Tendrils floated dreamily, probing the air and watching him go. Heart-shaped leaves trembled, like something shaken in a dog's mouth. The pot swayed on its knitted rope. The ivy was very agitated tonight. |
Bertram Luce did a remarkable job concealing the murder of his wife. His story was unshakeable. There were no witnesses. No suspicion was raised at all and Bertram Luce went on his way, wealthier and more pompous than ever with the success of his crime.
What the killer did not foresee was the outrage of the plants. They loved the woman who was slain and now a world of vegetation is bent on justice -- the eye-poking Mother-in-Law's Tongue in a swank restaurant. The feet tangling menace of the tiger lily on the garden path. Ivies that strangle, cacti that pierce flesh, flowers that haunt the sleeping murderer.
For Bertram Luce, the agony begins with familiar plants and flowers that hang from pots, adorn store fronts, and reside in bulk in the supermarket. But the real horror comes in more insidious fashion. It's in the food he eats, the clothes he wears, the medicine swallowed to keep him well.
From the tiniest spores to giant oaks, Bertram Luce has drawn the wrath of the planet itself. His plight: to survive the oldest species on Earth, one that acts as a single, giant organism with a mission to see justice served.