Flashforward. Part 7

"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-Da.s.sier.

Theo dialed the number.

8.

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 Beranger into labor. Gaston took his wife to the hospital in Thoiry; the Berangers 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 rea.s.suring 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 a.s.sumed 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 Rhone."

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 Rhone were pricey as h.e.l.l; 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 a.s.sumed-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. 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 Leman; Helmut Senior apparently sold a lot lot of shoes. 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 cus.h.i.+ons; 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," "Mein Gott," she said. she said. "Mein Gott." "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 life we're talking about." 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 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. 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 bra.s.s-colored handle and turned it slowly, then tentatively opened the door part way. "Moot?"

A m.u.f.fled 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 s.h.i.+rt or pants on. And there was this guy in a white smock, like we wear in art cla.s.s. 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. Theo thought. An autopsy, the detective watching as the medical examiner performed it.