Elizabeth Hand - 12 Monkeys

Kathryn shook his arm desperately. “James, if we’re identified, they’re going to send us someplace — but not to Key West!”

All of a sudden he snapped out of it. “Right! You’re right — I have to fix it.” He stroked his mustache and nodded.

“I’ll get the tickets and meet you—” Kathryn glanced at the top of the escalator, then at a small arcade at its bottom “—in the gift shop.”

Cole waited until she started for the escalator, watching her long-legged stride and tight skirt attract admiring leers from a group of boys in matching college sweats. Then he headed for the men’s room.

He was almost there when he saw the pay phones, a long line of glass-and-steel cubicles against the wall. Business travelers were hunched in all the alcoves but one. Cole hesitated, took another step, and stopped. He bit his lip, felt his mustache move another fraction of an inch. Quickly he pushed it back into place. He nodded to himself, jamming his hand in his pocket, and hurried for the empty booth. He slid several coins awkwardly into the slot, waited, then dialed, listening as an answering machine clicked on. When the message ended he began to talk into the phone curtly in a very low voice, his expression extraordinarily intense.

“This is Cole, James. Listen. I don’t know whether you’re there or not. Maybe you just clean carpets. If you do, you’re lucky — you’re gonna live a long, happy life. But — if you other guys exist and you’re picking this up — forget about the Army of the Twelve Monkeys. They didn’t do it. It was a mistake! Someone else did it. The Army of the Twelve Monkeys is just a bunch of dumb kids playing revolutionaries.”

Glancing around nervously, he caught the businessman at the next phone quickly averting his eyes. Cole touched his loose mustache again, talking into the phone in an urgent whisper.

“I’ve done my job. I did what you wanted. Good luck. I’m not coming back.”

He hung up and looked around again, saw several people staring at him curiously. Ducking his head, he headed quickly for the men’s room.

Inside, Cole stood with his head bowed in front of a sink. He washed his hands methodically as he waited for another traveler to leave. The PA system droned as the other man finished up, gave Cole a quizzical look, and left.

As soon as he was gone, Cole glanced around. Seeing no one else he withdrew the tube of spirit gum from his pocket, squirted some of the goop under the loose edge of his mustache, and pressed it firmly against his face. He leaned up against the mirror, squinting to make sure it would remain in place this time.

“Got yourself a prob, Bob?” a familiar voice rasped.

With a choked gasp, Cole whirled, looking around frantically for the source of the voice. Nothing — until at the bottom of one stall he spotted a pair of wing tip shoes peeking from beneath dropped trousers.

“Leave me alone!” cried Cole. “I made a report. I didn’t have to do that.”

The voice gave a throaty, ominous chuckle. “Point of fact, Bob — you don’t belong here. It’s not permitted to let you stay.”

Cole shouted his reply above the gurgling thunder of a flushing toilet. “This is the present! This is not the past. This is not the future. This is right now! ”

The door of the occupied stall swung open. Out stepped a plump businessman, his eyes fixed warily on Cole as he gave him a wide berth on his way to the sink.

“I’m staying here!” Cole yelled. “You go that? You can’t stop me! ”

Changing his mind, the man skirted the sink and made straight for the door. “Anything you say, chief,” he said in a reedy, high-pitched voice. “It’s none of my business.”

Cole looked after him, dismayed, then turned and peered under the other stalls, looking for signs of life. Had he imagined the voice? Was this the beginning of another one of his terrible dreams? He fled the men’s room, intent only on finding Kathryn and not leaving her side again.

Back in the main terminal it was even more crowded than it had been just a few minutes earlier. The echoing announcements of flights continued almost without pause. Cole looked around, shaken. Keeping his head down, he started for the escalator, hoping to intercept Kathryn there. Suddenly someone grabbed his shoulder from behind.

“You gotta be crazy, man!”

He tried to shake loose, turned and saw a young Puerto Rican man in a Raiders jacket, sideways baseball cap, and mirrored sunglasses.

“Jo — Jose?” Cole stammered.

Jose shook his head seriously as people brushed past them. “Pulling out the teeth, man — that was nuts! Here, take this—”

He edged closer to Cole, trying to slide a 9mm pistol into his hand. Cole stared at him in disbelief and pulled away.

“ What? What for? Are you crazy?” He batted at Jose’s hand, glancing around with wild eyes. Frustrated, Jose shoved the gun back under his jacket, then grabbed Cole’s arm tightly.

“Me? Are you kiddin’? You’re the one!” His eyes glittered as he gazed into Cole’s face. “You were a hero, man. They gave you a pardon! And whadda you do? You come back and fuck with your teeth! Wow!” Jose’s voice died into admiring astonishment.

“How did you find me?”

Jose edged closer to Cole, letting a cloud of Hare Krishnas float by. “The phone call, man,” he said in a low voice. “The phone call. They did their reconstruction thing on it.”

“The call I just made?” Cole asked incredulously. “Five minutes ago?”

Jose shrugged. “Hey, five minutes ago, thirty years ago! They just put it together.”

He made his tone deeper, imitating Cole. ‘This is Cole, James. I don’t know whether you’re there or not. Maybe you just clean carpets.’ Ha ha.” He elbowed Cole, shaking his head ruefully. “Clean carpets? Where’d you get that? ‘Forget about the Army of the Twelve Monkeys.’ If they coulda got your message earlier…”

Jose’s voice died. He looked at Cole, his face torn between anger and a certain wistfulness, and once again pressed the pistol into his hand. “Here — take it, man! You could still be a hero if you’d cooperate!”

Cole pushed him away and half walked, half ran to the escalator. He stepped on, hugging himself to the railing as the stairs slid downward, trying to ignore Jose.

“Come on, Cole, don’t be an asshole,” he begged. Cole stared stonily ahead of him, trying to will his heart to slow its pounding. For a long moment both were silent. Then:

“Look, I got orders, man!” Jose blurted. “You know what I’m s’posed to do if you don’t go along? I’m s’posed to shoot the lady! You got that? They said, ‘If Cole don’t obey this time, Garcia, you gotta shoot his girlfriend!’”

Stunned, Cole spun around to face his friend.

“I got no choice, man,” pleaded Jose. “These are my orders. Just take it, okay?”

Cole shook his head, mouth open to speak, but no words came. He turned away from Jose, staring numbly at the Up escalator beside them — and saw there the microbiologist, his face hidden by square black glasses, his spare frame clad in a sober business suit. As Cole watched, he lifted his glasses and gazed implacably at him with narrowed eyes the color of dirty ice as the escalator carried him away. Very slowly, Cole turned back to Jose on the step behind him.

“This part isn’t about the virus, is it?” His face showed nothing as Jose slid the gun into his hand.

“Hey, man—”

“It’s about obeying, about doing what you’re told.” The escalator reached the bottom and Cole stumbled off.

“They gave you a pardon, man,” Jose called after him imploringly. “Whaddya want?”