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The Final Kill
Meg O'Brien
Abby Northrup finally has the quiet life she s dreamed of, living in Carmel at the former monastery she purchased and renovated. But The Prayer House is more than a peaceful home for Abby–unofficially it is an underground safe haven for abused women and children.And when an old friend and her daughter appear on Abby's front step looking for safe haven, Abby's tranquil life begins to dissolve.Alicia Gerard is the wife of a wealthy business tycoon with strong connections to the political world. Abby agrees to take Alicia and her daughter in, but when FBI agents swarm the building looking for them, Abby finds herself trapped in a world of murder, conspiracy and threats to national security. On the run from government agents who make their own rules, Abby must decide which of her beliefs are worth dying for–and which ones are not.
An excerpt from
THE
FINAL
KILL
Alicia’s smile was tight, her eyes distraught. Her pale blond hair, ordinarily smooth and shiny, was tangled, as if she’d been nervously running her fingers through it.
As for Jancy? Abby remembered her as a cute kid with a brown ponytail, dressed in Catholic school plaids. Now Allie’s child was dressed all in black, had a short, spiked hairdo with orange and purple streaks, and a strange, staring expression in her eyes—which were so heavily made up Abby wondered how she could hold them open.
Still, Helen’s reference to Hades, whether god of the dead or hell, had been a bit strong. Little Jancy had simply become a teenager.
Alicia grabbed Abby’s hands and held on as if they were her only lifeline. “You’ve got to help us,” she said, her voice shaking. “Please, Abby. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”
Looking into Alicia’s familiar green eyes, Abby knew she should be happy to see her old friend. Not only that, but she owed her so much. If Alicia hadn’t helped her, back when her own world was falling apart—
But something was very, very wrong. And some instinct—the kind that raises hairs on the back of one’s neck—told Abby that Trouble with a capital T had just walked through her door.
“Meg O’Brien is a highly skilled writer who keeps things interesting.”
—The Romance Reader on Sacred Trust
Also by MEG O’BRIEN
THE LAST CHEERLEADER
CRIMSON RAIN
GATHERING LIES
SACRED TRUST
CRASHING DOWN
The Final Kill
Meg O’Brien
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
So many people wrote to me about Sacred Trust, saying it was their favorite book of mine, I decided to write a sequel. The Final Kill is that sequel, in that it involves many of the same people and places.
Sacred Trust came out in May 2000 from MIRA Books. It’s not necessary to read Sacred Trust first, but if you’d like to know more about Abby’s life before this story—what happened to her two years ago, her relationship with Ben and with the Prayer House—you can order Sacred Trust by going on my Web site, www.megobrien.com, and clicking on one of the many links to online bookstores on my “Books” page. You can also order any of my books from your local bookstore.
Please also leave a note for me on my Guest Book page. I love to hear from readers, and I answer all Guest Book notes, as well as all e-mail, the address of which is also on my Web site.
With best wishes,
Meg O’Brien
Contents
Prologue (#ub3924625-d562-5fe4-9ab3-971bf95946ec)
Chapter 1 (#u33decc79-6d45-5ab2-a9a0-c5a6bf9afe06)
Chapter 2 (#u85fb1542-5362-5094-bdbf-01b2ceb07dde)
Chapter 3 (#uf5e3f38c-a8d4-5ae6-b488-0ee6ebbbfec9)
Chapter 4 (#u83287a32-2202-5dd3-8ec8-ec82c358873d)
Chapter 5 (#u094b40e5-bdf7-5427-a760-c5ca0fbcfa54)
Chapter 6 (#ufce157a5-eebd-5f7c-b9a7-fb8d2b3e9413)
Chapter 7 (#ubb2d268f-b6d0-5ef1-a229-a4fba0cc205c)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
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.
1
Abby Northrup wasn’t, by nature, vengeful. In fact, it was more in her nature to be at peace, especially since she’d come to live in this private little apartment at the Prayer House. There were times, however, and situations…
She took the small sheaf of papers she’d been reading and set them down on the table next to her chair. Carrying her cup of lukewarm coffee, she went into her office and sat at her computer. Opening a new document, she began to write out a plan. There was no rage in her words, no heat. Just a hard, cold resolution.
She did it as a Q & A: Where is the lilac killer now? Out in the potting shed? Or has he gone into town? And what should she use? Poison? Ah, yes. The perfect karmic weapon.
Better yet, an ax. Or perhaps a knife from the kitchen. But Sister Edna would surely spot it missing. Would she turn her in? Or cover for her? Would anyone understand why she’d done what she’d done?
The abbey bells sounded a solemn tone over her head, announcing the midnight hour. The timing was perfect. She began to jot down her plan, and drew a map of the property alongside her keyboard. Here was the garden shed. And here the stables, then the well house. Or perhaps she’d find him in the little shack on the hill that hadn’t been used in years, except for that one time when someone…
A shiver ran through her. Never mind that now.
She would go first to the stables. If he wasn’t there, she would wend her way across the field to the well house. It was on the way to the shack on the hill, so if she hadn’t found Frank Frett by then, she’d just keep going uphill.
Leaving her office, she went into the adjoining living room. There she took a gun and ammunition from the antique Spanish armoire. Quietly shutting the armoire doors, she crossed to her bedroom, where she removed her jeans and shirt and slipped on cargo pants and a plain black jersey with long sleeves. Next she strapped the ammo around her belt. She dragged her hiking boots out from under the bed, then pulled them on. Finally, she stood still for a moment with her eyes closed and her arms out, level with her chest. I am strong, she said silently to herself. I will not fail.
Opening her eyes for one quick look around, she didn’t see it at first. Then it was there, on her pillow, as if it had appeared through some ancient magic spell while her eyes were closed.
Which was foolish, of course. It was only a piece of paper. A note, put there hours ago while she was still in her office.
She stooped down and picked it up. It read:
You won’t win. Don’t even try.
2
So her quarry knew she was after him. She ignored the note, crushing it in her fist and tossing it into a corner. Picking up her gun bag and equipment, she stepped out into the tiled hall, listening for any unusual sounds. There were three floors to the old Spanish abbey, each of them with someone living on them, but it didn’t surprise her that she didn’t hear a thing. No one here ever spoke after midnight.
