Elizabeth Hand - 12 Monkeys

The second agent appeared beside the first. “Let’s go somewhere and talk this thing over, okay? Just come with us—”

Eyes wide, Jeffrey backed away from them. “You’re right! Absolutely right! He’s a nut case, totally deranged. Delusional. Paranoid.” His voice cracked as it rose dangerously. “HIS PROCESSOR’S ALL FUCKED UP, HIS INFORMATION TRAY IS JAMMED—”

The two agents hoisted Cole between them like a trapped animal. They carried him downstairs, Jeffrey snapping at his heels, yelling so that the remaining guests stopped and stared amazed at the weird little tableau on the grand staircase.

“YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS, ‘THE ARMY OF THE TWELVE MONKEYS?’ IT’S A COOLECTION OF NATURE KOOKS WHO RUN A STORE DOWNTOWN! SPACE-CASE DO-GOODERS SAVING RAIN FORESTS! I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THOSE BOZOS ANYMORE! I QUIT BEING THE RICH KID FALL GUY FOR A BUNCH OF INEFFETUAL BANANAS! SO MUCH FOR YOUR GRAND PLOT! ”

Cole writhed in his captors’ grasp and looked behind him to where Jeffrey stood, every hair in place, his beautiful new tuxedo gleaming, his blue eyes aglow. He appeared utterly confident, his disdainful expression telling Cole everything.

He’s a nut case, totally deranged. Delusional. Paranoid …

Cole shook his head, his mouth dry. No! I’m not crazy, I can’t be —

“Take it easy, Mr. Goines, we’ve got him,” one of the agents called back. “Everything’s—”

“MY FATHER HAS BEEN WARNING PEOPLE ABOUT THE DANGERS OF EXPERIMENTATION WITH VIRUSES AND DNA FOR YEARS! YOU’VE PROCESSED THAT INFORMATION THROUGH YOUR ADDLED PARANOID INFRASTRUCTURE AND — LO AND BEHOLD! I’M FRANKENSTEIN! AND ‘THE ARMY OF THE TWELVE MONKEYS’ BECOMES SOME SORT OF SINISTER REVOLUTIONARY CABAL! THIS MAN IS TOTALLY BATSHIT! YOU KNOW WHERE HE THINKS HE COMES FROM?”

Without warning, Cole ducked, elbowing one agent and sending him flying. He wrenched free of the other and stumbled wildly down the stairs, heading for the front door. But Cole could just make out the figure of a third agent, racing toward him from a knot of confused guests. Grabbing at a side table for support, Cole propelled himself through the small crowd of astonished partygoers, limping as he burst through a doorway into the kitchen. An agent followed, shoving his way past guests and slamming the kitchen door open as he barged in.

“Did a man just come through here, limping?”

Several servants backed against the wall, shaking their heads. A heavyset man in a cook’s toque sat unperturbed in a captain’s chair, holding a brandy snifter before his nose. Above him, on a shelf between rows of cookbooks and herb vinegars, a small television blared. It showed a tiny monkey, wide-eyed and trembling in terror, clutching a small parcel as it was lowered into a narrow pipe.

“… assure us there will be no negative psychological effects to the monkey …”

“Anybody see someone running through here?” the agent repeated, yelling.

In his chair, the cook took another sip of his post-prandial brandy and shook his head stubbornly. “Nope. And if you ask me, that monkey’s gonna eat that goddamn sandwich himself.”

The other servants stared at him. The agent shook his head, while the TV image switched to a black-and-white newspaper photo of Kathryn Railly, smiling as she signed a stack of books.

“ This just in: Police say that the body of a woman found strangled in the Knutson State Park area could be kidnap victim Kathryn Railly .”

With a disgusted look, the agent raced to the window and flung it open.

Outside, another agent prowled cautiously among the rows of Mercedes, BMWs, Range Rovers, and Porsches. At the sound of the window opening he whirled, pistol drawn, but relaxed when he saw his colleague peering out from the mansion. He held out his hands, palms up, to indicate he’d had no sign of Cole.

Relieved, the first agent withdrew from the window. He turned to see the kitchen staff engrossed once more in the eleven o’clock news.

“ Earlier in the day, police located Kathryn Railly’s abandoned car not far from a building where three animal rights activists were found bound and gagged .”

“Any sign of him?”

The agent shook his head as his partner strode into the room. “Nothing.”

His partner slammed his fist into his thigh. “He can’t just disappear!”

“Damn straight,” the cook muttered, pouring himself another inch of Rémy Martin. “Eat that sandwich and get his ass outta there.”

In the darkness, the trees crackled and hissed. Stray branches raked his face as he ran, gasping. Once he nearly fell, but caught himself by grabbing a flimsy birch sapling that snapped in two as he hauled himself to his feet again. His thigh burned, lancing pain that shot upward into his groin so that he moaned.

God, I hope I’m not too late, please don’t let it be too late .

Overhead the moon broke free of the trees, shone down upon the winding sliver of road and, to one side, the small clearing where a lone Jaguar was parked. In the distance, the lights of the Goines mansion showed fitfully through a scrim of brush and overgrown yew. He could hear voices calling faintly, the plaintive cry of a barn own. Panting, he ran into the clearing, his feet thudding more softly now on packed leaves and earth.

At sight of the car he slowed. What with the screaming pain in his leg, the fire in his chest from running, he hadn’t thought that anything else could hurt him, but he was wrong. The Jag was utterly still: no muted screams, no stifled voice, nothing. He approached it as thought it were a bomb, his hands clenched at his sides, then stopped and ran his fingers over the trunk, feeling where he had punched several holes with a tire iron. Finally he dug the key from his pocket and with trembling fingers pushed it into the lock.

The trunk swung open. Moonlight picked out a crumpled form, like a heap of old clothing wadded in the narrow space. Suddenly the heap moved. Cole caught a glint of jewelry, Kathryn’s wristwatch, the thick mat of dark hair as she scrambled from the trunk, her eyes brimming with tears of rage.

“You bastard! You total bastard! ”

He backed away as she lunged drunkenly for him, arms swinging wildly. His leg buckled and he slipped and fell into the leaf-strewn ground. With a cry Kathryn began kicking at him, shouting hysterically.

“I could have died in there! If something had happened to you, I would have died! ”

He looked up at her, helpless, his lip caked with blood. “I — I — I’m really sorry,” he said weakly.

Kathryn’s leg swung wildly, missing Cole and sending her off balance. She caught herself, breathing hard, and glared down at him, her tangled hair a shadowy halo about her livid face. For the first time she noticed his torn and filthy clothes, the spattering of blood across his face and arms.

“What have you done?” she asked hoarsely. She drew a hand to her mouth. “Did you — kill someone?”

“No!” Cole cried. He pushed himself up and struggled to his feet. “I — I don’t think so.” He stared at her, his face a twisted mask of anguish and horror. “I mean — maybe I killed millions of people! Billions! ”

Kathryn rubbed her pounding forehead and cast a quick grateful glance at the moon overhead. “What?” she asked more calmly.

“I—I’m sorry I locked you up.” Cole continued to gaze at her with huge eyes. “I came back, I put some holes in the trunk so you could breathe.” His eyes grew unfocused and he shook his head, as though an insect were bothering him. “I thought — I thought — Do you think I might be crazy?”