Elizabeth Hand - 12 Monkeys

Cole said nothing. He shoved the pistol into his trouser pocket and started walking blindly toward the gift shop, Jose running to keep up.

At the ticket counter, Kathryn stood in line, her eyes unreadable behind her sunglasses, her mouth twisted into a tight rictus of a smile. In front of her, a cluster of tourists traveling together finally finished their business and moved away. Kathryn stepped up, trying to look like someone beginning the vacation of a lifetime.

“Judy Simmons,” she said brightly. “I have reservations for Key West.”

The ticket agent flashed her an automatic smile and punched numbers into a computer. “Here you are,” she announced as the printer began spitting out tickets. “And how will you be paying for this?”

Kathryn’s stomach churned, her mouth felt sore from smiling. “Like this!” she said cheerfully, pulling a stack of bills from her wallet.

The agent laughed. “Ooooh — we don’t see a lot of this . Cash, I mean.”

Kathryn made a funny little face. “It’s a long story.”

The agent counted out the bills, made a final pass at the keyboard, and handed over the tickets. “They’ll begin boarding in about twenty minutes,” she said, smiling. “Have a nice flight, Mrs. Simmons.”

Kathryn turned away, too quickly, hoping that the agent wouldn’t notice her shaking hands, and immediately dropped the tickets. The woman in line behind her edged past as she frantically tried to gather everything. Breathless, Kathryn got back to her feet, leaning precariously on her high heels and praying that her wig hadn’t slipped. She glanced back at the line to see if anyone had noticed, but everyone was arranged much as before, their faces ranging from impatience to indifference as they nudged their luggage across the floor. Hurriedly she stepped away and nearly tripped on something; when she glanced down, she saw her heel entangled in the strap of a bulky Chicago Bulls bag.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, excuse me—” she gasped, lifting her foot and stepping away. The bag remained where it was, resting against a leg clad in an unbelievably tack pair of baggy plaid pants. Its owner didn’t even glance at her.

“Excuse me.” Another ticket agent squeezed by as Kathryn tried to get past the line, making sure she didn’t trip over the bag again.

But the bag was gone. Kathryn cast a quick nervous look at the counter, worried that the man might have taken some notice of her. But she saw only those incredible pants, and thinning red hair pulled into a ponytail that formed a limp question mark against the back of the man’s vivid shirt. His Chicago Bulls bag was shoved against the counter in front of him.

“Wooo-eee!’ the ticket agent produced a pile of tickets several inches thick and flipped through them in awe. “San Francisco, New Orleans, Rio de Janeiro, Kinshasa, Karachi, Bangkok, Peking!” That’s some trip you’re taking, sir — all in one week!”

The man shrugged. “Business.”

The agent slid the stack across the counter. “Have a good one, sir.” As the man turned, Kathryn looked away again, then started for the gift shop, her heels beating a rapid tattoo on the floor.

The shop was crowded. Kathryn scanned the faces: no Cole. She looked at her watch, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to go wrong. You’re going to meet him and get on that plane and by tonight you’ll be toasting the sunset on the beach.

She opened her eyes, reconfigured her face with a smile, and stepped over to the travel section. She picked up a book on Key West. Then she sidled over to the magazines.

“ Flight 272 to Houston now boarding at Gate …”

Once more she checked anxiously for the time.

Where is he?

She bit her lip, tasting the unfamiliar chalky taint of lipstick, then walked over to the cash register. She looked down, craning her neck to read the stacks of newspapers piled there, and so she did not see the ponytailed man in front of her, holding the latest Sports Illustrated . Instead she edged closer to the newspapers, frowning as she read the screaming headlines:

Beneath the subhead were two photos. One showed Dr. Leland Goines, his face ashen and strained, being helped from a cage by several policemen. The other photo showed a triumphant Jeffrey Goines, grinning maniacally as he raised his two cuffed hands — one making the “V” for victory, the other flipping the photographer the bird.

“Excuse me—”

She started as a man elbowed her, his bag knocking into her leg. Looking up she frowned.

It was the ponytailed man with the Chicago Bulls bag and the awful pants, the same man she had seen a few minutes earlier at the ticket counter. But now for the first time she could see his face, pasty and rather furtive, wisps of pale red hair sticking across his forehead.

I’ve seen him before, where have I seen him…?

“Next!” urged the man behind the register. Kathryn turned back to the counter as the clerk rang up her magazines.

“That’ll be six ninety-eight.”

She paid him. Then, still bothered, she glanced back in time to see the ponytailed man’s face in silhouette as he paused to scan a newspaper.

She gasped as it came back to her: the crowded reception room at the Breitrose Hall, a lanky red-haired man bullying his way to the table, his scrawled ID card bearing the name DR. PETERS as he announced self-importantly:

“Isn’t it obvious that ‘Chicken Little’ represents the sane vision, and that Homo sapiens’ motto, ‘Let’s go shopping!’ is the cry of the true lunatic?”

For a full minute she stood there, too shocked to move or do anything but watch the ponytailed man saunter off.

“Yo, miss — you mind moving a little?”

Nodding weakly, Kathryn stepped aside as a deliveryman shoved a bundle of newspapers onto the stack beside her. As he walked away she looked down and read:

The photos beneath the banner showed a rhino standing proudly in the middle of gridlocked traffic. Two there photos flanked it. One showed Dr. Goines in the gorilla cage. The other was a file photo of him in his lab, standing beside another man, his white lab coat covering most of a dark T-shirt, his pale hair pulled into a ponytail. As Kathryn stared, uncomprehending at first, the face of Goines’ assistant became clear to her.

He was the man at her lecture. The man in line at the ticket counter.

The man with the ponytail and the Chicago Bulls bag.

“Oh, my God!” she cried aloud, looking around desperately for him.

But Dr. Peters was gone.

“… Flight 784 for San Francisco is now ready for boarding at Gate Thirty-eight .”

In the main terminal, Cole hurried toward the gift shop, his mouth tight as Jose tried to keep up with him.

“Who am I supposed to shoot?” he demanded, but just then Kathryn came running up, clutching her purse and a pile of magazines.

“James! Dr. Goines’ assistant!” she said breathlessly. “He’s an — an apocalypse nut! I think he’s involved.” She gestured wildly at a looming corridor where a line of metal detectors stood, surrounded by travelers and blue-uniformed security guards. “The next flight to San Francisco leaves from Gate Thirty-eight. If he’s there, I’m sure he’s part of it!”

Cole looked down into Kathryn’s strained face, then to look where Jose was stepping backward, melting into the crowd. He had one last glimpse of Jose’s eyes as he pointed at Kathryn and nodded, slowly and with immeasurable gravity. Then he was gone. Abruptly, Cole was yanked away as Kathryn pulled him toward the security checkpoint.