idea what the general-inquiry number was. He used the telephone keyboard on his
phone, found the number, and dialed it.
"Allo," said Theo. "Detective Helmut Drescher, s'il vous pla.t."
"We don't have a detective by that name," said the male cop at the other end of
the phone.
"He might have some other position. Something more junior."
"There's no one here by that name at all," said the voice.
Theo considered. "Do you have a directory of other police departments in
Switzerland? Is there any way to check?"
"I don't have anything like that here; we'd have to dig around a bit."
"Could you do that?"
"What's this all about?"
Theo decided that honesty --or, at least, semi-honesty --was the best policy.
"He's investigating a murder, and I've got some information."
"All right; I'll look into it. How can I reach you?"
Theo left his name and number, thanked the officer, then hung up. He decided to
try a more direct approach, tapping out Drescher's name on the telephone keyboard.
Pay dirt. There was only one Helmut Drescher in Geneva; he lived on Rue Jean-
Dassier.
Theo dialed the number.
NEWS DIGEST
Striking hospital workers in Poland voted unanimously to return to
work today. "Our cause is just, and we will take labor action again --but
for now, our duty to humanity must come first," said Union leader Stefan
Wyszynski.
Cineplex/Odeon, a large movie-theater chain, has announced free
tickets for all patrons who were attending movies during the
Flashforward. Although apparently the movies played on during the
event, the audience lost consciousness, missing about two minutes of the
action. Other theater chains are expected to follow suit.
After a record number of applications were filed in the last 24 hours,
the United States Patent Office has closed until further notice, pending a
decision from Congress on the patenting of inventions gleaned from the
visions.
The Committee for Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal
has issued a press release, pointing out that although we don't yet have
an explanation for the Flashforward, there is no reason to invoke
supernatural causes.
European Mutual, the largest insurance company in the European
Union, has declared bankruptcy.
It was time, sooner than they'd thought. The shock of yesterday had pushed
Marie-Claire Béranger into labor. Gaston took his wife to the hospital in Thoiry; the
Bérangers lived in Geneva, but it was important emotionally to them both that their
son be born on French soil.
As CERN's Director-General, Gaston was well rewarded, and Marie-Claire, a
lawyer, made a good income, too. Still, it was reassuring to know that regardless of
their means, Marie-Claire would have gotten all the medical care she needed while
she was expecting. Gaston had heard that in the United States many women see a
doctor for the first time during their pregnancy on the day they give birth. It was no
wonder that the U.S. had an infant-mortality rate many times higher than did
Switzerland or France. No, they were going to give their son the best of everything.
He knew it was a boy, and not just because of the vision. Marie-Claire was forty-two,
and their doctor had recommended a series of sonograms during the pregnancy;
they had quite clearly seen the little feller's little feller.
Of course there had been no way to conceal his vision from Marie-Claire; Gaston
wasn't one for keeping secrets from his wife, anyway, but in this case, it was
impossible. She'd had a corresponding vision --the same fight with Marc, but from
her point of view. Gaston was glad that Lloyd Simcoe had managed to prove that the
visions were synchronized by talking to his grad student and that woman in Canada;
Marie-Claire and Gaston had vowed to keep their vision private.
Still, there had been issues, even though they'd both been part of the same
scene. Marie-Claire had asked Gaston to describe what she looked like twenty years
hence. Gaston had glossed over some details, her weight gain among them; she'd
complained for months about how huge she was because of the pregnancy, and how
she was determined to get her figure back quickly.
For his part, Gaston had been surprised to learn from her that he would have a
beard in 2030; he'd never grown one in his youth, and now that his whiskers were
already coming in gray, he'd assumed he'd never have one in the future, either. She
told him he would keep his hair, though --but whether that was the truth, just a
kindness on her part, or an indication that by the end of the third decade of this
century that there would be easy and common cures for baldness, he didn't know.
The hospital was jammed with patients, many on gurneys out in corridors; they'd
apparently been there since yesterday's event. Still, most of the injuries had either
been instantly fatal, requiring no hospital visit, or broken bones and burns;
comparatively few patients had actually been admitted. And, thankfully, the
obstetrics ward was only slightly busier than usual. Marie-Claire was conveyed there
in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse; Gaston walked alongside, holding his wife's hand.
Gaston was a physicist, of course --or, at least, had been one once; his various
administrative portfolios had kept him from personally doing any real science for
more than a dozen years. He had no idea what had caused the visions. Oh, certainly,
they were likely related to the LHC experiment; the timing coincidence was too much
to ignore. But whatever caused them, and however unpleasant his own one was,
Gaston didn't regret his vision. It had been a warning, a wake-up call, a portent. And
he would heed it --he wouldn't let things turn that way. He'd be a good father; he'd
make lots of time for his son.
He squeezed his wife's hand.
And they headed into the delivery room.
The house was large and attractive --and, with its proximity to the lake,
doubtless expensive. Its exterior lines suggested a chalet, but that was obviously an
affectation: housing in cosmopolitan Geneva was as far-removed from Swiss chalets
as that in Manhattan was from farmhouses. Theo rang the doorbell and waited,
hands in his pockets, until it was opened.
"You must be the gentleman from CERN," said the woman. Although Geneva was
located in the French-speaking part of Switzerland, the woman's accent was German.
As headquarters of numerous international organizations, Geneva attracted people
from all over the world.
"That's right," said Theo, then, guessing at the appropriate honorific, "Frau
Drescher." She was perhaps forty-five, slim, very pretty, with hair that Theo guessed
was naturally blonde. "My name is Theo Procopides. Thank you for letting me come."
Frau Drescher lifted her narrow shoulders once. "I wouldn't normally, of course -
a stranger who calls on the phone. But it's been such a strange couple of days."
"It has indeed," said Theo. "Is Herr Drescher home?"
"Not yet. Sometimes his business keeps him late."
Theo smiled indulgently. "I can imagine. Police work must be very demanding."
The woman frowned. "Police work? What exactly is it you think my husband
does?"
"He's a police officer, no?"
"Helmut? He sells shoes; he has a shop on rue du Rh.ne."
People could change careers in twenty years, of course --but from salesperson to
detective? Not quite a Horatio Alger story, but still pretty darned improbable. And,
besides, the glitzy stores on rue du Rh.ne were pricey as hell; Theo himself could
afford to do nothing but window-shop there. A person might have to take a
substantial cut in pay to become a cop after working in that part of town.
"I'm sorry. I'd just assumed --your husband is the only Helmut Drescher in the
Geneva directory. Do you know anyone else who has the same name?"
"Not unless you mean my son."
"Your son?"
"We call him Moot, but he's really Helmut, Jr."
Of course --the old man worked in a shoe store, and the son was a cop. And
naturally a cop would have an unlisted phone number.
"Ah, my mistake. It must be him. Can you tell me how to get in touch with your
son?"
"He's up in his room."
"You mean he still lives here?"
"Of course. He's only seven years old."
Theo mentally kicked himself; he was still struggling with the reality of the
glimpses of the future --and perhaps the fact that he had not had one himself
excused him from not really realizing the timeframe involved but, still, he felt like an
idiot.
If young Moot was seven now, he'd be twenty-eight at the time of Theo's death -a
year older than Theo himself was now. And no point asking if he wants to be a
police officer when he grows up --every seven-year-old boy does.
"I hate to impose," said Theo, "but if you don't mind, I would like to see him."
"I don't know. Perhaps I should wait until my husband gets home."
"If you like," said Theo.
She looked as though she'd expected him to push; his willingness to wait seemed
to dispel her fears. "All right," she said, "come inside. But I have to warn you: Moot's
been very reserved since that --that thing that happened yesterday, whatever it
was. And he didn't sleep at all well last night, so he's a bit fussy."
Theo nodded. "I understand."
She led him inside. It was a bright, airy home, with a stunning view of Lac Léman;
Helmut Senior apparently sold a lot of shoes.
The staircase consisted of horizontal wooden steps with no vertical pieces. Frau
Drescher stood at the base of it and called out, "Moot! Moot! There's someone here
to see you!" She then turned to look at Theo. "Won't you have a seat?"
She was gesturing at a low-slung wooden chair with white cushions; a nearby
couch matched it. He sat down. The woman moved to the foot of the stairs again,
behind Theo now, and called out. "Moot! Come here! There's someone to see you."
She moved back to where Theo could see her and lifted her shoulders apologetically
in what's-a-mother-to-do shrug.
Finally, there was the sound of light feet on the wooden steps. The boy descended
quickly; he might have been reluctant to heed his mother's call but, like most kids,
he apparently habitually rushed down staircases.
"Ah, Moot," said his mother, "this is Herr Proco --"
Theo had turned to look over his shoulder at the boy. The moment Moot saw
Theo, he screamed and immediately ran up the stairs so fast that the openconstruction
staircase visibly shook.
"What's wrong?" called his mother to his departing back.
When he reached the upper floor, the boy slammed a door shut behind him.
"I'm so sorry," said Frau Drescher, turning to Theo. "I don't know what's gotten
into him."
Theo closed his eyes. "I do, I think," he said. "I didn't tell you everything, Frau
Drescher. I --twenty-one years from now, I'm dead. And your son, Helmut
Drescher, is a detective with the Geneva Police. He's investigating my murder."
Frau Drescher went as white as the snow cap on Mont Blanc. "Mein Gott," she
said. "Mein Gott."
"You have to let me talk to Moot," Theo said. "He recognized me --which means
his vision must have had something to do with me."
"He's just a little boy."
"I know that --but he's got information about my murder. I need to know
whatever he knows."
"A child can't understand any of this."
"Please, Frau Drescher. Please --it's my life we're talking about."
"He wouldn't say anything about his --his vision," said the woman. "It had
obviously frightened him, but he wouldn't talk about it."
"Please, I must know what he saw."
She thought about it for a few moments, then, as if it were against her better
judgment, said: "Come with me."
She started up the staircase. Theo followed a few steps behind. There were four
rooms on the upper floor: a washroom, its door open; two bedrooms, also with
opened doors; and a fourth room, with a poster for the original Rocky movie taped to
the outside of its closed door. Frau Drescher motioned for Theo to move back down
the corridor a bit. He did so, and she rapped her knuckles on the door.
"Moot! Moot, it's momma. Can I come in?"
There was no reply.
She reached down to the brass-colored handle and turned it slowly, then
tentatively opened the door part way. "Moot?"
A muffled voice, as if the boy was lying face down on a pillow. "Is that man still
here?"
"He won't come in. I promise." A pause. "You know him from somewhere?"
"I saw that face. That chin."
"Where?"
"In a room. He was lying on a bed." A pause. "Except it wasn't a bed, it was made
of metal. And it had a thing in it, like that plate you serve roasts on."
"A trough?" said Frau Drescher.
"His eyes were closed, but it was him, and ... "
"And what?"
Silence.
"It's okay to say, Moot. It's okay to tell me."
"He didn't have any shirt or pants on. And there was this guy in a white smock,
like we wear in art class. But he had a knife, and he was ... "
Theo, standing in the corridor, held his breath.
"He had a knife, like, and he was ... he was ... "
Carving me open, Theo thought. An autopsy, the detective watching as the
