1Today
In the small California coastal town of Offbeat Bay
Mr. Bandara, Helen Lamb’s first and dearest client, puttered in his kitchen, cleaning up their snack of coffee and biscotti. “I need a gardener to plant my spring flowers, the toilet is leaking, and I need an assassin to kill me.”
She lifted her fingers off the keyboard and stared. “Excuse me?”
“My wife loved to do the planting and weeding, but it’s never been a passion of mine, and—”
“Mr. Bandara...the part about the assassin?”
“Yes. Well.” Mr. Bandara cleared his throat. “Remember a few weeks ago when I told you I was feeling lousy and you made an appointment for me with Dr. Devi? That woman is smart, which goes without saying, and interesting, which is rare enough to get my jaded old attention, and right away she ordered blood tests... There were a lot of tests.” He put a comforting hand on Helen’s shoulder. “I love you, honey, and I know you’re fond of me.”
Helen knew this was the time to say it. “I love you, too.”
“Good. That’s nice.” He smiled. “You’ve filled a gap in my life, not to mention you’ve made it much easier.” He pulled back his shoulders into his usual military posture. “Anyway. I hope this isn’t too much of a shock, but I’ve got pancreatic cancer, and I’m not going to live much longer.”
It was too much of a shock. Helen swallowed, and swallowed again. “I thought you said a tonic...”
“That was a little optimistic. I’m a typical case, no symptoms until stage four, then it’s too late. We could try chemo or radiation, but as I told Dr. Devi, I’m seventy-two. I’ve had a good life. Why prolong it so I can be alive, lonely, and miserable? That radiation is tough on the body and not likely to do more than slightly delay the inevitable. Since I am facing a painful death very soon, what I’d like is someone to kill me while I’m in my garden enjoying the flowers somebody else has planted, or down at the beach listening to the waves, or I’m in my recliner, reading. A nice, quick, surprise death.”
She had trouble getting a deep breath.
Mr. Bandara patted Helen’s shoulder, went to the half bath off the kitchen, and jiggled the toilet handle. “Also, the dripping is annoying the hell out of me, so if you can find me a plumber right away, I’d appreciate it.”
“I can replace the inner workings of a toilet,” Helen said automatically. “I’ll get the parts at the hardware store.”
“You’re handy. My Rebecca was like that. She could fix anything. It was all those years I was away with the Marines.” He was chatting like everything was normal. Like he wanted her to feel normal. “I never learned, although I suppose I could, but thank heavens you came along with your fixer services so I didn’t have to. You’ve been a godsend.”
Helen Lamb owned The Fixer, a firm that specialized in helping her clients connect with someone to do the jobs they needed done. Most of her work involved repairs: gardeners, plumbers, housekeepers, construction workers, handymen. But she prided herself on always matching her clients with the proper laborers, people who would fix, clean, plant, repair, and most of all listen.
For special clients, for an elevated fee, she also found travel agents, nannies, doctors, bankers, and now...an assassin?
No. She couldn’t do it. She had the contact, although she hadn’t touched base for years, but it wasn’t ethical. It didn’t bear thinking about. She would be killing a friend.
Helen stood. “I’ll go get the parts right now.” She sat down again. “What makes you think I know how to track down an assassin?”
The chair scraped the tile floor as Mr. Bandara seated himself at the table opposite Helen. “After I retired from the service, I became a schoolteacher here in town. Did you know that?”
“Yes. Or rather... I can tell.” Red apple paintings and plaques decorated Mr. Bandara’s home.
“I’d seen so much of death and those poor kids raised in a war zone holding rifles that I wanted to see what kind of difference I could make. Anyway, I taught fourth grade. For most children, that’s the last real year of childhood before hormones set up shop and pressures develop. People
stop asking what you want to do when you grow up and start asking what you want to do with your life. That kind of thing.”
“I remember.”
“Don’t we all? I always tried to make it a good year for everyone, but for a few children, every year was a challenge. Every day. I got so I recognized the guarded look in a child’s eyes...when life had taught them too much too soon.” His basset hound face drooped. “Like those kids with the rifles.”
“When I was in fourth grade, I was just a dopey kid.”
“Good. Good!” Mr. Bandara took one of Helen’s hands. “You have the eyes, but if I’m wrong—”
“I was fourteen when...” Helen brought herself to an abrupt halt. She couldn’t tell Mr. Bandara what had happened that year. She had never told anyone the whole truth. Half her lifetime ago, and still she never would dare. Something almost like superstition stopped her; never dropping her guard had kept her safe. But also, a secret could only be kept by one. If she confided in Mr. Bandara, if they found him, he would suffer from a torture that would overshadow the agony the cancer caused him, and his assassin couldn’t arrive soon enough.
Yet he’d looked in her eyes and he’d known, and how did she disguise her guarded soul from someone who cared enough to see?
She settled for, “My father got in trouble with some bad people. My mother died. I lost my sister.”
Mr. Bandara shook his head. “It’s tough at fourteen. Maybe more of a shock. No one should ever have to learn what you know.”
“No, they shouldn’t.”
“What’s your name?” Mr. Bandara surprised her with the insightful question.
For him, she didn’t hesitate. “I’m Rowan Winterbourne.”
“What a pretty name.” He smiled. “I like Helen, too.”
“My mother was Yvonne. My sister was Linden.” Funny, this compulsion to share their names after so many years, almost as if it brought them back to her. But pain arrived, too, and a stunning reminder of loneliness, and she stood abruptly. “I can find an assassin for you.”
“That’s kind, and I’m grateful. Of course—” Mr. Bandara grinned at Helen “—this will be paid as part of your more expensive services.”
Helen laughed unwillingly. “Yes. That’s how I’ll charge it, and I do warn you, I’ll have no haggling leverage on the assassin. The price will be what it will be.”
“Let me know, and I’ll make sure the entire amount is immediately deposited in your account.” Mr. Bandara followed Helen to the back door and out to the driveway, where her car was parked. He waited until Helen was in the driver’s seat, then leaned over and looked in the window.
Helen lowered it.
“I know you’re upset about the assassin, but—”
“I’m not upset about the assassin. I’m upset because you’re dying.” Helen choked on
the last word.
“Think about it—Rebecca and all my brothers and sisters had the good sense to predecease me. Because my daughter followed me into the military, she died in Afghanistan.” Mr. Bandara leaned a hand on the door and took a supporting breath. “I have no descendants. That excellent estate attorney you found for me several years ago has set up my will exactly as I wish, with my estate going to a local charity for women and children in need. I’m at peace with the world and as ready as I can be.” He straightened, closed his eyes and swayed. “The pain is already out of hand, and it’s going to get worse. I don’t want to die in a bed screaming for release.” He opened his eyes and added sensibly, “Well...who does? Sooner is better than later. Don’t dally.”
Mr. Bandara had not allowed Helen to see the extent of his discomfort, but now he did—or maybe he had no choice.
Helen had thought she’d be killing a friend.
Not true; she would be helping him. Only one other person in Helen’s life had suffered so much before death. That death had scoured the last of the Normal setting from Helen’s soul.
Mr. Bandara had made the request. Helen would be doing her job...and she knew she couldn’t allow another soul to die in agony. “I’ll take care of it, Mr. Bandara. The garden, the toilet, and the assassin.”
“Thank you. I knew I could depend on you... Rowan.”
As she drove away, she drew comfort from the knowledge that good man knew her real name, and he would take it with him into the next world. ...
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