12 Monkeys

4

A short while later he made his way back down the road. After he’d gone about a hundred yards, he swung over the wall and cut through the woods, moving stealthily through the shadows until he saw below him the mansion’s circular drive. More cars were parked here, and two well-built men in black business suits patrolled them vigilantly, pausing every now and then to have a cigarette. Cole waited until they were on the far end of the let, then ran in an awkward half-crouch from the cover of the bare trees, grimacing as his injured leg banged against a stone. A minute later he was rolling beneath a red Mercedes, his heart hammering inside him and his breath coming in hard gasps.

“They find him?”

Cole sprawled beneath the car. Gravel dug into his chest and arms, lodged painfully around Kathryn Railly’s bandage. A few feet away, close enough that he could have grabbed him if he wanted to, one of the men paused. Cole watched as the man’s shiny black shoes kicked idly at the gravel, then ground out a smoldering cigarette.

“Find who?” A second pair of feet joined the first.

“That kid. The one in the pipe.”

Harsh laughter from the second man. “You believe this? They’re dropping a monkey down there with a miniature infrared camera strapped on him and a roast beef sandwich wrapped in tin foil.”

The other man guffawed. “You’re making that up!”

“I shit you not.” Cole let his breath out as the voices began to recede and the two pairs of feet faded into the shadows at the other end of the drive. “Man, life is weird! A monkey and a sandwich.”

Without a sound, Cole rolled out form under the Mercedes and under the car in front of it. His eyes remained fixed on the small bright oblong that was the side entrance to the mansion. He never saw his pistol, lying in the gravel beneath the red Mercedes behind him.

Inside his father’s house, Jeffrey Goines sat grinning in the formal dining room, listening to his father speak. Around him were forty-odd other guests, elegantly attired in black tie and evening gowns, the sea of black broken here and there by a sequined dress, the crimson slash of a cummerbund. Jeffrey took another sip of champagne and gazed longingly at the untouched desert in front of the woman beside him. Some captain of industry’s anorexic trophy wife, an aspiring model who might weigh one hundred pounds, if you counted the rack of diamonds around her neck. He toyed with the idea of just taking her plate — it was sinful, really, to waste chocolate profiteroles like that, not to mention Raoul’s sublime raspberry trifle.

A wave of laughter brought his attention back to the head of the table where Leland Goines stood. He was truly an imposing figure in his tux, over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, with silvery hair and ice-blue eyes. Leland waited until the laughter subsided, then went on in his rich, deep voice.

“Would that I could enjoy this opulent dinner and this excellent and stimulating company for itself, with no sense of purpose,” he said, gesturing grandly around the table. “But, alas, I am burdened with the sense that with all this excess of public attention and this cacophony of praise, there comes great responsibility. Indeed, I practically feel a soapbox growing under my feet whenever I stand for more than a few seconds.”

More knowing laughter from the guests. Jeffrey bared his teeth in a false smile.

“Oh, ha,” he said, and deftly speared a profiterole from his neighbor’s plate.

“The dangers of science are a time-worn threat,” Dr. Goines continued, “from Prometheus stealing fire from the gods to the Cold War era of the Dr. Strangelove terror.”

From a doorway at the far end of the room entered a scowling man in a black suit. His gaze darted across the long table, taking in the rows of rapt faces. After a minute he sighted the object of his search.

“Mr. Goines,” a low voice came from behind Jeffrey.

Jeffrey hastily swallowed his chocolate, dabbing his mouth with a napkin as he craned his neck to see who was calling him.

“Yeah?”

The black-clad man bent to whisper in Jeffrey’s ear. At the head of the table, Leland Goines gathered steam, his voice rising and falling in evangelical fervor.

“But never before — not even at Los Alamos, when the scientists made bets on whether their first atomic bomb test would wipe out New Mexico — never before has science given us so much reason to fear the power we have at hand.”

Now it was Jeffrey’s turn to scowl, staring in disbelief at the man standing beside him. “What are you talking about?” he said loudly. “What friend? I’m not expecting anyone.”

Heads turned to see what the disturbance was. Dr. Goines frowned, irritated at being interrupted. He raised a hand and went on, even louder than before.

“Current genetic engineering as well as my own work with viruses has presented us with powers as terrifying as any—”

With an apologetic look at the woman beside him, Jeffery got up from his seat. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbled. His chair squeaked noisily and he knocked over a dessert spoon. “My father is making a major address.”

He followed the man into a dimly lit hallway leading to the library. “Plus,” Jeffrey went on heatedly, “you Secret Service guys, I thought it was your job to screen people.”

The agent stared resolutely ahead of them. “Normally if we caught a guy sneaking around like this with no ID, we’d bust his ass, excuse the French. But his one said he knows you—” the agent smirked and, since you seem to have had some, uh, unusual, uh — associates — we certainly didn’t want to arrest one of your, uh, closest pals.”

They found the library. Its heavy mahogany doors were open, showing off a man-high arrangement of oriental lilies in glowing shades of orange, crimson, yellow. Only a few ambient lights were on, illuminating a gallery of small Illuminist paintings, a glass case holding rare books. In a leather wingback chair by the fireplace sat James Cole, staring at the floor. His arms and flannel shirt were smeared with dirt and car grease. Behind him another black-suited agent stood guard. Jeffrey crossed the room, absently fiddling with his bow tie. He gave Cole a cursory glance, then turned to go.

“Never saw him before in my life,” he said, stifling a yawn, and shot the two agents a parting look. “Now I’m going back and listen to my father’s very eloquent discourse on the perils of science while you torture this intruder to death — or whatever it is you guys do,” he finished, stepping out the door.

Cole lifted his head. “I’m here about some monkeys.”

Jeffrey froze. For a moment he was silent. Then:

“Excuse me — what did you say?”

“Monkeys,” Cole repeated. He got to his feet. “Twelve of them.”

Jeffrey frowned, studying Cole. Suddenly, with a cry, he ran across the room and embraced him.

“Arnold! Arnold.”

Cole looked at him in astonishment. So did the two Secret Service agents. Jeffrey drew back, his hands still on Cole’s arms, and considered him more carefully. “My God, Arnie, what’s happened to you? You look like shit!”

One of the agents eyed Cole dubiously. “You know this man?”

Jeffrey glared at him. “Of course I know him. What do you think — I act like this to strangers?” He turned back to Cole. “Christ, Arnie, it’s black tie! I mean, I said ‘drop by,’ but, like, this is Dad’s big ‘do’! VIPs, senators, Secret Service — the whole ball of wax.”

He threw an arm over Cole’s shoulder, nearly sending Cole off balance, and started leading him to the door. The two agents exchanged narrow-eyed looks.

“Arnie?” one repeated.

Jeffrey gave him a fetching smile. “Arnold Pettibone. Old Arnie Pettibone,” he said fondly, punching Cole’s arm. “Used to be my best friend. Still is.” He pinched Cole’s cheek. “What’ve you lost, Arnie? — forty pounds? No wonder I don’t know you. You hungry?”

With a grin Jeffrey steered him into the hall. Cole limped beside him, occasionally putting a hand against the wall to keep himself straight and leaving a trail of dark smudges. “We got all kinds of food,” Jeffrey babbled cheerily. “Lots of dead cow, dead lamb, dead pig. Real killer feast we’re putting on tonight!”

The Secret Service agents watched them go down the hall, disheveled Cole supported by Jeffrey in his new tux.

“These people — all of ‘em — are true weirdos!”

The other agent nodded, unamused. “I’m gonna call in a description of this ‘Pettibone’ character. You go keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t do one of the guests with a fork.”

At the end of the hallway, guests were pouring from the dining hall. Cole stared at them with rising panic, but Jeffrey waved at them gleefully.

“Hey, nice ta see ya! Lookin’ good! Hi there. Yes, it has been a long time…”

He maneuvered Cole adroitly through the crowd toward a grand, sweeping staircase that circled up through the mansion’s three stories. Behind them, moving with great care through the elegant mob, a Secret Service agent observed the two warily.

“…yeah, it’s been a slice! Ta, darling!” Jeffrey wiggled the fingers of his free hand at a departing guest, then turned his megawatt gaze on Cole. “County Hospital, right?” he whispered excitedly. “1990. The ‘Immaculate Escape’… am I right?”

Cole shook his head. “Listen to me. I can’t do anything about what you’re going to do. I can’t change anything. I can’t stop you. I just want some information.”

Jeffrey nodded eagerly. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice suddenly ripe with conspiracy. “Come on. Upstairs—”

A passing guest eyed them curiously as Jeffrey led Cole up the grand staircase. Jeffrey stopped, flinging his arms up in a triumphant “V” for victory.

“I am a new person!” he cried. “I’m completely adjusted! Witness the tux—” He tugged proudly at his lapels. “Designer.” The guest hurried in the opposite direction, and Jeffrey lowered his head beside Cole’s.

“Who chattered?” he whispered. “Bruhns? Weller?”

Cole’s burning eyes were as intense as Jeffrey’s. “I just need to have access to the pure virus, that’s all!” he said desperately. “For the future!”

Jeffrey paused, did a double take. He narrowed his eyes, taking in Cole’s frantic expression, his torn clothes and injured leg.

“Come on, follow me,” he said at last, shaking his head. “You don’t look so good.”

Cole let Jeffrey lead him, but cast frequent looks backward, to where the crowd was thinning out. Near the dining room door the two Secret Service agents stood, staring at Cole with undisguised interest. The took a deep breath and turned back to Jeffrey.

“I need to know where it is and exactly what it is.”

Jeffrey nodded excitedly. “I get it! This is your old plan, right?”

“Plan?” Cole’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“Remember? We were in the dayroom, watching TV, and you were all upset about the desecration of the planet. And you said to me, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if there was a germ or a virus that could wipe out mankind and leave the plants and animals just as they are?’ You do remember that, don’t you?”

Cole frowned, swiped at a bead of sweat trickling down his face. “You’re — you’re trying to confuse me.”

Jeffrey moved faster up the stairs, his voice rising. “And that’s when I told you my father was this famous virologist and you said, ‘Hey, he could make a germ and we could steal it!’”

Cole grabbed him, so that Jeffrey thudded into the banister. “The thing mutates!” he said through clenched teeth. “We live underground! The world belongs to the dogs and cats. We’re like moles or worms. All we want to do is study the original—”

A steely grip suddenly locked onto Cole’s shoulder and spun him around.

“Okay, take it easy. We know who you are, Mr. Cole.”

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?”

Kathryn stared at him. She felt her fear and rage fall away, her professional detachment rising like a shield. She nodded, very slowly.

“What made you think that, James?” she asked in a soothing voice.

Cole’s balled fists drummed nervously at his sides. He lifted his face and stared blankly at the moonlit sky. “Jeffrey Goines said it was my idea about the virus. And suddenly, I wasn’t sure. We talked about it when I was in the institution, and it was all… fuzzy. The drugs and stuff…”

Abruptly he looked at her, his fists bunched before his chest. “You think maybe I’m the one who wiped out the human race? It was my idea?”

Kathryn shook her head, smiling gently. She was in control again. “Nobody is going to wipe out the human race. Not you or Jeffrey or anybody else. You’ve created something in your mind, James —a substitute reality — in order to avoid something you don’t want to face.”

James nodded. Unbidden the image came into his mind of the airport, a blurred figure falling to the ground; something terrible he had seen, something—”

The image was gone. Cole blinked. “I’m… ‘mentally divergent’” he said, remembering L.J. Washington’s term. “I would love to believe that.”

Kathryn nodded. “It can be dealt with, but only if you want to. I can help you, James,” she added softly.

From somewhere in the near distance echoed the sound of voices in the woods, barking dogs. Cole’s gaze darted to where the road could be glimpsed at the edge of the clearing. “I need help all right. They’re after me! Chasing me!”

“Who, James? Who is after you?”

He gestured in the direction of the noise. “I think — I think some of the people at the party were — policemen!”

“Party?” Kathryn looked at him in disbelief. “You went to a—”

She ran a hand through her hair, grimacing. “Never mind. If that is the police, it’s important that you surrender to them, instead of them catching you running. Okay?”

Cole nodded, only half hearing her. Suddenly he brightened. “It would be great if I’m crazy. If I’m wrong about everything then the world will be okay. I’ll never have to live underground.”

A hound bayed unnervingly nearby. Kathryn glanced into the woods. Flashlights played against the bare trees, touched on a boulder only a hundred feet away. She took a deep breath. “Give me the gun.”

The gun!” Cole opened his hands, stared at them in dismay. “I lost it.”

Relief flooded Kathryn. “You’re sure?”

Cole nodded. He tilted his head back, gazing up at the glowing moon, the stars flung like handfuls of snow across the velvety sky. “Stars! Air!” he whispered reverently. “I can live here! Breathe!”

For a moment Kathryn watched him: a grown man, a psychotic ex-con in torn and bloodstained clothes, staring at the sky like a child on Christmas Eve. A sharp sad sense of loss swept through her, but she pushed it aside.

It’s better this way, she thought. It has to be better…

She started around to the front of the car. “I’m going to attract their attention, let them know where we are, okay, James?” She got into the driver’s seat and honked the horn — once, twice, again. A volley of frenzied yelps came in reply. “They’ll tell you to put your hands on top of your head,” she went on briskly. “Do what they tell you. You’re going to get better, James — I know it!”

Cole said nothing. He raised his arms to the sky, an instant later let them fall. He looked down at the ground at his feet, saw something poking up through the dead leaves. Awkwardly, trying not to put too much weight on his bad leg, he lowered himself, reaching tentatively for the pale blade that thrust up amongst twigs and oak mast. Moonlight drifted through the trees to touch a crocus, its tiny leaves peeling back to reveal the flower’s small bright heart. With heartbreaking gentleness Cole touched the blossom, its cool, slightly damp pressure like a tiny mouth meeting his finger. With a low moan his hands closed around dead leaves, brought them to his face and rubbed them over his cheeks. He inhaled their sweet must, opened his lips so that crumbled bits of leaf and earth and bark fell into his mouth, and swallowed them, half-mad with joy. As the Jag’s horn blared, he gazed up at the sky, the full moon and stars and trees and all the glory of it: this breathless wonder, this dream he had somehow awakened into. He began to weep, tears running down his face and mingling with the fragments of tree and leaf.

“I love this world!”

From the woods came a sudden shout. Cole stared rapturously at the sky as Kathryn hurried out of the car and started toward him.

“Remember, I’m going to help you,” she said. “I’ll stay with you. I won’t let them—”

She broke off in mid-sentence, staring stunned as policemen and yelping dogs raced into the clearing.

Cole was gone. Where he had been there was only a small mound of disturbed leaves, and the fragile finger of a yellow crocus thrusting from the earth.