Poison Orchids: A darkly compelling psychological thriller

by Sarah A. Denzil

  Joe leaned back in his chair. “Lay it on us.”

  “Okay, these notes make it clear that Leah thought that the farm might just be a front,” Megan started. “A front for some kind of cult. And you know how I told you that Tate was doing memory search in a Thai lab? Well, there’s a possibility he’s also conducting research at the farm. It looks like he might have the drugs there. We need to get a sample of the chemicals.”

  “We got samples already,” Joe told her. “We rushed the analyses. They were easy to break down. It’s all just orchid extract and perfume bases. And some of the usual kind of chemicals kept on farms.”

  Megan bit down on her lip in frustration. “What if he’s hiding the other stuff somewhere?”

  Bronwen gave Megan a kind but weary smile. “We could go back, but we’re under some pretty heavy pressure not to do that. Problem is, it’s a murder investigation. Plus, we’ve got two missing witnesses on our hands. Those two things are where our focus has to be. Even if Llewellyn’s stashing some kind of unusual chemicals there, unless they’re connected with this case, we don’t have a clear reason to go back there. Plus, he’s a chemist, and he could pretty easily explain away a lot of that kind of thing.”

  “I’m not explaining myself properly,” Megan said. “If he’s using mind-altering drugs on people, that has to be criminal, right?”

  “Is there direct evidence of that in those files?” Joe asked.

  Megan gave an uncertain nod. There wasn’t much. “There’s a sheet that lists the chemicals. And a vial—but it got broken and the contents leaked out, unfortunately. But Leah had done quite a bit of investigating. She thought maybe Tate was using the drugs to run a kind of cult there—”

  “Leah was doing all that on her own?” Bronwen broke in. “So, she didn’t consider it a police matter? Things tend to get messy when people try to play detective.”

  There was something a little odd in Bronwen’s tone. Megan couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but there was a vague drift at the end of every sentence Bronwen spoke. It was barely perceptible, but it was there. Like, a slight upward inflection as if she were asking a question. Bronwen always spoke so precisely. Maybe it was just fatigue.

  “I think Leah was trying to gather evidence,” said Megan, worrying that neither of them was taking the detective work of a deceased psychologist seriously. “But we know that Clay was seeing Leah, right? It seems that he was the one trying to bring her the evidence. That has to mean something?”

  “We’ve been pursuing that angle,” Bronwen replied. “And it is interesting that Clay brought these things to Leah.” She softened her tone. “But it could be leading us down the garden path. That poor kid, Clay, might really have had severe mental health issues. There’s a hell of a lot linking the murders to White. Tate told us that Rodney White made a few odd deliveries to the farm in the past. He might have just decided to start picking off random people from the farm. Leah might have just gotten in the way.”

  There it was again—that vague drift as Bronwen finished what she was saying.

  “Okay,” said Megan. “But what if Tate is actually trying to run a cult there and using his drugs on people?” The words sounded ridiculous as soon as she’d spoken them, especially with Bronwen and Joe looking at her with those sceptical expressions.

  “We’d need some pretty heavy-duty evidence of that, Meggie,” said Joe in a kind voice. “It’d be a strange direction to take the investigation into.”

  Bronwen blinked then rubbed her eyes. “Ah, if only White hadn’t had the bad manners to go and get himself roasted at the scene, we might have been able to get a signed confession out of him. But a dead killer tells no tales. We’re just going to have to pin a posthumous serial killer medal on him.”

  Megan felt a buzz of alarm under her skin. “Are you thinking that White is the sole perpetrator?”

  “No, we’re not there, yet,” said Joe. “There’s—”

  “But it’s totally within the realm of possibility,” Bronwen cut in. She sighed, shaking her head. “I really wish we had something on Tate, Megan. That guy… he’s slimy as hell. Wouldn’t surprise me if he has some kind of racket going on. But is he involved in this case? I just don’t know.” She lowered her eyes, and rubbed her arm, seeming distracted for a moment. Then she raised her head again. “Serial killers most often work alone, and they’re usually pretty unremarkable people. Like I said, the evidence is stacking up against White. Forensics also found a match with White’s DNA on some of the bodies from the cold room. Unless we’ve got something compelling that links the murders to another party, we could just be muddying the waters.”

  Megan felt as if she’d been stung. Muddying the waters? Bronwen hadn’t said it to her in a harsh way, but still, it seemed as if Bronwen wasn’t taking her seriously. Normally, Bronwen gave what she had to say quite a lot of consideration. Maybe it was just as Bronwen had said—everything was getting to her. This case was beyond horrific, and she didn’t blame her friend for buckling under the weight of it. And she’d detected it yet again—that drift at the end of Bronwen’s words. Even Joe had given Bronwen a confused glance. She must be exhausted and not quite herself.

  But Megan didn’t have time to think on it because Bronwen was already pulling herself to her feet.

  “Sorry that we don’t have more time right now,” Bronwen told her with a heavy sigh. “Joe and I need to prepare for our meeting. Ah, so not looking forward to that. Thanks for coming in. We’ll certainly take a look at those files.”

  Megan said her goodbyes and headed back to her car. She was confused and anxious. Maybe she’d put forward her argument all wrong. The files hadn’t even been opened. She wasn’t sure what she wanted Bronwen and Joe to do about the material that Leah had written, but she’d wanted something.

  She drove along the road that led back to her apartment.

  Jacob was back there, probably still asleep.

  She imagined crawling back into bed and falling asleep beside him. Everything within her wanted to do that. To return to his warm body and the solid, steady beat of his heart as she rested on his chest. It’d been hard to leave him. Besides, she really needed sleep. She’d stayed up so late reading the files that she was exhausted—this morning she’d been running high on the shock of the stuff in Leah’s files and the surprise of falling hard for Jacob.

  Instead, she swung the car off to the side and switched off the engine. Her shoulders were trembling, and she didn’t know if it was because of anger or frustration—or both.

  Rodney White was about to be named as the Cold Room Killer—posthumously. And Tate Llewellyn was going to continue on—doing whatever it was that he was doing at his farm with those memory drugs. Whatever had happened to the girls and wherever they were, Megan was certain that Tate must have had a hand in it.

  She told herself to go home. Leave it to the police. Stop trying to play detective.

  But instead, she found herself slipping her iPhone out of her handbag and browsing the internet. There it was—the website for Llewellyn Farm. At Deep Springs. A picture of a massive, sunny mango orchard adorned the home page, with images of healthy, sun-kissed workers picking mangoes underneath it.

  Happy fruit pickers, Joe had called them.

  The police weren’t going to go back and find out what was really going on there. And they weren’t going to get a sample of the drugs that Tate was brewing up.

  Someone needed to do both of those things. As a psychologist, she’d be in a better position to judge whether the workers at the farm were a bit too happy. She wanted to go there and see it all for herself. Maybe even, if Tate’s defences were down because she wasn’t the police, she might be able to find a sample of the memory-altering drug.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she’d called the number on the screen.

  “Llewellyn Farm, Sophie speaking,” came a bright voice on the other end of the phone.

  “Hello, Sophie, could I speak with Tate Llewellyn?” Megan said
.

  “Oh, Tate’s busy. Are you interested in fruit picking?”

  “No. I’m Megan Arlotti, from the Northern Territory Department of Health, specifically, mental health services. I need to talk with Tate.”

  “Putting you through,” came the swift but guarded reply.

  Tate sounded unconcerned when he answered the call. “Hello, Ms Arlotti, you’re looking for me?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Megan. She stalled for a second, trying to ensure she kept any quiver out of her voice—because she was about to tell an enormous lie. “Sorry, I was just looking at my notes. It seems we’ve had some complaints about the treatment of workers at your farm. From a number of families of former farm employees.”

  “I see. How can I assist you?”

  “I’ve been asked to put together a report for the department. But I wanted a more rounded perspective. One of their complaints are what they called your meditation sessions. I thought perhaps if I could take a look at those sessions and—”

  “We have a meditation session happening at lunch today. You’re welcome to attend, if you can make it here. Lunch is at eleven sharp.”

  “I’ll be there. Thank you.”

  She ended the call, heart hammering, no longer trusting herself to keep her voice even. It was true that she was employed by the Department of Health, but she’d made up the rest.

  Switching the engine back on, she headed in the opposite direction.

  Llewellyn Farm was over an hour away. She had a whole hour to put a lid on her nerves and figure out what she was going to say to Mr Llewellyn.

  34

  Gemma

  Gemma sat huddled in a corner of the underground room, staying as far away from Eoin as possible.

  He would have killed her if Hayley hadn’t hit him—she was sure of that. Her jawbone was still sore from the stranglehold he’d had on her neck yesterday.

  At least the ties were off her wrists now—Hayley had undone them after Eoin’s attack.

  Eoin and Hayley were sleeping in their chairs. Heavy silence claimed the room but for the steady hum of the refrigerator. She was beginning to feel entombed in the bunker. If Tate chose to never come back and open up the exit, they had absolutely no way out. And if he chose to stop piping air down here, the three of them would be dead within days.

  Hayley woke, stretching. She looked sleepily across at Gemma. “You okay?”

  When Gemma didn’t answer, Hayley came to sit beside her on the floor. “If it helps, I’m finding it hard being down here too. I don’t even understand why we have to be in this room.”

  “Get away from me,” Gemma cried. “You think I can just forget all the things that you’ve done, but I can’t.”

  Hayley recoiled. “I wish you’d stop saying that. I haven’t done anything to you. I’m on your side.”

  Gemma bent her forehead down to her knees, shutting Hayley out. “You wouldn’t have forced me back here if you were on my side. You only stopped Eoin from hurting me because you thought Tate wants me kept alive.”

  Hayley started to answer but stopped short as a low mechanical buzz sounded, and the heavy door began lifting. Daylight spilled down the stairs.

  Waking, Eoin jumped to his feet. “Thank fuck. I can’t stand another minute in here.”

  Tate, dressed in a casual suit, came down the steps. He surveyed Gemma and the others coolly then smiled. “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you for your patience a little longer. Gemma, come with me.”

  “What?” Eoin fumed. “Why does she get to get out?”

  Gemma drew back into the wall, her eyes fixed on Tate’s lanky figure. “Where to?”

  “Just upstairs. To the meditation room,” he answered.

  “I’m not going there,” Gemma told him. “I’m not.”

  Hayley touched her shoulder. “The meditation room is a good place. We always came out of there feeling good, didn’t we? Stop trying so hard to fight everything.”

  “You know exactly what he does in that room.” Shivering, Gemma wrapped her arms around her middle. “I’m going to be sick.”

  The smile faded from Tate’s face. “Gemma… it’s time for you to remember who you are.”

  Gemma stared at him in shock. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do. After all, you’ve been with me since you were seventeen,” Tate told her calmly.

  “What?” Gemma shook her head vehemently. “No. That’s not true.”

  “You were an unloved, underfed runaway with nowhere to go,” Tate continued. “I found you on the streets of Sydney and gave you a home.”

  Hayley sprang to her feet. “Gemma? What’s he saying?”

  Gemma eyed her in confusion. “He’s lying.”

  “You were the best at telling me what was happening among my recruits back then,” Tate said. “And you were my best recruiter. You sent dozens of people to me. And, of course, you brought me Hayley.”

  Hayley cried out, her eyes huge and her hand flying to her mouth.

  “Oh, that’s rich.” Eoin exhaled a sharp, angry breath. “All this time, little miss innocent has been fooling us.”

  Tate crossed the room and reached for her hand. “Gemma… wake up.”

  Gemma let him help her to her feet, as if she were incapable of refusing. She felt her mind ticking over.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  A switch seemed to blink off inside her head, and her mind filled with blackness. As if the TV show she’d been watching had suddenly been switched off.

  “It’s time to remember everything,” Tate said. “Time to remember who you really are. Now, tell me, who are you?”

  A new reality swelled inside her.

  She watched a scene play inside her head:

  A young girl arriving at the farm, stepping out of an expensive car and staring up at the dazzling shine of the sun on the mansion’s windows. The girl was scared and half-starved. But the man who’d brought her there had been kind and reassuring.

  He’d been her saviour.

  He’d become her mentor.

  She’d loved him.

  She remembered everything now.

  The man was Tate.

  The girl was her.

  The things she’d believed Hayley had done were the things that she herself had done.

  She was the bad one.

  Tate led her from the underground room and closed the door behind them. She blinked in the harsh and sudden daylight. She rode the service elevator with him in silence and followed him to the meditation room.

  For a second, just before he closed the door, she caught a glimpse of the farm beyond the enormous glass window. Workers streaming between the obedient rows of mango trees. The sun glistening yellow on the leaves.

  She was certain she would never step out there again. She understood now why she’d been so terrified of returning to the farm. Because somewhere in the depths of her mind, she knew what she’d done and she knew that Tate would kill her because of it.

  Her body grew numb as she sunk into a chair, enveloped by the clinical whiteness of the room. The room was cold, hard, terrifying. It was an insane asylum, an execution chamber.

  He locked the door.

  “Excuse me a moment,” he told her, pulling back the bifold doors on a row of cupboards. Six surveillance screens were revealed, all showing locations around the farm. “Can’t be too careful, considering what’s been happening lately. I need to keep an eye on everything.”

  She’d seen the screens before. Tate had never pretended that the room was a meditation space when it was just him and her alone.

  He turned, surveying his row of surveillance monitors. Each screen flicked to a different scene of the farm every minute. He watched Dharma dancing in the field, and a smile played on his lips. He’d always watched them, from up here in his glass tower.

  She knew that Tate adored beauty. Girls like Dharma and Hayley. And the rare orchids he nurtured in his greenhouse.

 
Tate took a syringe and a bottle of liquid from a drawer. He drew the liquid into the syringe and flicked out the air bubbles. Tremors zipped down her arms and into her fingers. She tried not to look at the syringe, knowing it was meant for her.

  He turned to her. “I can see it in your eyes that you’re remembering everything.”

  She didn’t have an answer to that. She felt as if she’d been turned inside out and was now raw and exposed.

  He cast a look at her that was almost paternal. “You know, you have the distinction of being the only one who my memory drug didn’t work on.”

  “You… used me,” she whispered. “You knew I’d do anything for you, and you took advantage.”

  She pictured herself at age seventeen. She’d run away from home. That was when Tate had found her—she’d been curled up asleep in a park in Sydney, with only a thin jacket to cover her. She’d woken to find him looking down at her—a handsome man wearing a gentle smile and a smart suit. He brought her all the way to his farm. She thought she’d found a family. Tate had trained her for months, patched up her broken mind with promises, and then he’d sent her back to Sydney to recruit others. He’d assured her that when she’d proven herself—when she’d sent him enough quality recruits—she could come home to him. She’d been away from the farm for just over a year when she met Hayley. Hayley had been the high-quality recruit who’d been her ticket back to the farm.

  “Of course I used you,” he said. “You were a flower in full bloom. You can’t blame me for plucking such a beautiful specimen.”

  “I’m not beautiful.” Her response was automatic.

  “Perhaps not physically. But I’m most interested in people’s minds, Gemma, and you have a beautiful mind. A pathological liar who can make herself believe anything she desires.”

  Yes, she was a pathological liar. When she was seven, a teacher at school had called her a dirty little liar, right in front of the other kids. A year later, a psychiatrist had diagnosed her with pseudologia phantastica. The psychiatrist had seemed oddly excited by the fact that Gemma’s lying went far beyond the usual, into the delusional. Another psychiatrist had diagnosed her with a personality disorder. She didn’t have total control over her lies. They would spin like spiderwebs all over her mind—spinning and respinning, until all she could see in any direction were the webs.