Flashforward

  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 Rhône.”

  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 Rhône 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 open-construction 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 ch
ild 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 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 had didn’t have an accent, just like I don’t.”

  Theo smiled a bit; Moot’s accent was actually pretty thick, he thought. Still, two-thirds 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 bull
ets?”

  “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.

  9

  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 seventy-two-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.