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‘Awesome,' he agreed.

They sat in silence. He tried to keep a pleasant smile on his face. But she must have noticed a change in his posture, because she said, finally, ‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing.'

‘You miss your wife, don't you?'

‘Oh,' he said, and he lingered on the syllable. He was surprised to hear his voice crack involuntarily. ‘More than you can imagine.'

She reached across the table and held his hand.

‘I'm here for you,' she said.

This talk of Katherine gave him new resolve. He was sorry for
what he was about to do, but he would do it. Of course he would. He had to. Dr. Ho was giving him an opportunity. He could have Katherine back. He could go back in time, correct his mistakes, do everything again. Anyone would do the same. Any man who loved his wife.

‘So,' Tricia said gently, mistaking his silence for gratitude. ‘I'm not leaving Osiris. I'm not going anywhere. At least, not until the yen goes back down and you land on your feet, which I know you will.'

Timothy nodded. It was a kind thing to say, but it was also curious. He had always regarded her as a glorified switchboard, a good-looking telephone operator. Yet she mentioned the yen trade. Not that he had actively tried to keep it secret from her – he had never felt the need to. Her mind kept its own secrets. She was, after all, the girl that proudly boasted to her friends that she didn't even know what Timothy did for a living. But yet here she was, offhandedly mentioning the yen, even knowing what direction he wanted the currency to move – down. Curious.

But then she took another sip of Scotch and said, ‘Wow. Now this packs a punch,' and she slapped the glass down on the table so hard that it sounded like a shot ringing out, and people beside them turned to look. ‘Whoops,' she giggled.

‘Careful, there,' he said, laughing pleasantly. He wondered how long three valiums would take to work on a girl her size. The answer, he found out quickly, was: not very long at all.

When it seemed like she was in danger of passing out, he knew it was time to leave. He said, ‘Let's go home.'

Her eyes were at half mast. She giggled and leaned over the table. Now she was using the table as a crutch under her chest, to keep from sliding onto the peanut-shell floor. ‘Your place or mine?' she said, sloppily.

‘Mine,' he said. ‘Let me help you.'

He stood and assisted Tricia from her side of the booth. Timothy glanced at the bar. He saw the biker standing there, staring at him. Tricia gripped Timothy's shoulder. Timothy put his arm around her hip, and bore her entire weight. The biker smiled at
Timothy, raised two fingers to his forehead, gave a little salute. Timothy nodded.

‘Come on, Tricia,' Timothy said.

They walked toward the exit. He practically carried her, keeping his face down, and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. She felt heavy and limp. He tried to smile, to seem natural and casual, as if he and this beautiful woman half his age were strolling down a boardwalk. Yes, her knees where bent and, yes, her toes were dragging across the floor, sliding on peanut shells, but this was still the most natural thing in the world. Nothing to see here, folks.

‘Wow,' Tricia said. ‘I don't feel so good.'

‘Come on. A little more.'

He took her outside into the warm night air, and laid her in the front seat of the BMW.

‘Whoa boy!' she cried out. ‘Awesome!'

They drove the dark streets, from Alameda de Las Pulgas to Menlo Park. Her eyes were half closed, but she still had a general sense that they were heading in the wrong direction.

‘Hey, where are we going?' she asked pleasantly.

‘I want you to meet a friend.'

‘Cool.'

Timothy dialed his cell phone. When Dr. Ho's voice answered, Timothy said: ‘I'm bringing her over.' He hung up and dropped the phone in his jacket pocket.

‘Was that your friend?' Tricia asked.

‘Yes.'

‘You know, Timothy, I really like you,' she said dreamily. ‘I'm so happy you wanted to go out with me. I know you're sad about your wife.' She glanced at him sideways. She had slid almost halfway down the passenger seat. Only her knees, pushed up against the BMW dash, kept her from falling to the floorboard. ‘I know you are a very sensitive man.'

‘You think?'

‘Yes. I could easily fall in love with you.' She slapped her mouth with her hand. ‘Whoops. Did I say that out loud?' She closed
her eyes, and seemed to drift off to sleep. Timothy turned left onto Sand Hill Road. Then she woke suddenly and continued her earlier conversation. ‘I mean, you remind me of my dad.'

‘Great,' Timothy said. ‘Thanks.'

‘I mean that in a good way. The best way.'

‘Okay.'

They arrived at 3600 Sand Hill. The parking lot was empty. Timothy got out of the BMW and circled around to her side. He opened her door. ‘We're here.'

She looked up at him. ‘Where?'

‘My friend's.'

‘Okay,' she said, agreeably. She held out her hand for Timothy to help her from the car. He hoisted her from the low bucket seat and she stood up and grabbed his shoulder. She was standing chest to chest with him, her arms slung around his neck, as if they were dancing across a ballroom floor. He could feel her breasts pressing against his shirt. Her red lipstick was smudged. Her breath smelled of alcohol.

‘Let's go,' he said. He guided her to Ho's office.

He knocked on the door to Suite 301 and Dr. Ho answered.

‘Good, good,' the doctor said, glancing down the hall. ‘Come in.'

She was unconscious now, limp over Timothy's shoulder. Ho led them into the office waiting room and closed the door behind them.

‘Is she okay?' Ho asked. He looked concerned.

‘A couple valiums,' Timothy explained. ‘Is that all right?'

‘That's fine,' Ho said. ‘I would have sedated her myself if you didn't. Let's bring her back.'

Ho put one of her arms over his shoulder, and the two men walked with Tricia slung between them, down the corridor toward Lab #1.

With his free hand, Ho pulled a key chain from his pocket. He unlocked the laboratory door and pushed it open with his shoe.

They carried Tricia into the room. The lab was cold from air conditioning. The hum, from hundreds of computers in racks,
filled the space like the buzzing of a hive. Timothy had not seen the lab since the night he punched Ho. The mess on the floor – the shattered computer screen, the dropped keyboard, the loose wires – was gone. Now, on the black enamel lab island there was only one plasma monitor instead of two.

‘Let's put her down,' Ho said, ‘gently.'

They lowered Tricia slowly to the concrete floor. Dr. Ho put his hand beneath her skull and guided it softly to the floor. She was lying on her back now, asleep, snoring.

‘Okay,' Ho said. ‘That's all.' He looked at Timothy.

Timothy wasn't sure what he meant.

Ho said: ‘You can go.'

Timothy was surprised. He had expected to watch Ho perform the backup procedure. ‘That's it?'

Ho gestured to the door leading to Lab #2, which was marked with the Keep Out sign. ‘No visitors are allowed in that area. We have a very strict confidentiality policy. Part of the agreement with my investors.'

‘I see,' Timothy said. But he didn't see. He wanted to stay and watch Ho work.

‘You can leave her with me. The procedure will take some time. But before you know it, you'll have your wife back.' He walked to the computer monitor and tapped the keyboard. A cursor appeared. He typed something. A string of filenames filled the screen.

Timothy said: ‘And what about … her?' He gestured at the sleeping secretary. ‘You'll back her up, right? So that some day …'

‘Yes, yes, of course,' Ho said. Timothy noticed the flicker of a smile at the corner of Ho's mouth.

‘First I'll back up your young lady friend,' Ho said, ‘and then I will restore your wife's backup on top. As you can imagine, the amount of data that needs to be transferred is quite large. Unfortunately the throughput is very limited. This is not exactly high-speed data transfer. That's actually one of the things we need to solve in the future, before we can make this a mass-market procedure.'

‘So, how long?'

‘Go home, Mr. Van Bender. It may take all night.'

‘And then what?'

‘And then I'll contact you. After that – after your wife has been restored – you and I will have no further contact. Once I have carried out my agreement with your wife, then our relationship will be terminated. You must not contact me again. You must not speak to me again. Do you understand?'

Timothy glanced at the door in the back of the room, which said Keep Out. He wanted to venture back and see what was inside, to watch the procedure, to witness Ho copying Katherine's mind into Tricia. ‘But Doctor, maybe I should—'

On the floor, Tricia stirred. She moaned. ‘Timothy?'

‘You should go now,' Ho said. ‘I need to begin.'

Timothy nodded. He turned to go, then stopped.

Dr. Ho looked up at him.

Timothy wanted to tell him to be careful, to be gentle with his wife, and with Tricia, and not to make any mistakes; but then he thought about it and realized that, on this night – when he had drugged a young girl to the point of unconsciousness and dragged her body into a laboratory, and asked a doctor to copy over her brain and in its place restore his dead wife's – that maybe the time for being careful and gentle had long ago passed.

31

For the first time in three weeks, he slept peacefully.

He did not dream about Dr. Ho and his tiny spectacles, or about Tricia's bright red lipstick, or about the cliffs above Big Sur. Those dreams that had visited him so many nights before vanished, and in their place he felt nothing, just darkness and rest.

When he woke the sunlight was streaming onto his face, and it took a moment to remember the day of the week (Thursday) and what had happened the previous night. And then he remembered the Dutch Goose, and the suspicious biker, and the valiums in Tricia's drink.

He got up and showered. He dressed and made his way downstairs.

He was about to start the coffee brewing – one more time without Katherine, he thought hopefully – when the doorbell rang.

He turned the doorknob without looking through the peephole. He did not care whom he would find. He tried to empty his mind of all hope or expectation or fear. For once in his life, he would live his life without a plan, and see what happened.

He pulled open the door.

Tricia stood in the doorway. She wore the same outfit as the previous night, the snug black sweater, but the choker was gone, and her face was freshly scrubbed, without make-up. Her dark hair was combed down in a simple bob, and, without eye shadow, her blue eyes seemed unusually pale, the color of morning sky.

Timothy looked at the driveway behind her. Dr. Ho was sitting in his Acura, the driver's window rolled down, his elbow on the doorframe. He nodded to Timothy, as if to say: It is done. He turned around in his seat, looked over his shoulder, and backed
the car down the driveway, then turned into the street and drove away.

‘Hi, Gimpy,' Tricia said.

Timothy stared at her. It was clearly Tricia standing in front of him. But something about her was different. It took him a moment to understand. It was her posture. The Tricia he knew stood ramrod straight, with her breasts out – always showing off her best features – with a crook in her hip, and an ‘I dare you' saunter. But the woman in front of him was different. She leaned over the doorframe shyly, her chest in, her head down. That was Katherine's posture. On Katherine's body – the small chest, the long slender limbs – it seemed unremarkable. On Tricia it seemed absurd, like a whore trying to blend in at the debutante ball.

‘Who are you?' Timothy asked. It was not an accusation; it was a happy question. He knew the answer already, and wanted to wring more pleasure out of the moment by hearing the response out loud.

‘It's me,' she said.

And he was more sure of it than anything in his life – that the son of a bitch Dr. Ho had really done it, that his crazy technology worked, that the woman standing in front of him, with her shy smile and posture that was all wrong, was not Tricia Fountain, stupid but sexy secretary, but rather his wife, Katherine, and that somehow – as unlikely as it seemed – he had gotten her back.

She walked around the house like she owned it. Which, technically speaking, she did. She first went to the kitchen and fixed coffee expertly, like a nurse moving a patient around a bed – gently but with certain, confident motions – grabbing the filter bucket, sliding open the water canister, sticking the carafe under the drip spout. It was as if she had handled that particular machine a hundred times before. Tricia had never been in his house, had never seen his kitchen, and certainly had never made him a cup of coffee. But Katherine had, each morning, for twenty years.

When the coffee was brewing they went upstairs to the bedroom. She stared at herself in the full-length mirror. Timothy stood beside her, afraid to touch her, unsure of what to say. She
held up her arms, looked at the skin under her bones, taut and muscular, turned her face from side to side, trying to catch her profile. ‘So this is what she looked like,' she said finally. ‘Not bad.'

‘I never slept with her,' Timothy said, because he thought she would want to know.

Tricia regarded him coolly. ‘Never?'

‘Never,' he said. Then he realized that he had to be forthcoming with Katherine, that she knew him too well. ‘I thought about it.' Another pause. ‘I came close once, but at the last minute I realized I hated her.'

Tricia said, in a saccharine sing-song voice, the voice of a stupid little vixen, ‘Oh, Mr. Van Bender, sir, you are so unkind.' Then she laughed, meanly.