The Final Kill. Meg O'Brien

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      Prologue

      It all began with the lilacs. The day he sprayed the poison and turned them all brown, I knew I would have to kill him.

      It felt strange, getting so upset over lilacs. Even stranger was planning a murder over their loss. But what goes around comes around, and Frank Frett himself was a killer. Oh, he might have been a hardworking man, not a bad sort to his friends and coworkers. But I knew that, on his days off, he killed. He killed wildlife, fish, trees, whatever still had a breath to give. I should have known he would get to my lilacs one day.

      Lilacs had been my favorite flower since childhood, and I had planted them around the perimeter of my garden shortly after moving here five years ago. There were twelve in all, having grown from two-foot stubs to six-feet high by five wide in no time. They cast a beautiful lavender haze over the daffodils and tulips in spring, and in the summer they lent a nice filtered shade to the hydrangeas and violets. I had put a comfortable wooden bench under one of the lilac bushes that I’d shaped into a tree. More than anything, I loved sitting out there in the shade on hot afternoons.

      The lilac bushes also served the purpose of making the wild berry bushes along the fence behind them look more attractive. My little niece, Lolly, who is four, loved coming here in the summer to ride the horses and pick the blackberries. It was something she looked forward to every summer, and it had felt good to be able to provide this kind of fun for her. Toward the end of the summer I’d bake juicy, sweet pies from the berries and sit them on the windowsill to cool, the way my grandmother always had back home. I’d invite my sister and Lolly to come over and finish them off with me, and we’d play Scrabble amid the leftover piecrust crumbs.

      But of course, when Frank Frett murdered the lilacs, he got the blackberries, too. The spray must have blown everywhere, even hitting the top of a beautiful old maple tree that used to turn a gorgeous gold and copper in the fall.

      Let me be clear about this. It wasn’t so much the loss of the lilacs themselves, although that was bad enough. It was the total disregard for living things, and the devastation. By the time Frank Frett had finished with his spraying, the entire perimeter of the garden looked as if an army had come through it with a flamethrower. I have no idea how many days after the spraying it was before I looked out one morning and saw it—the otherwise green, lush garden entirely circled now by pitiful brown shrubs and trees.

      I had complained, of course. I told him that he might have warned me ahead of time. Even given me a chance to argue the point. After all, I paid him a hefty month’s rent, and legally, as long as a tenant is current on the rent, the property belongs to the tenant—not the landlord.

      He argued that only the house belonged to the tenant, not the land. And he hadn’t had time to cut the lilacs and berry bushes back this year. To spray poison on them was the quickest and easiest way to go.

      I wanted to say that if he’d spent less time camping, fishing and killing deer, he might have had enough time left over to cut the berries back.

      Oh, I know. There are far more things to worry about in life than some dead lilac trees and crispy-crunch berry bushes. There’s the war in the Middle East—whichever one is going on at any given time. And there’s South Africa. There are people being slaughtered and starving over there, and young kids here buying engagement rings with conflict diamonds in them, blithely unaware of what they’re doing, but saving a penny or two. Here in the United States, in fact, there are homeless people all over the streets of every major city.

      So what’s the big deal about lilacs?

      It’s only a big deal because it matters to me. It cuts me to the quick to know they’ve been poisoned, every bit as much as if he’d taken an ax to them and chopped them right down. They mattered to me. I’d waited all winter for them to bloom. Now they wouldn’t bloom for years, if ever. And Frank Frett didn’t give a damn that he’d killed these things that I’d loved.

      There was, therefore, only one thing to do: I would have to kill the killer.