A Dawn of Death Read Free

trying to keep up with the rest while she was out of shape and wearing shoes more suited for an office than the damp, recently plowed ground.
    Her glum thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car alarm over in front of the house on the corner of the street. It belonged to a little black sports car, and it seemed to go on forever before its owner finally disarmed it and everyone stopped glaring at it, impatient to return to whatever the noise had interrupted.
    When the noise finally stopped, Helen turned to see what the gardeners were up to. The Native American man had handed off the sledgehammer to someone else and headed over to his truck parked a little distance down the street in front of the ballpark. He unloaded some supplies and stacked them in a garden cart that looked like a child's old-fashioned metal wagon, except heavier and green, with a mesh bottom for drainage. As he approached Helen, she could see that his cargo consisted of trays of two-inch-square peat pots with two seedlings in each one.
    "You are new this year, I believe," he said. "I am Paul Young."
    "Helen Binney. And yes, I am new. Not just to this garden but to all gardens." She pointed at his cart. "You look like a pro."
    He gave her a wide smile. "You could say that. I work at the Park and Rec Department, and when I'm not doing landscaping for my job, I'm here in the garden."
    "Isn't it a bit early to plant anything?" she said. "I thought we were just coming here to claim our plots today. And participate in the blessings too, of course."
    "For most things, yes, it is too early." Paul picked up one of the peat pots. "But not for peas. It is said that they should be planted on St. Patrick's Day for the luck of the Irish, but I am not Irish. And I have found that March is too early here. The seeds will either not germinate in the cold ground or the seedlings will die in a freak snowstorm. Better to start the plants indoors and then transplant them outside in April."
    "I guess it's too late for me then."
    He shook his head. "Not at all. I would be honored to share my plants with you. I always start a few extras for anyone who needs them."
    Helen looked at the mud in the path to her garden and then down at her clothes. "I'm afraid I'm really not prepared for any actual work today."
    "I will plant them for you," he said cheerfully. "They will be here waiting for you when you are ready to work."
    "Thank you." She was grateful for the plants, of course, but even more so for the man's confidence that she was more capable than she looked and the assumption that the only thing holding her back was her wardrobe. "If there's anything I can do in return, just let me know."
    "I shall remember that." Paul glanced past Helen in the direction of the farmhouse on the corner lot.
    She turned to follow his gaze. An elderly man in nothing but a gray tank top and white briefs was coming down the back stairs of the farmhouse. When he reached the bottom, he made a beeline for the back corner of the garden.
    Paul held out the handle to his wagon. "Would you hold this for me? I will be back in a few minutes."
    He jogged down the central path of the garden, apparently intending to intercept the underdressed man. Before Paul had gone more than thirty feet, a middle-aged man—fully clad in a dark sweatshirt and sweatpants—came racing out of the farmhouse. The older man gave the younger one a good chase, bobbing and weaving around some overgrown bushes between their backyard and the garden. Paul hesitated, shifting from foot to foot indecisively until it was obvious his help wasn't needed. Then he turned around to reclaim his wagon. By the time he'd reached Helen's side again, the underdressed man was being hustled up the back stairs and into the farmhouse.
    "What was that all about?" Helen asked.
    "Richard Avery Senior has Alzheimer's, and Richard Junior—everyone calls him RJ—is determined to care for him at home." Paul took the wagon's handle. "It is a challenge for