Ken Grimwood - Replay

"I lost the house not long after that; the bank foreclosed. I went back out on the road, started drifting, drinking. Did that for almost twenty-five years. One of the homeless, as they call it in the eighties. But I always knew what I was—just a bum, a wino. I died in an alley in Detroit; didn’t even know how old I was then. I figured it out later, though; I was fifty-two.

"And then I woke up, back in that same hospital bed, coming out of my coma. Like I’d just dreamed all those bad years, and for the longest time I believed I actually had—I didn’t remember much of them, anyway. But I remembered enough, and pretty soon I could tell something really strange was going on."

McCowan looked at Jeff with a sudden sparkle in those eyes that had gone weary with telling the story of his first life. "You a baseball fan?" he asked. "Did you bet on the Series that year?"

Jeff grinned back at him. "I sure did."

"How much?"

"A lot. I’d bet on Chateaugay in the Kentucky Derby and the Belmont first, ran up a good stake."

"How much did you bet?" Stuart persisted.

"I had a partner then—not another replayer, just somebody I knew from school—and between us, we bet almost a hundred and a quarter."

"K?"

Jeff nodded, and McCowan let out a long, low whistle. "You hit the big time early," Stuart said. "Me, all I could scrape up was a couple hundred bucks, and my wife damn near left home early when she found out—but not after I got back twenty thousand; she wasn’t going anyplace then.

"So I kept on betting—just the big things, the obvious ones—heavyweight championships, Super Bowls, presidential elections, all the things that even a lifelong drunk couldn’t have forgotten how they came out. I stopped drinking, gave it up for good. Never have had so much as a beer since, not in all the repeats I’ve been through.

"We moved into a big house in Alderwood Manor, up in Snohomish County, north of Seattle. Bought a nice boat, kept it in the Shilshole Bay Marina; used to cruise up and down Puget Sound every summer, sometimes over to Victoria, B.C. Life of Riley, you know how it is. And then—then I started hearing from them."

"From … ?" Jeff left the question hanging. McCowan leaned forward in his chair, lowered his voice. "From the Antareans, the ones that are doing this."

"How did … they get in touch with you?" Pamela asked tentatively.

"Through the television set, at first. Usually during the news. That’s how I came to find out it was all a performance."

Jeff was growing increasingly edgy. "What was a performance?"

"Everything, all the stuff on the news. And the Antareans liked it so much, they just kept running it over and over again."

"What was it that they liked?" Pamela asked, frowning. "The gory stuff, the shooting and killing, all that. Vietnam; Richard Speck, who did those nurses in in Chicago; the Manson thing; Jonestown … and the terrorists—Jesus, yes, they really get off on the terrorists: Lod Airport, all the IRA bombings, the truck bomb at Marine headquarters in Beirut, on and on. They can’t get enough of it."

Jeff and Pamela exchanged a quick look, a brief nod. "Why?" Jeff asked McCowan. "Why do the extraterrestrials like violence here on earth so much?"

"Because they’ve grown weak themselves. They’re the first to admit it. For all their power, controlling space and time, they’re weak!" He slammed a thin fist down hard on the table, rattling the saucers and cups. Mike, the hefty attendant, looked over with raised eyebrows for a moment, but Jeff waved an O.K. signal, and the man went back to his jigsaw puzzle.

"None of them ever dies anymore," Stuart went on impassionedly, "and they’ve lost the killing genes, so there’s no more war or murder where they come from. But the animal part of their brains still needs all that, at least vicariously. That’s where we come in.

"We’re their entertainment, like television or movies. And this segment of the twentieth century is the best part, the most randomly bloody time of them all, so they keep playing it again and again. But the only people who know all this are the performers, the ones on stage: the repeaters. Manson is one of us, I know; I can see it in his eyes, and the Antareans have told me. Lee Harvey Oswald, too, and Nelson Bennett that time he got to Kennedy first. Oh, there’s a lot of us now."

Jeff kept his voice as calm, as kind, as possible when he spoke again. "But what about you and me and Pamela?" he asked, looking to evoke some remnant of rationality in the man. "We haven’t done all those terrible things; so why are we replaying, or repeating?"

"I’ve done my share of appeasement," McCowan stated proudly. "Nobody can accuse me of slacking off there."

Jeff felt suddenly ill, and didn’t want to ask the next question, the one that had to be asked. "… You’ve used that word before: appeasement. What do you mean by it?"

"Why, it’s our duty. All of us repeaters, we have to keep the Antareans from getting bored. Or else they’ll shut it all off, and then the world will be over. We have to appease them, entertain them, so they’ll keep watching."

"And—how have you done that yourself? Appeased them?"

"I always start off with the little girl in Tacoma. I do her with a knife. That one’s easy, and I never get caught. Then I move on, do a couple of hookers in Portland, maybe Vancouver … never too many close to home, but I travel a lot. Overseas, sometimes, but mostly I do them here in the states: hitchhikers in Texas, street kids in L.A. and San Francisco … Don’t think I’ll try Wisconsin again; I got caught here pretty early this time. But I’ll be out in four or five years. They always say I’m crazy, and I end up in one of these places, but I’ve gotten real good at fooling doctors and parole boards. I always get out eventually, and then I can go back to performing the appeasement."

Pamela leaned against the doorframe of the car, sobbing, as they drove through the swirling snow.

"It’s my fault!" she cried, the tears flowing unchecked down her face. "He said it was Starsea that—that gave him a sense of purpose. With everything I’d hoped to accomplish through that film, all I ended up doing was encouraging a mass murderer!" Jeff kept his hands tight on the wheel of the rented Plymouth, negotiating the icy road. "It wasn’t just the movie. He’d started killing long before that, from the very first replay. He was insane to begin with; I don’t know if it was that accident he had, or the shock of replaying, or a combination of the two. Maybe a lot of different factors; there’s no way to tell. But for God’s sake, don’t blame yourself for what he’s done."

"He killed a little girl! He keeps on killing her, stabbing her, every time!"

"I know. But it’s not your fault, understand?"

"I don’t care whose fault it is. We’ve got to stop him."

"How?" Jeff asked, squinting to see the road through the enveloping sheets of snow.

"Make sure he never gets out this time. Get to him next time before he starts killing."

"If they decide he’s cured, they’re going to release him no matter what we say. Why should the doctors, or the courts, listen to us? Do we tell them we’re replayers, just like McCowan, only we’re sane and he isn’t? You know how far that would get us."

"Then next time…"

"We go to the police in Seattle, or Tacoma, and tell them this solid citizen, with his expensive suburban house and his yacht, is about to start roaming the country, murdering people at random. It wouldn’t work, Pamela; you know it wouldn’t."

"But we’ve got to do something!" she pleaded.

"What should we do? Kill him? I couldn’t do that; neither could you."

She wept quietly, her eyes closed against the deathly whiteness of the winter storm. "We can’t just sit back and let it happen," she whispered at last.