Elizabeth Hand - 12 Monkeys

Kathryn smiled. “Of course,” she said gently, and reached for her pen.

Half an hour later she left. Several members of the psych department escorted her outside, then waved good-bye as they headed to their own cars. Kathryn pulled her coat tight about her, wishing she’d brought a scarf. The chill early evening had turned downright cold. In little over a month it would be Christmas. Overhead a full moon gleamed, casting baroque shadows on the ornate turrets and arches of Breitrose Hall. Kathryn hurried across the parking lot to her Cherokee, one of the last cars still parked there. Her footsteps echoed loudly against the concrete, and she looked up when a Volvo roared past.

“Congratulations!” someone yelled. Kathryn waved happily as behind her the last yellow lights of Breitrose Hall went dark. A few more steps and she reached her car. She fished in her purse for the keys, hoping the Marilou and Wayne really had ordered champagne — she hadn’t felt this exhilarated since she’d finished her thesis. She unlocked the car door, tossed her purse onto the passenger seat, and was just ducking inside when a shadow fell across her.

“Hello—?” she began tentatively.

Someone grabbed her in a choke hold, pulling her back so roughly she could only gasp.

“Get in!” a hoarse voice ordered. Kathryn writhed around to see a large man silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Unable to scream, she kicked at him, gasping for breath, as he forced her into the front seat.

“I’ve got a gun.”

She froze. The man slammed the front door shut, then opened the rear door and scrambled in behind her. Glancing into the rearview mirror, she saw only piercing black eyes staring at her from the shadows.

“You — you can have my purse.” It hurt to talk, but she tried desperately to keep the quaver from her voice. “I have a lot of cash and credit—”

“Start the car.”

Half-turning in her seat, she thrust the keys at him. “Here!” she said desperately. “You can have the keys. You can—”

He lunged, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back so hard she felt the tendons pop.

“Start the car!” he repeated fiercely in her ear. “ Now!”

A moment later the engine roared to life. She backed the car from the lot and headed for the exit, her hands shaking as they gripped the steering wheel. In the mirror she could glimpse the man’s eyes flickering as they passed beneath one streetlamp after another.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, his voice more calm now. “But I will. I’ve hurt people before, when — left! Turn left! ”

She yanked the wheel left, hunching forward and praying he wouldn’t grab her again. When she glanced back, she saw him unfolding a tattered map. His face was lost in darkness, but now and then she had a glimpse of ragged clothing as he tried to read the map by the street lights.

After a few minutes had passed in silence, Kathryn took a deep breath, then asked, “Where — where are we going?”

“Philadelphia,” the man said tersely.

“Philadelphia!” Kathryn flashed him a quick stunned look. “But that’s — that’s more than a hundred miles!?

“That’s why I can’t walk there,” the man said without a trace of irony. “Turn here — I think.”

She obeyed, watching him in the mirror as he tried to read. When she looked back at the road again, her heart leapt. Gliding through the darkness was a police car. Kathryn hesitated, then with a quick glance at the mirror switched on her car’s dome light.

“This will help you,” she said, her voice cracking.

A fist crashed through the air, smashing the light. Splinters of plastic sprayed Kathryn’s shoulders as she bit her lip, fighting tears as the police car passed. In the seat beside her, the man crouched, hiding his face until the car was gone. When he slid back upright, Kathryn spoke, heedless of her trembling voice.

“If you make me go with you, it’s kidnapping. That’s a serious crime. If you let me go, you could just take the car and —”

“I don’t know how to drive!” the man shouted. “We went underground when I was six, I told you that. When you come to the corner, turn—”

She slammed on the brakes, whirled, and for the first time looked right at him.

“Cole! James Cole! You escaped from a locked room six years ago!”

A car pulled up behind them and honked angrily.

“1990,” Cole snapped. “Six years for you . Come on,” he added, glancing anxiously at the car behind them. "Take a right turn there.”

She turned onto the access ramp for the freeway. Looking back, she saw Cole settling wearily against the seat. Dirt smudged his face; his close-cropped hair was mud-caked. Kathryn hesitated, measuring her words, then said, “I can’t believe this is a coincidence, Mr. Cole. Have you been… following me?”

He lifted his head. His haggard face filled the tiny mirror. “You told me you’d help me,” he said wearily. “I know this isn’t what you meant, but — I’m desperate. I got no money, a bum leg. I been sleeping on the streets.” He paused, wincing, and shot her an apologetic grimace. “Sorry about that.”

Kathryn’s heart slowed its pounding. A kind of nightmare edginess took over, equal parts despair and anger. “You have been following me, haven’t you?”

Cole shook his head. “No. I saw this—”

He rummaged in a pocket, triumphantly held up a frayed piece of paper — the flyer for her lecture. “—in a store window.” Pride swelled in his voice. “I can read, remember?”

Kathryn nudged the car through freeway traffic. “Yes, I remember.” She bit her lip, then asked, “Why do you want to go to Philadelphia?”

Cole reached for her purse, dragged it into the backseat beside him and started sifting through its contents. “I checked out the Baltimore information; it was nothing. It’s Philadelphia, that’s where they are. The ones who did it — the Twelve Monkeys.”

He leaned over the front seat. “You got any food? Hey!” He pointed eagerly at the dashboard. “Is that a radio?”

Kathryn switched it on. Through the speakers filtered pounding surf and keening gulls, an oozing baritone.

“This is a personal message to you. Are you at the end of your rope? Are you dying to get away?”

Cole stiffened, listening intently.

“The Florida Keys are waiting for you…”

Cole frowned as the sound of crashing surf mingled with the cries of seabirds in the car. Watching him Kathryn felt a twinge of pity mingling with her unease. There was something oddly childlike about this barrel-chested man with a convict’s shaven head and bruised eyes. Right now he looked lost and utterly confused.

“I’ve never seen the ocean!” he blurted. His eyes fixed imploringly on the radio, as though he expected it to argue with him. “Never!”

Kathryn tried not to smile. “It’s an advertisement, Mr. Cole,” she explained gently. “You do understand that, don’t you? It’s not really a special message to you.”

Cole sank back into his seat. “You used to call me ‘James’,” he murmured.

“You’d prefer that?” Kathryn’s hands tightened on the wheel. “James, you don’t really have a gun, do you?”

Outside, endless lines of gas stations, strip malls, condominiums swept by. The commercial ended, and the opening strains of “Blueberry Hill” rose from the speakers. Cole said nothing. When Kathryn checked the mirror she saw him sitting entranced, mouth agape and eyes wide.

“I found my thri—ill…” Fats Waller moaned. Cole rammed into the front seat, reaching for the volume.

“I’m gonna make this louder!” he yelled. “I love twentieth-century music! Hearing music and breathing air! ”