Recursion(14)

The open-concept space is a marvel of perfectly apportioned design and comfort. In daylight, he imagines the curtain of windows affords a spectacular view of the sea and surrounding forest preserve. The smell of something baking in the kitchen permeates the house and reminds Barry of what it was like to have things cooked from scratch instead of reheated in a microwave or brought to him in plastic bags by strangers.

Franny squeezes her husband’s hand, says, “I’ll keep everything in the warming drawer.” Then she turns to Barry. “May I take your coat?”

Joe leads Barry back into a study with glass on one wall and the rest covered in books. As they sit across from each other in the vicinity of a gas-log fireplace, Joe says, “I have to tell you, it’s a little unnerving to get an unannounced visit from a detective at dinnertime.”

“Sorry if I spooked you. You’re not in trouble or anything.”

Joe smiles. “You might have led with that.”

“I’ll get right to it. Fifteen years ago, your wife went up to the forty-first floor of the Poe Building on the Upper West Side and—”

“She’s much better now. A completely different person.” A flicker of annoyance, or fear, crosses Joe’s face, which has taken on a measure of color. “Why are you here? Why are you in my house on what should be a peaceful night with my wife, digging up our past?”

“Three days ago, I was driving home, and a call came in over the radio for a 10-56A—that’s a suicide attempt. I responded and found a woman sitting out on the ledge on the forty-first floor of the Poe Building. She said she was suffering from FMS. You know what that is?”

“The false-memory thing.”

“She described to me this entire life that never happened. She had a husband and a son. They lived in Vermont. Ran a landscaping business together. She said his name was Joe. Joe Behrman.”

Joe becomes very still.

“Her name was Ann Voss Peters. She thought that Franny had jumped from the place where she was sitting. She told me she came here and spoke to you, but that you didn’t know her. The reason she had chosen that ledge was because she held out hope that you would come to her rescue, making up for your failure to save Franny. But obviously, Ann’s memory was flawed, because you did save Franny. I read the police report this afternoon.”

“What happened to Ann?”

“I wasn’t able to save her.”

Joe closes his eyes, opens them. “What do you want from me?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper.

“Did you know Ann Voss Peters?”

“No.”

“So how does Ann know you? How did she know your wife had gone up on that same ledge with the intention of committing suicide? Why did she believe she had been your wife? That the two of you had a boy named Sam?”

“I have no idea, but I would like you to leave now.”

“Mr. Behrman—”

“Please. I have answered your questions. I have done nothing wrong. Go.”

While he can’t begin to guess why, he is certain of one thing—Joe Behrman is lying.

Barry rises from the chair. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a business card, which he places on the table between the chairs. “If you change your mind, I hope you’ll call me.”

Joe doesn’t respond, doesn’t get up, doesn’t even look at Barry. He’s holding his hands in his lap—to stop them from trembling, Barry knows—and staring intently into the fire.



* * *





As Barry rides into Montauk, he checks the schedules on his MTA app. He should have just enough time to grab a bite and make the 9:50 p.m. back into the city.

The diner is nearly empty, and he slides onto a stool at the counter, still running on the adrenaline of his conversation with Joe.

Before his food comes, a man with a shaved head enters and claims one of the booths. Orders coffee and sits there reading something on his phone.

No.

Pretending to read something on his phone.

His eyes are too alert, and the bulge beneath his leather jacket suggests a shoulder holster. He has the concealed intensity of a cop or a soldier—eyes never still, always darting, always processing, even though his head never moves. It’s conditioning you can’t unlearn.

But he never looks at Barry.

You’re just being paranoid.

Barry is halfway through his huevos rancheros and thinking about Joe and Franny Behrman when a glint of pain flashes behind his eyes.

His nose begins to bleed, and as he catches the blood in a napkin, a completely different set of memories of the last three days crowds into his mind. He was driving home on Friday night, but no 10-56A ever came over the radio. He never rode up to the forty-first floor of the Poe Building. Never met Ann Voss Peters. Never watched her fall. Never looked at the police report regarding the attempted suicide of Franny Behrman. Never bought a train ticket to Montauk. Never interviewed Joe Behrman.

Considered from a certain perspective, he was just sitting in his recliner in his one-bedroom apartment in Washington Heights, watching a Knicks game, and now he’s suddenly in a Montauk diner with a bloody nose.

When he tries to look these alternate memories squarely in the eye, he finds that they carry a different feel from any memory he’s ever known. They’re lifeless and static, draped in hues of black and gray, just as Ann Voss Peters described.