Elizabeth Hand - 12 Monkeys

Cole ignored her, scrutinizing the photo. “Tell me more about Jeffrey,” he said in a low voice.

Fale glances at his cohorts and shrugged hopelessly. “Jeffrey started getting bored with the shit we do — picketing, leafleting, letter-writing stuff. He said we were—” Fale paused as Teddy watched him grimly “—ineffectual jerkoffs. He wanted to do guerrilla actions to ‘educate’ the public.”

Slowly Cole set down the photo of Leland Goines, picked up a magazine clipping showing horrified senators standing on their desks as rattlesnakes slithered along the Senate floor. He held it up questioningly to Fale.

“Yeah.” Fale nodded, grinning faintly. “That’s when he let a hundred snakes loose in the Senate.”

“But we weren’t into that kind of stuff,” Teddy blurted. “It’s counterproductive, we told him.”

Fale nodded. “So he and eleven others split off and became this underground… ‘army’.”

“The Army of the Twelve Monkeys,” said Cole.

For the first time Bee piped in. “They started planning a ‘Human Hunt’.”

“They bought stun guns and nets and bear traps,” Teddy went on. “They were gonna go to Wall Street and trap lawyers and bankers.”

“But they didn’t do it,” said Bee. “They didn’t do any of it.”

Teddy shook his head. “Yeah. Just like always, Mr. Big Shot sold his friends out!”

Cole fixed his burning gaze on Fale. “What’s that mean?”

“He goes on TV,” Fale explained quickly, “gives a news conference, tells the whole world he just realized his daddy’s experiments are vital for humanity and that the use of animals is absolutely necessary and that he, Jeffrey Goines, from now on, is going to personally supervise the labs to make sure all the little animals aren’t going to suffer.” Fale finished and stared up at Cole, his pale face paper-white. “Can we — do you think you could let us go now?”

Cole turned away, bent back over a cardboard box, and started throwing papers out of it. After a moment he held up a Rolodex. “What’s this?”

The three activists exchanged worried looks. “Uh, that’s a Rolodex,” said Teddy. “You know, for phone numbers?”

Cole flipped through the little index cards, stopped and peered at one. “Jeffrey Goines,” he read aloud. He stood and crossed to the hog-tied activists. “Which one of you has a car?”

Silence.

“I said, which one of—”

“Me!” broke in Fale. He wriggled sideways, ducking his head to indicate his jeans pocket. “Keys in there — an old Jag—”

Cole took the keys. Without a backward glance he strode to where Kathryn crouched in a corner and grabbed her. “Come on.”

“Where are you going?” wailed Bee. “You can’t just leave us…”

Kathryn shot her one last pitying look. Oh yes he can , she thought, and followed Cole outside.

They found Fale’s car, a battered Jaguar covered with bumper stickers and painted slogans — I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS, FREE THE ANIMALS! WOULD YOU LET A MINK WEAR YOUR SKIN? Cole shoved Kathryn inside, then got into the seat beside her. She slid the key into the ignition. There was a grinding noise, and the car lurched forward.

She drove through midday traffic, staring grimly out the windshield. The radio played moody country and western music, a few mournful ballads. Finally, in a tight voice she said “Dr. Goines isn’t going to be someone you can just barge in on, James. He’s very well known; he’s been the target of animal rights protesters; he’s going to have security guards, gates, alarms. It’s — this is insane!”

Cole said nothing, just looked at the map in his lap, moving his head in time to the music. His face was feverish, beaded with sweat. Beside the map, the Rolodex flapped open to a much-worn card: JEFFREY GOINES C/O DR. LELAND GOINES, 27 OUTERBRIDGE ROAD.

“And those kids,” Kathryn went on, gaining steam. “They could die in that locker!”

Cole glanced out the window at passing cars: families returning home from church, truckers, two boys on a motorcycle, a van full of laughing children.

“All I see are dead people,” he said, his eyes dull. “Everywhere. What’s three more?”

Kathryn fought the urge to shout at him, instead tightened her hands on the steering wheel. Get it together, Railly , she thought. She stopped at a red light, watched a young girl push a baby across the street in a stroller. When the light changed the Jag lunged forward again. She decided to take a different tack.

“You know his son, Jeffrey, don’t you?” she asked. “When you were at County Hospital six years ago. Jeffrey Goines was a patient there for a couple of weeks.”

Cole continued to peruse the map. “The guy was a — a total fruitcake.”

“And he told you his father was a famous virologist.”

Cole’s finger traced a black line with the words OUTERBRIDGE ROAD. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “He told me his father was God .”

Abruptly, the twanging of a banjo gave way to a news bulletin.

“ This just in. Police confirm that prominent psychiatrist and author Dr. Kathryn Railly has been abducted by a dangerous mental patient, James —”

Silently Cole switched the station. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he checked the road map against the road signs flashing past. Kathryn saw him wince with pain as he shifted his leg. For the first time she noticed a dark stain beneath the knee.

“What’s the matter with your leg?”

Cole shrugged. “I got shot.”

“Shot!” She looked aside at him, took in how flushed he was, the sheen of sweat on his face, his arms, his neck. “Who shot you?”

“It was some kind of war.” For a moment she thought he was going to elaborate, but instead he said, “Never mind. You wouldn’t believe me — hey! What’re you doing?”

The car swung into the right lane as she put on the turn signal. Just ahead on the highway was a gas station, flanked by a convenience store. “We don’t need gas!” Cole snapped, leaning over to check the gas gauge.

“I thought you didn’t know how to drive.”

“I said I was too young to drive,” Cole said warningly. He put his hand on the wheel. “I didn’t say I was stupid.”

Kathryn’s foot tapped at the brake as they approached the Sundry Store by the gas station. “Look, James. This can’t go on. You’re not well. You’re burning with fever. And I’m a doctor — I need supplies.”

The Jag idled and she turned to look at him, her eyes pleading with him to trust her. “Please, James?” she whispered.

He gazed back at her: those pale eyes that hadn’t seen sleep in two days now, her hair falling limply across her smooth forehead. Slowly he let go of the wheel and leaned back in his seat.

“All right,” he murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. “All right.”

Late afternoon found them in the woods some forty miles north. Pale sunlight filtered through the bare limbs of oak trees. The air smelled sweetly of fallen leaves, crushed acorns, the faint clean scent of running water. Overhead, a skein of wild geese made their way southward, their cries hanging in the air long after they were out of sight.

Beside the car, Cole leaned against a granite boulder, staring at the sky. He wore only his frayed flannel shirt and boxer shorts; his trousers hung on the Jag’s open door beside a plastic bag of gauze and surgical tape. Kathryn stooped in front of him, adjusting a bandage on his thigh. Her touch was sure but gentle; he remembered that she had said she was a doctor, a real doctor.

“There. You shouldn’t put your weight on it.” Kathryn straightened. She held up the bullet for his inspection, then wrapped it in gauze and stuck it in her pocket. Cole glanced at her, then looked back up at the sky.