Elizabeth Hand - 12 Monkeys

Two guards Cole hadn’t seen until now burst through the little circle and pushed Cole onto the bed.

“Of course you want to be well, James,” the microbiologist said, looking on approvingly as the guards tightened the restraints around Cole’s wrists. “And you will be — soon.”

“YOU DON’T EXIST!” yelled Cole. He kicked at the microbiologist, sent his pardon flying. “ YOU’RE NOT REAL! HA HA HA! PEOPLE DON’T TRAVEL IN TIME! YOU AREN’T HERE! I MADE YOU UP! YOU AREN’T HERE! I MADE YOU UP! YOU CAN’T TRICK ME! YOU’RE IN MY MIND! I’M INSANE AND YOU’RE MY INSANITY! ”

Hysterical laughter filled the room as the scientists backed toward the door. “YOU CAN’T TRICK ME!” shrieked Cole. “NOT ANYMORE!”

“I think Mr. Cole is tired,” the microbiologist said pointedly to one of the guards. “I think perhaps we need to help him sleep again.”

Nodding, the guard held up a needle and began to struggle with Cole until he had him pinioned to the bed.

“There,” the microbiologist murmured, standing alone in the doorway. “That’s better. We don’t blame you for getting excited, James — pardons don’t come every day. But now, I think it would be best for you to rest now — rest for just as long as you can.”

Kathryn had Dr. Fletcher cornered in his office. The chief of psychiatry looked distinctly uncomfortable in his swivel chair. He removed his tinted glasses, wiped them with a tissue, replaced them on his nose, then a moment later performed the whole little ritual all over again.

“He not only used the word ‘prank,’ he said the boy was hiding in the barn,” Kathryn said intensely.

Fletcher nodded, began tapping his pen on his desk. “He kidnapped you, Kathryn,” he said when she paused for breath. “You saw him murder someone. You knew there was a real possibility he would kill you, too. You were under tremendous emotional stress.”

“For God’s sake, Owen, listen to me — he knew about the boy in Fresno and he says five billion people are going to die!”

Fletcher sighed. He held his pencil in both hands, staring fixedly at her. He’d seen patients like this before, even one or two residents, but never someone on his staff. Certainly not someone who, until recently, he had perceived to be as level-headed as Kathryn Railly. After a moment he leaned forward, hands extended imploringly.

“Kathryn, you know he can’t possibly know that. You’re a rational person. You’re a trained psychiatrist. You know the difference between what’s real and what’s not.”

“And what we believe is what’s accepted as truth now, isn’t it, Owen?” Kathryn exploded. “Psychiatry — it’s the latest religion! And we’re the priests — we decide what’s right and what’s wrong. We decide who’s crazy and who isn’t.”

She whirled and started for the door, stopped and cast one last look back at Fletcher where he sat, his degrees and awards and citations glowing on the wall behind him like so many little windows. “Well, you know what, Owen?” she said, her voice low and shaking. “I’m in trouble. I’m losing my faith.”

Dr. Fletcher sighed again as the door slammed behind her.

Alone in his room, Cole twisted on the bed, trying to free himself from his restraints. Whatever drug they had given him had worn off and left him feeling murderous. He could almost bring one tied wrist over the bedrail, where a rusted hinge rose like a jagged tooth. If he could reach that he might be able to saw the restraint in two, and then…

“You sure fucked up, Bob!”

Cole grew rigid. He glanced quickly around the empty room, the sad excuses for art on the filthy walls, then once more moved his arm against the rusted bedrail.

“But I can understand you don’t want your mistakes pointed out to you,” the hoarse voice went on gleefully. “I can relate to that, Bob.”

In spite of himself, Cole hesitated and looked around again. The room was empty.

“Hey, I know what you’re thinking,” the voice rasped. “You’re thinking I don’t exist except in your head. I can see that point of view. But you could still talk to me, couldn’t you? Carry on a decent conversation.”

Cole’s eyes widened. “I saw you!” he cried. “In the real world! You pulled out your teeth.”

“Why would I pull out my teeth, Bob?” the voice chastened him. “They don’t like that. That’s a no-no. And when did you say you saw me — in 1872?”

The voice cackled as Cole screamed, “FUCK YOU!”

“Yelling won’t get you what you want. You have to be smart to get what you want.”

“Oh, yeah?” panted Cole. “What do I want?”

“You don’t know what you want? Sure you do, Bob. You know what you want.”

“Tell me,” cried Cole. He rocked back and forth on the metal bed. “Tell me what I want.”

Silence. Then, in a suggestive tone, the voice answered.

“To see the sky — and the ocean. To be topside. Breathe the air. To be with her. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you want?”

Utterly shaken, Cole held his breath for a long moment. When he finally spoke, he could scarcely hear his own words.

“More… than… anything,” he whispered.

That night Kathryn slept fitfully, her dreams all of struggle and flight, the horizon filled with burning clouds and the figure of a muscular man, hair shorn and face bloodied, fleeing across a ravaged landscape. When the phone rang she sat up with a gasp, immediately wide awake.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Railly? Jim Halperin, Philly PD. Sorry to call so early but—”

She clutched the phone eagerly to her face. “You found him? Is he all right?”

A beat. Then, “ Au contraire , Doctor. No sign of you good friend the kidnapper. However, the plot thickens. I have a report on my desk that says the bullet you claim you removed from Mr. Cole’s thigh is an antique, and…”

Halperin paused, Kathryn’s heart began to thump dangerously fast. “… and all indications are it was fired sometime prior to 1920.”

Kathryn stiffened, stared at her rumpled bed.

“So what I was thinking, Dr. Railly, was how ‘bout I take a little spin down there and maybe we could have a bite to eat and maybe you might wanna revise or amplify your statement… Hello? Hello? Dr. Railly?”

Kathryn held the phone at arm’s length, still gazing at it in horror, then very slowly replaced it in the cradle. She sat for a minute, trying to slow her racing heart, then abruptly stood and hurried into her study. She went to the bookcase that held all of her research for The Doomsday Syndrome and frantically began pulling down the neatly arranged piles of papers and books, throwing them across the floor. Finally she found what she was searching for: a manila folder crammed with old photographs. With shaking hands she rummaged through it, spilling negatives and faded 8 X 10s, until her fingers closed on a sepia-toned print.

“No!”

The room’s silence shattered as she held up the photograph, an uncropped shot of a young Latino man being carried on a stretcher through the trenches of World War I France. In the corner of the photo, with no helmet, no gas mask, and just a bit of bare shoulder showing, crouched James Cole.

In the scientist’s conference room, Cole met his masters: the microbiologist with the hidden eyes; the zoologist, even now staring at him with pity, her hands neatly clasped in her lap; the earnest silver-haired astrophysicist, nervously tugging his single gold earring. At the far end of the conference table were the other scientists, silent and grim. Cole stood in front of them all, clean-shaven, clear-eyed, gazing unabashed into the microbiologist’s scowling face.