medical examiner performed it.
"It was so gross," said the boy.
Theo stepped quietly forward, standing now in the doorway behind Frau Drescher.
The youngster was indeed lying on his stomach.
"Moot ... " Theo said very softly. "Moot, I'm sorry you saw that, but --but I have
to know. I have to know what the man was saying to you."
"I don't want to talk about it," said the boy.
"I know ... I know. But it's very important to me. Please, Moot. Please. That man
in the white smock, he was a doctor. Please tell me what he was saying."
"Do I have to?" said the boy to his mom.
Theo could see emotions warring across her face. On the one hand, she wanted to
protect her son from an unpleasant situation; on the other, something bigger than
that was clearly at stake. At last she said, "No, you don't have to --but it would be
helpful." She moved across the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and stroked the
boy's crewcut blond head. "You see, Herr Procopides here, he's in a lot of trouble.
Somebody is going to try to kill him. But maybe you can help prevent that. You'd like
to do that, wouldn't you, Moot?"
It was the boy's turn to wrestle with his thoughts. "I guess," he said at last. He
lifted his head a bit, looked back at Theo, then immediately looked away.
"Moot?" said his mother, gently prodding.
"He dyes his hair," said the boy, as if it were a heinous thing to do. "It's really
gray."
Theo nodded. Young Helmut didn't understand. How could he? Seven years old,
suddenly transported from wherever he'd been --the playground, perhaps, or a
classroom, or even the safety of this, his own bedroom. Transported from there to a
morgue, watching a body being sliced open, watching thick, dark blood ooze down
the channel in the pallet.
"Please," said Theo. "I --ah, I promise not to dye my hair anymore."
The boy was quiet for a while longer, then he spoke, tentatively, haltingly.
"They used a lot of fancy words. I didn't understand most of it."
"Were they speaking French?"
"No, German. The other guy, he didn't have an accent, just like I don't."
Theo smiled a bit; Moot's accent was actually pretty thick, he thought. Still, twothirds
of Switzerland's population usually spoke German, while only eighteen percent
regularly spoke French. Granted, Geneva was in the French-speaking part of the
country, but it wouldn't be at all unusual for two native-German speakers to use that
language if no one else was around.
"Did they say anything about an entrance wound?" asked Theo.
"A what?"
"An entrance wound." At the moment, Moot and Theo were speaking French; Theo
hoped he had the right phrasing for that language. "You know, where the bullet went
in."
"Bullets," said the boy.
"Pardon?"
"Bullets. There were three of them." He looked at his mother. "That's what the
man in the smock said."
Three bullets, thought Theo. Somebody wanted me very dead.
"And the entrance wounds?" said Theo. "Did they say where the bullets went in?"
"In the chest."
So I would have seen the killer, thought Theo. "Is there anything else you can tell
me?"
"I said something," said the boy.
"What?"
"I mean, it seemed like I was saying it. But it wasn't my voice. It was all deep,
you know?"
Grown up. Of course it was deep. "What did you say?"
"That you'd been shot at close range."
"How did you know that?"
"I don't know it --I don't know why I said it. The words just sort of came out."
"Did the medical examiner --the man in the smock --did he say anything when
you said that?"
The boy was now sitting up in bed, facing them. "No, he just nodded, sort of. Like
he agreed with me."
"Well, then, did he say something that prompted you to observe it had been at
close range?"
"I don't understand," said the boy. "Momma, do I have to do this?"
"Please," said Frau Drescher. "We'll have ice cream for dessert. Please just help
the nice man for a few more minutes."
The boy frowned, as if weighing how much appeal the ice cream might have.
Then: "He said you were killed in a boxing match."
Theo was startled. He might be arrogant, he might be pushy, but never in his
adult life had he hit another human being. Indeed, he rather considered himself a
pacifist, and had turned down several lucrative offers from defense companies after
graduation. He'd never been to a boxing match in his life; he thought of it not as a
sport but rather as an animalistic display.
"Are you sure he said that?" said Theo. He looked at the Rocky poster on the door
again, then at the wall above Moot's bed, which sported a poster of heavyweight
champ Evander Holyfield. Maybe the kid was conflating his dreams with his vision?
"Uh-huh," said Moot.
"But why would I be shot in a boxing match?"
The boy shrugged.
"Do you remember anything else?"
"He said something was really small."
"Something was small?'
"Yeah. Just nine millimeters."
Theo looked at the mother. "That's a gun size. I think it refers to the diameter of
the bore."
"I hate guns," said Frau Drescher.
"Me, too," said Theo. He looked at the boy again. "What else did they say?"
" 'Glock.' The man kept saying 'Glock.' "
"That's a kind of gun. Did they say anything else?"
"Stuff about dallisics ... "
"Dal --? You mean ballistics?"
"I guess. They were going to send the bullets to dallisics. Is that a city?"
Theo shook his head. "Did they say anything else about the bullets?"
"They were American. The man said it said 'Remington' on the shell casings, and I
said, like I knew what I was talking about, 'American,' and he nodded."
"Did they say anything else? Anything while they were looking in my chest?"
The boy's face was pale. "There was so much blood. So much guts. I ... "
Frau Drescher drew her son closer to her. "I'm sorry, Herr Procopides, but I think
that's enough."
"But --"
"No. You'll have to go now."
Theo exhaled. He reached into his pocket, pulled out one of his cards, and crossed
over to the boy's bed. "Moot, this is how you can reach me. Please keep this card.
Any time --I mean any time, even years from now --if something occurs to you that
you think I should know, I beg you to give me a call. It's very important to me."
The boy looked at the little rectangle; he'd probably never been handed a
business card before in his life.
"Take it. Take the card. It's yours to keep."
Moot took it tentatively from Theo's hand.
Theo gave another card to the mother, thanked both Dreschers, and left.
NEWS DIGEST
Darren Sunday, star of the NBC television series Dale Rice, died today
of injuries sustained in a fall during the phenomenon. Production on the
series, which had been shooting around Sunday's absence, has halted.
The New York State Thruway Commission reports that the seventytwo-
car pileup near Exit 44 (Canandaigua) has still not been cleared; the
westbound Thruway is still blocked at that point. Drivers are advised to
choose alternate routes.
A group of ten thousand Muslims in London, England, whose private
prayers were interrupted by the Flashforward, came together today in
Piccadilly Circus to face Mecca and pray en masse.
Pope Benedict XVI has announced a grueling schedule of international
visits. He invites Catholics and non-Catholics to attend his masses,
designed to give comfort to those who lost loved ones during the
Flashforward. When questioned about whether the Flashforward
constituted a miracle, the pontiff reserved judgment.
The United Nations Children's Fund has stepped in to help
overburdened national adoption agencies in finding homes for children
orphaned during the Flashforward.
Although CERN was jumping --every researcher had a pet theory about what had
happened --Lloyd and Michiko went home early; nobody could blame them after
what had happened to Michiko's daughter. "Home," again without discussion --none
was necessary --was Lloyd's apartment in St. Genis.
Michiko was still crying every few hours, and Lloyd had finally found time at work
to close his office door, put his head down on his desk, and cry his heart out, too.
Sometimes, crying helped make the pain go away; it didn't in this case.
They had an early dinner; Lloyd cooked up chops, which he'd had in the fridge.
Michiko, clearly wanting to do something --anything --to keep her mind busy,
worked on straightening up Lloyd's apartment.
And, as they finished their dinner, and Michiko drank her tea and Lloyd his coffee,
the question Lloyd had been dreading was finally asked again.
"What did you see?" asked Michiko.
Lloyd opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it.
"Oh, come on," said Michiko, evidently reading his face. "It couldn't have been
that bad."
"It was," said Lloyd.
"What did you see?" she asked again.
"I --" He closed his eyes. "I was with another woman."
Michiko blinked several times. Finally, her voice frosty, she said, "You were
cheating on me?"
"No --no."
"Then what?"
"I was --God, honey, I am so sorry --I was married to another woman."
"How do you know you were married?"
"We were both in bed together; we were wearing matching wedding bands. And
we were in a cottage in New England."
"Maybe it was her place."
"No. I recognized some of the furniture."
"You were married to someone else," said Michiko, as if trying to digest the
concept. She had such a shock recently that perhaps anything else would have been
too much to absorb.
Lloyd nodded. "We --you and I --we must have been divorced. Or ... "
"Or?"
He shrugged. "Or maybe we never went through with the marriage in the first
place."
"Don't you still love me?" asked Michiko.
"Of course I do. Of course I do. But --look, I didn't want to have that vision. I
didn't enjoy it at all. Remember when we were talking about our vows? Remember
when we discussed whether to leave 'till death do us part' in there? You said it was
old fashioned; you said nobody says that anymore. And, well, you have been married
once before. But I said we should leave it in. That's what I wanted. I wanted a
marriage that would last forever. Not like my parents --and not like your first
marriage."
"You were in New England," said Michiko, still trying to deal with it. "And I --I was
in Kyoto."
"With a little girl," said Lloyd. He paused, unsure whether he should give voice to
the nagging question. But then he did, not quite meeting her eyes as he spoke.
"What did the girl look like?"
"She had long black hair," said Michiko.
"And ... "
Michiko looked away. "And Asian features. She looked Japanese." She paused.
"But that doesn't mean anything; lots of kids of mixed couples look more like one
parent than the other."
Lloyd felt his heart move in his chest. "I thought we were meant for each other,"
he said softly. "I thought ... " He trailed off, unable to say, "I thought you were my
soulmate." His eyes were stinging; so, apparently, were hers. She rubbed them with
the backs of her hands.
"I love you, Lloyd," she said.
"I love you too, but ... "
"Yes," she said. "But ... "
He reached across and touched her hand, which was now sitting on the tabletop.
She gripped his fingers. They sat silently together for a very long time.
Theo sat for a while in his car on the street outside the Dreschers' home, his mind
racing. He'd been shot by a Glock 9mm; he was pretty sure from cop shows he'd
watched that the Glock was a semiautomatic pistol, popular with police forces
worldwide. But the ammunition had been American; maybe it had been an American
who had pulled the trigger. Of course, Theo had probably not yet met whoever it was
who would one day want him dead. Surely there would be almost no overlap
between his current circle of friends, acquaintances, and colleagues and those who
would comprise those groups two decades hence.
Still, Theo already knew a lot of Americans.
But none well. None, except Lloyd Simcoe.
Of course, Lloyd wasn't really an American. He was born in Canada. And
Canadians didn't like guns, either --they had no Second Amendment, or whatever
damned thing it was that made Americans think they could go around armed.
But Lloyd had lived in the U.S. for seventeen years before coming to CERN, first at
Harvard, then as an experimenter with the Tevatron at Fermilab near Chicago. And,
by Lloyd's own admission, he'd be living in the U.S. again by the time of the visions.
He could have gotten a gun easily enough.
But no --Lloyd had an alibi. He was in New England when Theo was --what was it
the Americans say? When Theo was wasted.
Except ...
Except that Theo was/would be killed October 21 --and Lloyd's vision, like
everyone else's, was of October 23.
