossovers. Also tell her he tried to kill me.” I couldn’t keep myself from smiling. Ozma and I might not get along, but I was still her property, as far as she was concerned, to coddle or break at her whim and no one else’s. She wouldn’t take kindly to hearing that Boq had given me a face full of Dust.

Boq knew that too. He whimpered, and kept whimpering as Rinn handcuffed him and pulled him from Jack’s arms.

I coughed again. The room was starting to spin. My multiple crossings of the Deadly Desert made me resistant, not immune. Jack’s arms caught me before I could hit the carpet, and I let him bear me up and carry me home.

When I woke up, it was raining, and the whole room smelled like petrichor. My head was still spinning, and so I closed my eyes again, waiting for the world to be still.

“Ozma sends her thanks,” said a voice from beside me—female, alto, and more welcome than a thousand roads of yellow brick. “She says that Boq will be dealt with appropriately.”

“Meaning he’ll be out in less than a week.”

“He’d have been out in less than a day if he hadn’t thrown that Dust in your face.” Polychrome’s hand touched my forehead. Her skin was cool and faintly damp, like a fine mist. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now.” I reached up to catch her wrist without opening my eyes. “How long has it been raining?”

“About eight hours. You’ve been asleep for ten. We should tell Jack that you’re awake—”

“In a minute.” Oz was a land divided; the City of Emeralds was only the visual representation of a split that would tear us all apart, if we weren’t careful. Boq was my enemy now, if he hadn’t been already, and I was deeply afraid that if I started looking for the source of the Dust, all roads would lead me back to the Munchkin Country. Ozma was starting to use me again.

None of that mattered as I opened my eyes and looked up into the face of the woman I loved, wide-eyed and worried and haloed by the rainbow-streaked cloud of her hair. I leaned up as she leaned down, and her kiss was like the end of a yearlong drought. Outside the rain came down, and oh, the sweetness of that storm.

I was so glad to be home again.

BY THEODORA GOSS

D
ear Dottie,

This will be a long letter, because I’m going on a trip—and such a trip! You won’t believe me when I tell you! But don’t tell Mamsie, because you know how she worries when she thinks either of us girls is doing anything the least bit—well, she would call it
dangerous
, but I’m going to call it
adventurous
.

But I do want to tell you about it, because I want you to know where I am in case anything goes wrong. That makes it sound dangerous, I know—but please don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and I wouldn’t be an intrepid girl reporter if I didn’t follow my story wherever it took me. And this is quite a story, my dear. I’m so glad that I came to San Francisco even though it meant leaving you and Mamsie. I would never have gotten a story like this, or the Ogilvie murders either, if I hadn’t left sleepy old Sacramento for the big city.

Do you remember how much Mr. Leavis liked my story on the murders? I spent months researching those girls, and when they actually caught and arrested Ogilvie, based on
the evidence I had uncovered, it was quite a coup for the
Ledger
, I can tell you!

This morning, Mr. Leavis called me into his office, which always reeks of cigar smoke, and said, “Nell, you know these girls that have been disappearing?” Well, of course I did—they’ve been in all the papers, and there was a story on them in the
Ledger
last week. You remember the clipping I sent you—girls from respectable neighborhoods, gone missing and no bodies found. Quite the opposite of Ogilvie, who strangled them and left them in alleys. “I want you to look into it,” he told me. “You did good work on the Ogilvie case—under my direction, of course.” As though he’d had anything to do with it! Honestly, sis, the way he takes credit for everyone’s work is just sickening. “The Langs have agreed to be interviewed. We can run a story on the poor grieving family and at the same time launch our own investigation. How about it?” Well, of course I said yes! Imagine if I could find out where those girls have gone—I would be on the front page again, but this time I would insist on my own byline! No more “by Eleanor Dale and Edward Leavis,” thank you!

After lunch I went to see the Langs. At first I wasn’t sure if I was going to get the interview after all. Mr. Lang was obviously drunk and refused to let me in, but his wife pleaded with him, saying it was “for our Mary.” So we sat on the sofa and had a very stiff interview indeed. Luckily Mr. Lang passed out in the middle of it, and then Mrs. Lang really opened up. Poor woman! She was the one who had called the police and then the
Ledger
—her husband hadn’t even wanted to file a missing person report. “He said Mary had run off with some boy, but I don’t believe it,” she told me. “Mary was always a good girl.” She talked about how much she missed her daughter and what a help she’d been
around the house and with the little ones. And she let me look around Mary’s room. She even showed me Mary’s diary. There wasn’t much in it, just an account of her daily life, but every once in a while, I came across a curious entry: “Father angry today,” or “Father especially angry today.”

Fathers do get angry, but it was the reoccurrence of the phrase that caught my attention. And there were mentions of a best friend, Sally Russell. I asked Mrs. Lang if she could give me Sally’s address. It was only a couple of blocks away. I walked along streets of placid houses surrounded by white picket fences. They seemed to be sleeping in the California sunlight. (Do you like that description? I’m going to use it in the story.)

Sally Russell was a tall, lanky girl with freckles and strawcolored hair. She wasted no time in telling me what was what. “Of course Mary ran away!” she said. “No, she didn’t have a boyfriend—Mr. Lang would never have let her. He used to beat her something awful—and her mother, too, but her mother never did anything about it. And he was going to do worse… He wasn’t Mary’s real father, you know—her father ran off, and then Mrs. Lang married Mr. Lang and had two more children. Mary could never go anywhere, because she had to take care of them. The little imps, she used to call them. I think it was the school nurse that told her—one day when she was afraid Mr. Lang had broken her wrist, it was so swollen, and she just couldn’t hide it anymore. The nurse told her that there was this underground—that it could get girls to Oz.”

Well, you can imagine how I responded to that! Everyone knows you can’t get to Oz anymore, not since the borders were closed. No one even knows where it is now. It could be in the middle of the sea or a great desert. And even if you could find it—what if you ran into Nomes or
Wheelers or Winged Monkeys? I told her, quite sternly, that Mary had probably been tricked and could be in a lot of trouble. She grew frightened at that. There was something she hadn’t given the police—it was an address where Mary had said she could send letters. Well, she gave it to me, after I promised that I would investigate and make sure Mary was safe. I promised her I would do it myself and not turn the address over to the police. It was an easy promise to make—I didn’t want to be scooped!