Replay (10 page)

When they’d finished dinner, Andrew called Simon and immediately held out the phone to Valerie so she could tell him the news. Then they called Colette.

They’d just gotten to Valerie’s East Village building when Andrew felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. He answered, wondering who could be calling this late.

It was Pilguez. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation,” he said. “My wife would be only too happy if I left her in peace for a few days. She says a little distraction would do me good. I’ll be getting on a plane tomorrow morning. I’m going to visit some friends in New York while I’m there. Let’s meet for dinner around nine at the same place as last time. Don’t be late. You’ve piqued my curiosity, Mr. Stilman.”

“See you tomorrow. 9
P.M.
at Frankie’s,” Andrew replied, feeling relieved.

“Who was that?” Valerie asked.

“Nobody.”

“Oh, so you’re having dinner with nobody tomorrow evening?”

* * *

Inspector Pilguez was waiting for him at a table in the back of the softly-lit restaurant. Andrew glanced at his watch as he sat down.

“Got in early,” Pilguez said, reaching across to shake Andrew’s hand.

The waiter handed them the menus and the inspector frowned.

“Damn this craze for dim lighting in restaurants. When is it going to pass? I can’t read a word of this menu.” He took a pair of reading glasses out of his pocket.

Andrew scanned the menu and put it down.

“They do a good steak here,” Pilguez went on, abandoning his attempt to read the menu.

“Okay, let’s get the steak,” Andrew said. “Did you enjoy your trip?”

“What kind of question is that? When was the last time you heard of anyone enjoying a flight? But let’s get on to the reason we’re here. What can I do for you?”

“Help me to stop the person who . . . ” Andrew hesitated. “ . . . who tried to kill me,” he finished.

Pilguez put his bottle of beer down.

“Have you reported this to the police?”

“No.”

“That is generally what one does.”

“It’s a little more complicated. Let’s just say it hasn’t happened yet.”

“I don’t get it. Has someone already tried to kill you, or is someone going to try to kill you?”

“If I give you an honest answer to that question, I’m afraid you’ll think I’m nuts.”

“Try me.”

“Well, both of those, Inspector.”

“I see. Someone tried to kill you and you think they’re going to try again soon, is that it?”

“Sort of.”

Pilguez beckoned the waiter to come and take their order. As soon as the man had left, he looked hard at Andrew.

“I’ve just spent six hours squeezed into a sardine can at thirty thousand feet because you called to ask for my help. You seem like a nice guy, and I feel I owe you for nearly running you over.”

“You barely bumped into me, and I came out of it without a scratch.”

“That’s just it. In this city full of crazies who’d jump at the slightest excuse to slap a lawsuit on you, there was every chance you’d try and get my insurance company to fork out a hefty compensation. You didn’t, so I’m guessing you’re an honest man. I could tell from your voice you’re really worried. My instincts rarely let me down in forty years on the force and believe me, you can’t imagine all the weird things I’ve seen. If I told you about some of them you’d think I was crazier than you. So either you tell me exactly what this is all about, or I’ll just finish my steak and head off to bed. Have I made myself clear?”

“Couldn’t be clearer,” Andrew said, lowering his eyes.

“I’m listening,” Pilguez said. “I hate eating cold food,” he added as he started tucking into his meal.

“I was killed on July 9.”

Pilguez began counting on his fingers.

“That was ten months ago. You can tell me about the circumstances later, but first of all, what makes you think your life’s in danger once again?”

“You didn’t hear what I said. I was killed this summer.”

“It’s only May 11, and you look very much alive to me.”

“I warned you.”

“You’re not very good with words, considering you’re a journalist. If I’ve understood what you’re implying, you’re convinced you’re going to be killed on July 9. Why that date?”

“It’s even more complicated than that.”

Andrew told him the whole story—what had happened to him in Hudson River Park on the morning of July 9, and the incredible existence he’d been leading for the past few days. When he’d finished talking, the inspector drained his beer in one gulp and ordered another.

“Either I have a gift for attracting nut jobs, or else there’s a curse on me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“We’ve got this far; you might as well tell me.”

“Some other time.”

Okay, to recap: you say you were killed, and that as soon as you died, you went back in time two months. Have you had a scan to make sure your brain’s working fine?” Pilguez asked, his tone mocking.

“No.”

“Then maybe we should start with that. Could be there’s a little blood clot someplace in your brain that’s making you believe the moon’s made of green cheese. I’ve got a really good neurosurgeon friend in San Francisco. An amazing woman, and she’s seen some pretty bizarre stuff too. I could give her a call. I’m sure she’d have a colleague she could recommend in New York.”

“What if I told you I could predict what’s going to happen from now through July?”

“And you’re clairvoyant, too!”

“No, it’s just that I have an excellent memory, and I remember everything that happened to me in the last two months of my life.”

“Oh, good. That rules out early-onset Alzheimer’s. Do you seriously believe what you’re saying, Stilman?”

Andrew remained silent. Pilguez gave him a friendly tap on the hand.

“Of course you do! And it had to happen to me. What did I ever do to the good Lord?”

“I didn’t think there was much of a chance you’d believe me,” Andrew said. “I wouldn’t either, if I were you.”

“You a sports fan?” Pilguez asked abruptly, glancing at the television mounted above the bar.

“Sure. Isn’t everyone?”

“Don’t turn around. The Yankees are playing the Seattle Mariners, and the game’s nearly over. Can you give me the final score?”

“I don’t remember exactly, but what I do know is that, contrary to all expectations, the Mariners are having a great start to the season. They must be wiping the floor with the Yankees.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pilguez sighed. “That’s what any Mariners fan would say.”

“Me, a New Yorker, a Mariners fan? You must be joking. The Yankees will get the upper hand back in the last few minutes and pull off a win.”

“Doesn’t look like they’re heading for one,” Pilguez sighed.

“Buy
The New York Times
tomorrow morning. On the front page, you’ll read about a US Navy carrier firing on an Iranian ship that was blocking the Strait of Hormuz.”

“Oh, come on! You’re with the
Times
, Stilman—you want to try and wow me by making me believe you’ve guessed the front page story of the newspaper you work for?”

“The Pentagon will issue a press release about the incident at around 11:30 tonight. The paper’s put to bed at midnight, and we’re nowhere near midnight right now. But since you don’t believe me, how about this. A tornado will hit the small town of Gardner in Florida just before noon tomorrow. The entire downtown area will be practically wiped off the map.”

“And the reason you remember this is that you’re addicted to the Weather Channel?”

“I remember it because my future in-laws live in Arcadia, a small town around thirty miles from Gardner. I can clearly recall that my wife-to-be was worried sick, and I remember the exact date because it happened just two days after I proposed.”

“Heartfelt congratulations. Anything else you can predict, Mr. Soothsayer?”

“A colleague of yours in the mounted unit will be run over by an ambulance tomorrow afternoon. He’ll get off with a fractured collarbone, but unfortunately his horse will have to be put to sleep. My future wife’s a vet; she looks after the unit’s horses. What with the tornado and losing a horse, Valerie got back home so stressed out that I was worried about her. But I’ve wasted enough of your time, and I don’t want to keep playing this little game: I’m not exactly enjoying it. Let me pay for dinner, okay? And please tell me what I owe you for your plane ticket.”

“I’ll let you get the check. As for my travel expenses, I’m a big boy, but thanks anyway.”

Andrew paid the bill and got up.

“One little thought has just occurred to me, Stilman. Assuming you
can
predict what’s going to happen in the next few months, why don’t you try to forestall what you can?”

“Because I can’t change the course of things. The few times I’ve tried to these past couple of days, all I’ve managed to do is delay events by a few hours.”

“In that case, what makes you think you can prevent your murder from happening?”

“Hope. Or despair, depending on my state of mind.”

Andrew said goodbye to the inspector and left.

Pilguez remained at the table, lost in thought. He watched the end of the game. In the last few minutes, the Yankees hit a game-winning home run.

A
ndrew didn’t wait to get to the office to read
The New York Times
the next morning. He bought the paper from the newsstand at the corner of his street, and noted that the front page featured the article Freddy Olson had written in haste following the Pentagon’s announcement half an hour before the paper went to print. A U.S. Navy cruiser had fired a warning shot across the bows of an Iranian frigate that had sailed a little too close to the Sixth Fleet at the mouth of the Strait of Hormuz. The shot had done no damage to the Iranian ship, which had turned back, but tension between the two countries was escalating by the day.

Andrew hoped Inspector Pilguez had read the article too. In the early afternoon, after a glance at the news tickers scrolling the latest stories on the television screens in the editorial offices, he called Valerie to inform her, before she heard it from someone else, that an F5 tornado had destroyed a town not far from her parents’ home. He tacked on a little white lie: she had no reason to worry about them, because as soon as he’d heard the news he’d inquired about the situation in Arcadia, and nothing had happened there.

In preparation for what he couldn’t tell her yet, he called a florist, ordered a bunch of peonies and wrote a romantic message on a card to slip in among the flowers. He’d make sure he took good care of her that evening.

He spent the afternoon doing research, but the inspector’s remark the previous evening had set him thinking. Why not try to alter the course of events? When he’d tried to avoid the argument with Olson, all he’d done was postpone it by a few hours, and it had ended up being a lot nastier than their original quarrel. When he’d gone to buy a ring before making his marriage proposal, strangely enough he’d chosen the exact same ring, even though he’d gone to another jeweler.

Still, why not try and turn his past experience to his advantage? On his forthcoming trip to Buenos Aires, maybe he’d be able to trap the man whose confession he hadn’t been able to obtain. If he could get Major Ortiz to talk, his editor would offer him the front page as soon as she’d read his story, and that meant he could whisk his wife away on honeymoon the day after their wedding.

What if I could replay my life?
Andrew scribbled on the flyleaf of his notebook. Hasn’t everyone dreamed of having that opportunity? Correcting their mistakes; succeeding where they’d failed. Life was offering him a second chance.

So you won’t be hanging out at Novecento anymore, right
? a little inner voice whispered.

Andrew chased the thought away. He started tidying up his desk, wanting to get home before Valerie. His office line rang. It was the switchboard operator transferring a call. A police inspector wanted to talk to him.

“You’re very gifted,” Pilguez declared without saying hello. “You got nearly all of it right.”

“Nearly?”

“My colleague fractured his thighbone, not his collarbone—more bothersome. I won’t lie to you. When I read the paper this morning I figured you were just a really good con artist. I saw those horrifying images on TV after the tornado’s passage, but I still wasn’t ready to change my mind. I talked to my friend at the 6th Precinct less than an hour ago. He made a few inquiries on my behalf, and confirmed there’d been an accident this afternoon involving an ambulance and one of our colleagues in the mounted police. You couldn’t have guessed all of that.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“We have to meet again, Mr. Stilman.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“A lot sooner. Hop in the elevator. I’m right here in the lobby waiting for you.”

* * *

Andrew took Pilguez to the Marriott bar. The inspector ordered a Scotch, and Andrew unthinkingly asked for a Fernet and Coke.

“Who could want you dead?” Pilguez asked. “Why does that question make you smile?”

“I’ve started making a list. I didn’t think it would be such a long one.”

“We can go in alphabetical order, if that makes it easier for you,” Pilguez said, taking out a small notebook.

“I first thought of Freddy Olson, a colleague. We can’t stand each other—though I made up with him yesterday, as a precaution.”

“Resentment can linger for a long time. What’s he got against you?”

“Professional envy. I’ve swiped quite a few stories from under his nose these past few months.”

“If we all bumped off a colleague each time he stepped on our toes, Wall Street would be littered with corpses. Then again, nothing’s impossible. What else?”

“I was sent three death threats.”

“You’re a funny guy, Stilman. You said that as if you were talking about flyers.”

“Journalists get threats once in a while.”

Andrew summed up the findings of the investigation he’d gone to China for.