Elizabeth Hand - 12 Monkeys

“Secret experiments!” someone whispered in a hoarse voice.”

Kathryn whirled, fists drawn defensively to her chest. If front of her stood the same toothless street person she had seen there days before.

“That’s what they do!” he explained triumphantly. “ Secret weird stuff! ”

“You! I know you!”

The bum shuffled past her, studying the pictures of tortured animals on the storefront. “Not just on ‘em,” he said thoughtfully, poking at one poster with a scabby finger. “Do ‘em on people, too — down at the shelters. I know ,” he added in a conspiratorial aside. “Feed ‘em chemicals and take pictures of ‘em.”

Kathryn nodded her head quickly, agreeing with him. “Have you seen James Cole? The man who—”

“They’re watchin’ you,” the bum whispered. His eyes moved toward the street. “Takin’ pictures.”

Kathryn followed his look. Across the street, beside an overflowing trash can, was parked the familiar old Ford with Detective Dalva slouched behind the wheel, pretending to read a newspaper.

“The police. I know.” Kathryn brushed her hair from her eyes and took a step toward the derelict. “Listen, I need to talk to James, but he has to be careful how he contacts me. He mustn’t get caught. Do you understand me?”

The weather-beaten man eyed her warily through red-rimmed eyes. “Uh, yeah, sure. Who’s James?”

“He was with me, he spoke to you,” said Kathryn, her voice growing agitated. “Several weeks ago. He said you were from the future — watching him.”

The man sucked his cheeks in, eyebrows raised, and started to back away from her. “Uh, I don’t think so,” he said nervously. “I think maybe you got the wrong—”

Just then, two skinhead boys on skateboards slammed around the corner, tagging their way along the filthy sidewalk with cans of spray paint. Kathryn watched, then without a word raced toward them. The derelict turned and fled.

At the window of the Freedom For Animals Association headquarters, one intense brown eye blinked, then turned away.

“You get the bolt cutters?” called Jeffrey, reading from a checklist.

“One dozen. They’re in the van,” answered Teddy.

“Hey!” Bee excitedly beckoned the others to the window. “Do you know what she’s doing?”

Teddy and Fale hurried to the window and peered out. Barely three feet away stood Kathryn Railly, spray-painting the front of the store.

“What’s it say?” wondered Teddy.

Bee shook her head. “I can’t see it.”

Jeffrey slammed down his checklist and shouted, “WHY DON’T WE FORGET MY GODDAMN PSYCHIATRIST AND DEAL WITH THE TASK AT HAND! THIS IS IMPORTANT!”

Fale spun around. “ Your psychiatrist?

Jeffrey looked at him balefully and retrieved his list. “Ex-psychiatrist! Now, what about flashlights? How many flashlights?”

Fale shook his head, pointing at the window. “That woman is — was — your psychiatrist? And now she’s spray-painting our building?”

Jeffrey shrugged. “Rent a fucking life, Fale. And while you’re at it, find our goddamn flashlights.”

On the sidewalk, Kathryn darted back and froth, shaking and waving the can of spray paint as she wrote in sweeping letters across the walled-up storefront. A small crowd of street people inched up behind her, their amazement mirrored by that of Detective Dalva in his old Ford.

“I don’t fucking believe this,” he murmured. He grabbed his clipboard and scribbled something on a sheet of paper, never moving his eyes from Kathryn. “She really is a fruitcake.”

A white-haired drunk swayed beside Kathryn, pronouncing each letter aloud. The two punks who’d sold her the spray paint buzzed past on their boards, shouting derisively. She never glanced back, just continued like a woman possessed, heedless of black paint spattering her clothes and face. And so she didn’t see the newcomer shambling through the knot of onlookers, a broad-shouldered white man in shabby clothes and close-cropped hair, blinking as though the feeble winter sunlight hurt his eyes. When he was a few feet away from Kathryn he stopped, shading his eyes with his hands, and stared at her in astonishment.

“Kathryn!”

She whipped around, the crowd scattering as flacks of paint sprayed across them.

“James!”

He started toward her, arms outstretched piteously. But before he reached her, Kathryn looked past him to where Detective Dalva sat watching the two of them with renewed interest.

“James!” she hissed urgently, cocking a thumb at the worn-out car. “That’s a policeman! Pretend you don’t know me. If he sees you…”

“No.” Cole turned and stared directly at the car. “I want to turn myself in! Where is he?”

He placed his hands on his head and gave Kathryn an earnest look. “Don’t worry — it’s all okay now. I’m not crazy anymore! I mean, I am crazy, mentally divergent actually, but I know it now, and I want you to help me. I want to get well.”

Kathryn grabbed his hands, trying desperately to pull them from his head as she sought to block the detective’s view of Cole.

“James! Put your hands down and listen to me. Things have changed!” She glanced back frantically at the car, saw Dalva reach for his clipboard and hold up a photograph. He checked the image against Cole standing on the sidewalk, then reached for his radio mike. Kathryn fought back a cry, tossed aside her spray can and grabbed Cole, trying to pull him after her.

“James, come on! We have to get out of here now —”

But Cole didn’t move. Instead he looked from the spray can rolling on the sidewalk to the wall that Railly had painted. Shaky black letters covered plywood and taped-up glass and old brick.

“I’ve — I’ve seen that before,” he whispered.

Kathryn shook her head. “James, trust me. We’re in terrible trouble. We have to run—”

She dragged him along the sidewalk past several bemused onlookers. Cole’s eyes remained fixed on the wall but Kathryn stumbled along like a madwoman, her hair disheveled, black paint flecked on her clothes. As they turned the corner, the Ford suddenly shot from it’s space. It made a sharp U-turn, nearly colliding with a passing delivery van in a harsh squeal of brakes and blaring horns.

Inside the storefront, Fale stood behind Bee, frowning. “ Now what’s happening?” he demanded.

Bee shook her head in amazement. “Wow. Some guy in a Ford is chasing her and some other guy I can’t see.”

From outside came shouted curses and another peal of brakes. Turning from the window, Fale threw up his hands in disgust.

“Hey, no problem! ” he cried. “It’s probably just another kidnapping featuring Jeffrey’s shrink , pardon me, make that ex -shrink—”

The others stopped what they were doing to look up at him, standing now in the middle of the room and pointing at Jeffrey. “ This is your leader,” yelled Fale, “a certifiable lunatic who told his former psychiatrist all his plans for God knows what wacko irresponsible schemes, and now who knows what she’s painted out there on our wall? ”

Jeffrey crossed the room to Fale and jabbed him in the stomach with his finger. “WHO CARES WHAT PSYCHIATRISTS WRITE ON WALLS?” Bee and Teddy backed away as he went on, “You think I told her about the Army of the Twelve Monkeys? Impossible! Know why, you pathetically ineffectual and pusillanimous pretend-friend-to-animals? I’ll tell you why — because when I had anything to do with her six years ago , there was no such thing — I hadn’t even thought of it yet! ”