by Robert E. Vardeman

Alan Mitchell had come to the SeaHarp Hotel to die.

He leaned back in the sleek, comfortable, white Lincoln Towncar the hotel had sent for him, too tired to even look out the smoked-glass window. The driver opened the door. Mitchell heaved himself out and smiled wanly.

"I'll see to your bags, sir," the driver said. Mitchell thanked him with a vague wave of his hand. He found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. The doctors said it was his imagination, that the real ordeal lay ahead.

Mitchell refused to linger for months or even years. He had chosen the SeaHarp Hotel as the most luxurious spot he could find for his last week. Then he would take his life. Mitchell was nothing if not thorough. He had researched poi-son to find the best, and had rejected it as an alternative. All involved risk and the possibility of lingering or outright fail-ure. He shuddered at the notion of the pain when some virulent poison ate away at his stomach. The slightest gastric upset put him into such a state.

Asphyxiation. That was his researched choice. He would put a clear plastic bag over his head and securely fasten it.

To keep the carbon dioxide level from rising in his blood and giving him even a moment's distress, he would pump helium into the bag. His lungs would be tricked into thinking all was well.

He had brought a small green-painted cylinder of the inert gas, with appropriate valves and regulator, in his larger suit-case.

Mitchell closed his eyes and imagined the event. The plas-tic bag fastened with a length of duct tape around his neck. Inelegant, undignified, but necessary. The rubber hose. The hissing tank of helium. A few barbiturates to prevent him from backing out when the moment came, but not so many that it would nauseate him. A soft and gentle death, slipping off into eternal peace without pain.

He winced as he moved. Something pulled loose inside him. Again, Mitchell pushed it out of his mind. The doctors said it was nothing. Kaposi's sarcoma didn't have symptoms like this. At least, he didn't believe so. He would have to look it up in his medical encyclopedia when he got to his room. Or perhaps in the most recent issue of Morbidity and Mortality Weekly he had sent to him from the CDC in At-lanta.

The driver fussed behind him, getting the luggage from the trunk. Mitchell stretched and looked out over Greystone Bay. The sunlight fought a heavy fog and won by slow inches. Here and there whitecaps danced on the bay, but it seemed too sullen to interest him. He had never enjoyed water or water sports.

He turned his attention to the six-foot-high fieldstone wall that ran along Harbor Road. He smiled. The top of the wall had been adorned with more varieties of flowers than he could identify. Dying in the spring had advantages. The beauty of the flower-and-hedge arrangement pleased him.

He stopped along the stone walk leading to the hotel's porch and drank in the beauty of the grounds. The SeaHarp's grounds keeper had not littered the fine lawn with the usual icons. Mitchell saw only neatly kept grass, not swing sets and chairs and boccie ball courts or even the ridiculous bent wire wicks of a croquet field. Just green, lush, well-tended grass. Mitchell liked the hotel more and more.

"I'll have the bags sent up to your room, if you want to look around first," the driver said.

"Urn, yes, thank you." Mitchell hadn't realized it. He did want to explore. The SeaHarp's four stories of gingerbread front needed paint. The sea air tore away at the wood con-stantly. Mitchell wondered what riding out a storm inside the grand old hotel would be like. He wished he would live long enough to discover the mysteries of creaking boards and howling wind and hard-driving water against bulging win-dowpanes. He had lived too long in the dirty hustle of the big city.

"Don't go walking there," came an irritated voice. "You'll disturb the plants. They don't like it."

"Sorry," Mitchell said, stepping back. In his reverie he had walked across the lawn and blundered into a flower bed.

The gardener pushed back thick glasses with a dirty, cal-loused finger. He stared up in what Mitchell considered a belligerent manner unbecoming to the hired help of a resort hotel."Didn't mean to sound so brusque," the gardener apolo-gized. "I take care of the flowers and hate to see them both-ered." Almost as an afterthought, the small, sun-browned man added, "You wouldn't want to get your shoes dirty."

"You aren't from this area, are you?" asked Mitchell. He had always prided himself on identifying accents. Even if the gardener had spoken with the same clipped tones the others in the Greystone Bay area did, the suntan set this man apart. The heavy fog and winter storms didn't permit any native to get this tanned.

"From down South," the man said. His eyes looked like giant brown fried eggs behind the thick lenses. Pushing back and getting off his knees, he struggled to his feet. Mitchell saw his first impression was right. The man stood a head shorter than he.

The accent didn't match any Mitchell had heard. Wherever the man did come from, it wasn't the South. Yet the tan suggested as much. And the gardener had no reason to lie.

"What kind of flowers are these? They look familiar but . . ."

"All kinds," the gardener said hurriedly. "These are a strain of marigolds. And those, the ones with the light red centers, are daisies."

"I've never seen daisies with such pale pink petals and red middles."

"My hybrid. I developed them myself."

"And those?" asked Mitchell, curious in spite of himself. He had the city dweller's love-hate relationship with flowers. They were pretty to look at but too much trouble to bother with.

"Those are Byzantine Roses."

Mitchell bent over and examined the delicate, involuted petals. They had fine red etching like veins inside pure white.

"They're lovely. You must be very proud of your garden."

The man nodded and smiled almost shyly. "They aren't the best I have to offer. The lilies are better. Want to see?"

Mitchell followed silently as the gardener led him to the rear of the hotel. He had thought the other flowers were gorgeous. These defied description.

"These are prize-winners. I don't know much about hor-ticulture but from an artistic standpoint, they're unparalleled." Mitchell sighed. The world had so much to offer. He would miss it after he killed himself.

The lilies thrust up bold yellow trumpets. Tiny crimson spots decorated their interior. He blinked. They seemed to follow him heliotropically as if he were the sun. He reached out. The trumpet flared and the bloom dipped toward his hand. The image of jaws opening flashed across his mind. He jerked back, embarrassed at his reaction. It was only a flower, after all.

"The insects like them," the gardener said.

"How do you grow them?"

"That's a secret." The gardener turned furtive and scuttled away. Mitchell shrugged. The flowers were as spectacular as the SeaHarp Hotel itself. Following a small path around the side of the building, Mitchell returned to the front stone steps. He passed between two large stone vases with more of the gardener's handiwork inside.

Mitchell opened the French doors leading into the hotel lobby, wondering why they didn't leave them open to catch the cooling, fresh breeze off the bay. He stopped and stared. If he had entered another world, the feeling couldn't have been much different.

Quiet fell over him like a blanket. He couldn't imagine what would shake the sense of serenity inherent in the room.

A tear came to Alan Mitchell's eyes. This hotel would pro-vide a fitting final week for him. He went to the registration desk to his left.

"Welcome to the SeaHarp, Mr. Mitchell," the clerk greeted.He started to ask how the man knew his name, then re-membered the driver had already brought his luggage in. A good hotel-a first class one-hired a friendly, intelligent staff. Of course the clerk knew his name. How many others would be arriving in the span of a few minutes?

"Thank you. I'd like a room on the second floor, please."

"That's been arranged. Your luggage is in suite 207."

"How did you know I'd want a room on the second floor?" Mitchell disliked the notion of being trapped in a burning building higher than he could safely jump out. It had been difficult living and working in New York with such a phobia, but he had managed.

"The lady told me." The clerk lifted a pen and pointed discreetly toward a writing desk with a Tiffany lamp. Mitch-ell tried to penetrate the darkness caused by the light.

"Hello, Alan."

He knew the voice instantly.

"It's been six years, Elizabeth." His heart almost ex-ploded when she rose and moved around the writing desk and came fully into the cone of light from the lamp. Elizabeth Morgenthal hadn't aged a day, an hour, even a second, in the years since he had seen her last.

She took both of his hands in hers and pulled him close. The fragrance of her perfume was as he remembered. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the moment. Transported back to happier times, the spell was broken when she kissed him. He recoiled slightly, unable to stop himself.

"What's wrong, Alan? Still angry with me?" Eyes so green they made emeralds envious stared up at him. He sought the tiny gold speck in her left eye and found it. The cute upturn of her nose and the pixy smile that quivered on her lips, threatening to break out into a laugh at any instant-he re-membered them all.

"You have forgiven me?"

"I . . ." He had no answer. He had seldom thought of her in the intervening years. Seeing her, feeling the heat from her nearness, he wondered why he hadn't. "How did you know I'd be here?" he asked, trying to change the sub-ject.

"You haven't forgiven me." She let out a deep sigh of mock regret. "Let me buy you dinner. You always did enjoy a good meal. The SeaHarp has the finest chef, not only in Greystone Bay but anywhere within a hundred-mile ra-dius."

"No, no," he said, "the meal is on me. I insist. And you didn't answer the question. Did you peek at the reserva-tions?"

"Nothing so elaborate. I saw you coming up the walk. I wondered what happened to you when you didn't come in."

"The gardener ..."

"I saw. I decided to play a little prank on you." She stared at him with those fabulous green eyes. "You still don't like upper stories?"

"You remember my foibles. I hope you remember my bet-ter points, too."

She hesitated. Then her face broke out in a, sunshiny smile. "I do, Alan. Thoughts of you have never been too far from my mind."

He swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. "What brings you to this particular hotel?"

"My best friend got married last year and came here on her honeymoon. She made it sound so pleasant I decided to take my vacation here. I've been here a week."

"Are you staying on?" He fought down the memories- and Elizabeth's presence. He had a mission. He had decided. He would kill himself in one week. He would!

"For another week. It is expensive but restful. I've found it has restored my faith in the world. I was getting a little burned out and other things weren't going well.""Personal?" he asked.

"Naturally. The agency grossed two million dollars last year and will double that this year.''

"You always were a fine businessman."

"Businesswoman," she said. "You always were such a fine sexist man." Elizabeth gave another of the deep, almost shuddering sighs. "Business is fine. Personally, I'm a wreck."

"What was his name?"

"You always saw through to my soul, Alan. I hated that and loved it at the same time." She took a step back and swayed.

"Are you all right?" His arm went around her waist. He was still strong enough to support her. He got a chair and guided her into it. A ray of light slanted through a beveled glass window, sending gentle rainbows across her pale cheek. For the first time he noticed how peaked she was.

"It's why I came here. I work twenty-hour days. The doc-tor said I was killing myself and needed a vacation."

"After a week you're still faint?"

"Always the hypochondriac. When you can't fuss over yourself, you fuss over me," she said. In a low voice, she added, "I always enjoyed the attention."

"I have something in my suitcase ..."

"I'm fine, Alan. Please. And the fainting spells only started a day or two ago. Stress. Or the relief of stress. Have you seen the porch? It stretches completely around the hotel. I enjoy sitting and watching the sunset."

"Do they serve a decent drink?"

"The SeaHarp? You've got to be kidding," she said, look-ing stronger. The paleness in her face remained. "The best, just like everything else in the hotel."

"Let me get settled, and I'll join you in an hour," he said.

"Not one second later," Elizabeth warned with mock se-verity.

"I'm always prompt "It's nice seeing you again, Alan. Really. And don't be mad at me."

"I'm not," he said, meaning it. What had drawn them together seven years ago was gone. Those days could never be recaptured. Mitchell felt a bleakness inside when he realized he would never see Elizabeth again after the end of the week. She would leave, return to the city and her job, find a new lover, and repeat endlessly the same drama she had writ-ten for herself.

And he would be dead.

Mitchell considered using the elevators to one side of the lobby, then decided to take the stairs. The sweep of the stair-way reminded him of old movies about grander times, more elegant times. When he reached the head of the stairs, he was out of breath and had to rest.

He leaned against the highly polished mahogany railing and stared out over the lobby. Elizabeth still sat in the chair. The clerk had brought her a glass of water. From this dis-tance, he wasn't hypnotized by her personal energy.

She seemed frail, as if wasting away.

Immediately, he pushed such nonsense from his mind. He was the one who was dying, not Elizabeth Morgenthal.

She had always been the health fanatic, working at exercise the way she worked at her job. That had been part of her prob-lem, he remembered. She met muscle-bound jocks in the health spas who invariably loved themselves more than they ever could her.

Rested, he sought out Room 207. The key given him by the clerk turned quietly in the well-oiled lock. The suite on the other side was everything he had hoped for. He could die peacefully in such a room.Mitchell heaved his suitcases onto the bed and worked at the intricate locks he had put on them. Minutes later, he opened one and decided what needed hanging and what could be put in the wardrobe's single bottom drawer. Only then did he open the larger suitcase. Fastened inside was the bottle of helium, a thick plastic bag, the roll of sticky gray duct tape, the brass fittings he needed, and a long, single-spaced typewritten letter explaining his suicide. He leafed through the document, his eyes dancing over the will he had appended.

"How times change," he muttered. He considered finding a lawyer in Greystone Bay and changing the will to include Elizabeth. She would share his last days, just as she had al-ready shared fourteen months of his life. She deserved more than his company. "No," he told himself firmly. He had carefully weighed what to do. Altering his plans now would only introduce error.

He took a long, hot bath that relaxed the tension knotting his shoulders and upper back. Dressing carefully, wanting to impress Elizabeth, he studied himself in the full-length mir-ror. The light wool jacket and shirt collar hung loose. The weight loss would continue, but only this small hint betrayed his secret. He pressed out nonexistent wrinkles in his chocolate-colored slacks and studied himself even more crit-ically. He decided he would pass all but the most penetrating of inspections.

He took the elevator to the lobby, saying nothing to the elevator starter as he tried to remember when he had last seen a human operator. The elevators in the Port Authority had men who sat on their stools in make-work projects, but he had no need to go to the rooftop parking garages.

The sun was dipping down over the high wall with its fo-liage when he walked onto the porch. Elizabeth had staked out a spot with a small table and two comfortable chairs. She waved to him. He couldn't restrain the smile that came to his lips. He had missed her and hadn't known it.

"You are right on time. You're a constant in the universe, Alan. Never a second late."

"Some people call that a compulsion. Or is it properly an obsession?"

"You haven't changed in other ways, either," she said in exasperation. "Don't try to be so precise. It doesn't matter if you're not in complete control. Really."

"Is this the New Age philosophy? Let previous lives in-trude on the here-and-now?" He ordered a dry Gibson when the waiter came and silently stood beside his chair. "Never mind," he went on. "Let's just enjoy the sunset."

"Such beauty," Elizabeth said, sighing. "I've come out here every night for a week and it still awes me."

They sat and chatted about old times, the people they knew together and apart, the threads that had bound them.

After a while, they fell silent, content to watch the stars turning into hard diamond points in the velvet black sky.

Mitchell turned slightly in his chair and stared down the length of the long porch. Twin lights flared. He cocked his head to one side and got a better look. The gardener stood at the end of the porch. His thick glasses reflected pale yellow light coming from inside the SeaHarp's lobby. The man stud-ied them. When he saw Mitchell returning the stare, he stepped back and vanished into the shadows.