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 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 Leman; 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 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 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.