Replay

  Hell didn’t look anything like the way it had been described in catechism class at the Catholic school he’d gone to in Poughkeepsie, unless this crossing was the entrance to it. But considering the number of times Andrew had run past it, surely he’d have figured it out before this.

  He was trembling like a leaf in the wind, and his back was covered in sweat. He glanced at his watch without thinking. It was exactly 7 A.M.—fifteen minutes before he’d been killed.

  That made no sense at all. He glanced around. Everything looked just the same as it did every morning. Cars were streaming north on the opposite side of the traffic island. The cars heading south towards the Financial District were bumper to bumper, while joggers advanced along the Hudson River Park path at a brisk pace.

  Andrew tried to collect his thoughts. The only good thing about dying, as far as he knew, was that it freed you from physical suffering. But he was feeling acute pain in his lower back, and seeing stars. Surely that meant his soul was still firmly anchored to his body?

  He was short of breath, but he was obviously still breathing; how else could he be coughing? A wave of nausea overcame him, and he leaned forward to throw up his breakfast in the gutter.

  There was no way he could continue; he swore he wouldn’t drink another drop of alcohol as long as he lived, not even a Fernet and Coke. Life had made him pay far too steep a price for him to get caught out again.

  He gathered what strength he could and turned around. He’d get back home, have a nice long shower and a rest, and everything would be fine.

  The pain in his back began to diminish as he walked, and Andrew persuaded himself he must have simply fainted for a few seconds—a brief loss of consciousness that had disoriented him totally.

  And yet he could have sworn he had already reached Pier 40, several blocks past Charles Street, when he’d fainted. He would definitely go see his doctor to check it wasn’t anything serious.

  He thought again of Valerie and decided to call the newspaper when he had rested up a little to say he would be late. Then he would jump in a taxi and head for his wife’s surgery ward at the NYPD stables. He needed to tell her he was sorry and ask her to forgive him.

  Andrew pushed open the door of his building, climbed to the third floor, slipped his key in the lock and went in. The keys dropped out of his hand when he saw Valerie in the living room. She asked if he’d seen the shirt she had picked up from the dry cleaner’s the previous evening. She’d been looking for it ever since he’d gone out for his run and still hadn’t managed to find it.

  She stopped searching to look at him, and asked why he was staring at her in that dazed way.

  Andrew didn’t know what to say.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Help me look. I’m going to be late, and today really isn’t the day for it—we’ve got a health inspector coming in.”

  Andrew didn’t move. His mouth was dry. His lips felt like they’d been glued together.

  “I’ve made you some coffee. And get yourself something to eat—you’re pale as a ghost. You always overdo it when you go running,” Valerie said, taking up her hunt again. “But help me find that shirt first. You’ve got to make some room for my things in your closet. I’m sick of lugging my stuff from my place to yours: look what happens!”

  Andrew took a step towards Valerie and caught hold of her arm to capture her attention.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, but finding you here is the most wonderful surprise of my whole life. You’re not going to believe this, but I was getting ready to come see you at the surgery. I absolutely have to talk to you.”

  “Good timing. I have to talk to you too. We still haven’t decided about going to Connecticut for the weekend. When is it you’re going back to Argentina? You told me yesterday, but I hate the idea so much I’ve already forgotten.”

  “Why would I be going back to Argentina?”

  Valerie turned and stared at Andrew.

  “Why would I be going back to Argentina?” Andrew repeated.

  “Well, maybe because your newspaper’s commissioned you to do, quote unquote, a story that’s going to send your career through the roof. That’s what you told me this weekend. You were ridiculously overexcited about it. And because your editor called you on Friday to suggest you go back to Argentina, even though you’ve only just been there. But she was insistent—she says it’s an incredibly important piece.”

  Andrew could remember that conversation with Olivia perfectly. Except that it had taken place when he had returned from his first trip to Buenos Aires in early May, and it was now July.

  “She called me on Friday?” he stammered.

  “Go have something to eat. You’re flipping out.”

  Andrew didn’t answer. He ran to his bedroom, grabbed the remote control from the bedside table and switched on the television. He tuned in to the morning news on NY1.

  He realized, dumbfounded, that he knew every single story the anchor was presenting. The spectacular fire that had burned down a warehouse in Queens, killing twenty-two people. The toll increase for drivers coming into the city, taking effect that day. But that day had been two months ago.

  Andrew glanced at the headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen and the date display: May 7. His legs gave way and he fell on the bed.

  The weatherman announced the arrival of the season’s first tropical storm. It was expected to begin losing strength before it hit the Florida coast. Andrew knew the weatherman was wrong. The storm would double in size by the end of the day. He also knew how many it would leave dead in its wake.

  His tailor had once told him life wasn’t like one of those modern gadgets where you just press “rewind” to listen to your favorite song again. He’d said there was no going back. Apparently Mr. Zanetti had got it all wrong. Andrew’s life had just gone back to sixty-two days earlier.

  He went to the kitchen, holding his breath as he opened the refrigerator. He found what he’d feared he would: a plastic bag containing the shirt his wife—except she wasn’t his wife yet—had put away there by mistake with the yogurt she’d picked up at the grocery store on her way home.

  He took it to her. Valerie wanted to know how come the shirt was so cold. When Andrew told her why, Valerie promised she wouldn’t accuse him of being absentminded ever again.

  “So why were you coming to see me at the surgery this morning?” she asked, picking up her handbag.

  “No reason. I was missing you, that’s all.”

  She gave him a quick kiss and left hurriedly after asking him to wish her good luck and warning him she’d probably be home late.

  Andrew knew there would be no health inspection, because the health inspector was in a car crash on the Queensboro Bridge right this minute. Valerie would call him at the newspaper at around half past six that evening to suggest they go to the movies. Andrew wouldn’t get out of the office in time and so they’d miss the beginning of the movie. He’d take out her out to dinner to make it up to her.

  Andrew had an impressive memory. He had always congratulated himself on it. It had never occurred to him that this gift of his might one day plunge him into a state of utter panic.

  Alone again in the apartment trying to come to grips with the unthinkable, Andrew realized that what he had decided was a fainting fit was nothing of the sort. He had been killed, and now he had sixty-two days to find out who had killed him, and why.

  8.

  When he got to the office, Andrew decided not to make any changes to his routine. He needed to take a step back from the situation and consider it before deciding anything. Besides, he’d read a few science fiction books about going back in time when he was a boy, and he remembered that changing the course of events could have unfortunate consequences.

  He spent the day organizing his second trip to Argentina—a trip he’d already organized in his previous life
. He figured he could allow himself to change his hotel in Buenos Aires; he kept a very bad memory of the one he’d stayed in last time.

  He had a brief argument with Freddy Olson, who had the cubicle next to his. Olson kept shooting him down at editorial meetings and trying to steal his story ideas, the jealous bastard.

  Andrew clearly recalled the reason for their spat. Never mind how he had reacted last time; he took the initiative to put an end to his meddling and sent Olson packing. This way he avoided getting their editor involved, who would make him go through the humiliation of apologizing to that moron in front of all his colleagues.

  It wasn’t as if he could follow in his exact footsteps, after all, he reasoned as he returned to his desk. He would probably squash a few insects that had survived his morning runs in Hudson River Park over the past two months . . . the next two months, he corrected himself silently.

  He quite liked the idea of shaking up the natural order of things. He hadn’t asked Valerie to marry him yet—he would only do it in three days’ time, after she had brought up the subject of his trip to Buenos Aires again. He hadn’t broken her heart, and so there was nothing for which he needed to ask forgiveness. All in all, if it wasn’t for the probability that he’d end up in a pool of his own blood in around sixty days’ time, this return to the past was all for the better.

  When Valerie phoned at half past six, he made the mistake of promising her he’d join her at the movie theater right away, even before she could ask.

  “How’d you I know I was about to suggest going to the movies?” she asked in surprise.

  “I don’t know,” he stammered, fingers clenching his pencil. “But it’s a good idea, isn’t it? Um, unless you want to eat out?”

  Valerie thought for a second, and opted for dinner.

  “I’ll get us a table at Omen.”

  “Wow. It’s like you’ve got ESP this evening. That’s exactly the place I was thinking of.”

  Andrew’s pencil snapped in the palm of his hand.

  “Oh, you know, I just get lucky sometimes,” he said. “Let’s meet in an hour.” Then he asked her how the health inspector’s visit had gone, though he already knew the answer.

  “It didn’t happen,” Valerie said. “The inspector was in a car crash on the way over. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”

  Andrew hung up.

  “You’re going to have to play it smart over the next two months if you don’t want anyone getting suspicious,” he told himself out loud.

  “Suspicious about what?” Freddy Olson’s head popped up above the cubicle wall.

  “Olson, didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s bad manners to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?”

  “I don’t see any conversation here, Stilman; you’re just talking to yourself. And since you’re such an observant guy, haven’t you noticed we happen to work in an open space? You need to tone down that voice of yours. Think I enjoy having to listen to you?”

  “I bet you do.”

  “So? What was all that about, Mr. Soon-to-be-promoted?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, come on, Stilman. We all know you’re Stern’s protégé. I guess you can’t help being a brownnoser.”

  “I know you’re so short on journalistic talent you can’t quite believe you’ve made it into the profession. I’m not casting stones, Olson. If I was as useless as you I’d have my doubts too.”

  “Very funny. But that wasn’t what I meant, Stilman. Don’t act stupider than you are.”

  “So what did you mean, Olson?”

  “Think about it. Stilman, Stern . . . both Jewish?”

  Andrew stared at Olson. He remembered that in his previous life—the idea was so absurd he was still having trouble getting his head around it—this argument with Olson had happened much earlier in the day; Olivia had still been in her office. But she wasn’t there this time around. Like most of his other colleagues, she had left at least half an hour ago, around 6 P.M. Andrew’s actions seemed to be altering the order of things, and he decided he might as well take advantage of it. He gave Olson a resounding slap. Olson reeled back and stared at him, mouth agape.

  “Shit, I could make a formal complaint, Stilman,” he threatened, rubbing his cheek. “There are security cameras all over this floor.”

  “Go right ahead. I’d be happy to explain why you got slapped. I’m sure that particular video would go viral pretty fast.”

  “You won’t get off that easy!”

  “Try me. Anyway, I’m off—I’ve got to be somewhere else, and you’ve made me waste enough time as it is.”

  Andrew grabbed his jacket and walked over to the elevator, giving Olson—who was still standing there holding a hand to his cheek—the finger as he went. He found himself swearing as the elevator descended to the ground floor, but told himself he’d better calm down before he met Valerie. He’d have a hard time explaining to her what had just happened.

  * * *

  Seated at the counter of the Japanese restaurant in SoHo, Andrew listened to Valerie’s chatter distractedly. Then again, he had the excuse of already knowing the content of her entire conversation. While she told him about her day, he was thinking hard about how he could make the most of the troubling situation he was in.

  He bitterly regretted that he had always been so indifferent to the financial news. If he had shown even the slightest interest in it, he could have made a killing on the stock market right now. If only he had memorized a few stock prices for the next few weeks—or rather the past few weeks, as far as he was concerned—he could have invested his savings and made himself a tidy sum. But he had always found Wall Street and its excesses a total bore.

  “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying,” said Valerie accusingly. “What are you thinking about?”

  “You’ve just told me that Licorice, one of your favorite horses, has a bad case of tendinitis, and that you’re worried it’s the end of her career with the mounted police. You also said that Officer Thingy who rides her would never get over it if they declared his horse unfit for service.”

  Valerie looked at Andrew, speechless.

  “What?” he asked. “Isn’t that exactly what you’ve just been telling me?”

  “No, it’s exactly what I was just about to tell you. What’s with you today? Did you swallow a crystal ball at breakfast or something?”

  Andrew forced himself to smile.

  “You might be more absentminded than you think, you know,” he said. “I’m just repeating what you told me. How could I have known all that stuff?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m asking you!”

  “Maybe you were thinking so loud I heard you even before you said it. Just goes to show how closely we’re connected,” he said, putting on his most disarming smile.

  “You phoned the surgery and got Sam, and he told you everything,” she said.

  “I don’t know any Sam, and I didn’t call your office.”

  “Sam’s my assistant.”

  “See, I don’t have a crystal ball. I was sure he was called John,” he said. “Can we change the subject?”

  “How was your day?”

  The question gave Andrew pause for thought. He had died when he was out running this morning; he had come to life again shortly afterwards around a mile away from where he’d been killed and then discovered, to his amazement, that it was two months before the attack. Apart from that, his day had been pretty much the same as when he’d lived it the first time around.

  “Long,” he replied tersely. “I’ve had a really long day. So long I almost feel like I lived it twice.”

  * * *

  Next morning, Andrew found himself alone in the elevator with his editor Olivia. She was standing behind him, but he could make out from her reflection in the doors that she was lo
oking at him strangely—the way people look at you when they’re about to give you bad news. He hesitated, and then smiled.

  “Actually,” he said, as if he was picking up a conversation where they’d left off, “before Olson comes tattling to you, I might as well confess I slapped him on my way out yesterday.”

  “You what?” Olivia exclaimed.

  “That’s right. To be completely honest, I thought you already knew.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “The newspaper won’t be involved, don’t worry. And if that moron files a complaint, I’ll take full responsibility.”

  Olivia stopped the elevator, then pressed the button for the lobby.

  “Where are we going?” Andrew asked.

  “To get some coffee.”

  “I’ll buy you coffee, but I’m not saying anything more,” Andrew said as the doors opened.

  They settled down at a table in the cafeteria. Andrew went to order two mochaccinos and bought himself a ham croissant while he was at it.

  “This is so unlike you,” Olivia said.

  “It was just a slap. Nothing dramatic. And he deserved it.”

  Olivia looked at him and started smiling.

  “Did I say something funny?” Andrew asked.

  “I should be lecturing you and telling you such behavior is unacceptable and could get you suspended or even cost you your job, but I’m totally incapable of it.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “I wish I’d given Olson that slap.”

  Andrew refrained from comment, and Olivia changed the subject.

  “I’ve read your notes. Good stuff. But it’s not good enough. If I’m going to publish your story, I’ll need concrete facts, irrefutable evidence. I suspect you’ve deliberately watered down your text.”

  “Why would I have done that?”

  “Because you’re on to something big, and you don’t want to disclose it all to me just yet.”