12 Monkeys

7

Through the moonlit trees wafted Jeffrey Goines’ voice, followed by a chorus of angry whispers.

“Christ, Jeffrey, don’t blow it now!”

“Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

The shadowy figures halted beneath a barren oak tree, its branches scraping at the sky. Their voices began to rise angrily again, when from the darkness came a rustling sound, the bellow of some furious creature and then a man’s plaintive voice.

“Where are you? What are you doing to me? Jeffrey, please—”

The voice was cut off by an ominous guttural snarl. In the tangled shadows of the oak, the little cluster of activists drew quickly together.

“Uh, Jeffrey…” came an urgent whisper. “You think maybe—”

Jeffrey’s voice rang out, followed by another snarl, closer this time. “I think we better get the hell outta Dodge,” he cried, and sprinted toward the zoo entrance as an immense shape emerged from the shrubs behind him. The others turned and followed him, racing to the van.

He is standing on the same beach where Jimmy Stewart had stood moments before. In the near distance, waves crash upon the shore. A bird keens overhead. He nudges at the sand with his bare feet, frowning slightly — what does sand feel like? — then looks up. The bird’s cry grows louder, more menacing. He sees that the sky clouded, the sun blotted out by a sudden pandemonium of wings, rustling, thrashing wings and the clatter of metal on metal, cages opening as the sound of birds builds to a screeching crescendo. With a cry Cole lurched forward, bumping his head against the seat in front of him. Moaning, he looked up.

Birds. Everywhere, birds, and a blond woman screaming, crouched in a small room as screeching beaks and wings battered at her upraised arms.

“Kathryn?”

Cole stumbled to his feet, looking around in a panic. The theater was empty.

“Kathryn!”

He fell into the aisle and ran, limping, back toward the lobby. Flickering lights cast a hazy glow on worn flocked wallpaper, the prone figure of the theater’s elderly usher snoring in his velvet chair, peeling posters boasting CLASSICS 24 HOURS A DAY and HITCHCOCK FESTIVAL!!! There were no other moviegoers; only a blond woman talking on the lobby’s pay phone. Cole staggered into the middle of the room, looking around wildly. With a muffled clink the blond hung up the phone, turned, and called to him.

“We’re booked on a nine-thirty flight to Key West.”

Cole stared at her in shock. Kathryn, but not Kathryn; her dark hair was hidden beneath a blond wig, eyes heavily mascaraed and mouth frosted with bright red lipstick. She wore brassy gold costume jewelry around her neck and huge hoop earrings, a tight flowered skirt and blouse, and red high-heeled shoes. Cole shook his head and took a step backward, still looking around as though the real Kathryn might suddenly turn up. That was when he saw his own reflection in one of the lobby’s smoked mirrors: a muscular man in a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, with a mustache and hair as blond as the woman’s. He touched his face, confused, his fingers gingerly feeling the stiff hairs on his upper lip. Finally he turned back to Kathryn, shamefaced.

“I didn’t recognize you.”

She smiled and walked until she stood beside him. “Well, you look pretty different, too.”

“In my dream—” He touched her cheek, gently, moved his hand to caress her temple “— it’s always been you.”

She studied him, her pale eyes serious. “I remember you like this,” she said at last. “I felt I’ve known you before. I feel I’ve always known you.”

They stood gazing at each other, the rippling voices from the movie rising and falling around them like waves. Then, Kathryn backed up, pulling Cole after her as she maneuvered past he sleeping usher, past the abandoned refreshment stand and rows of stanchions, until they reached an unmarked door that stood slightly ajar. Still silent, she pulled the door open and they were inside. In the half-darkness Cole saw plastic trash barrels, brooms, walls covered with old movie posters.

“James…”

She tugged at the shirt she had so carefully dressed him in, pulling it open so that she could run her hands across his chest. He moaned and crushed her to him, tilted her head back until he found her mouth and he kissed her, the two of them collapsing onto the floor amidst the tangled detritus of a thousand dark afternoons and sunless mornings. She moved beneath him and Cole tore her clothes away, the too-bright blouse and jewelry and the golden wig, his hands moving frantically over her body as though to find the other woman, the one he even now feared he had lost, the one he had fought his whole life to find, over and over again.

Afterward they slept, dozing fitfully among the stacks of ancient theater seats. It was Kathryn who woke first, peering worriedly out the closet door and seeing the usher still sound asleep.

“James!” she whispered. “We have to go.”

He stirred, groaning softly, but sat up smiling when he saw her.

“I was dreaming,” he said. “But a different dream, this time. Do you think that means anything?”

She smoothed the front of her skirt, then reached to give Cole’s wig a tug, eyeing him critically. “I think we better get out of here before Sleeping Beauty out there wakes up.”

They crept from the storage closet and made their way back into the theater. The opening credits of Vertigo were rolling again. Hurrying down the aisle they passed another couple, a boy and a girl sleeping soundly in each other’s arms. Cole stared at them wistfully, then turned to Kathryn and smiled.

“Key West, huh? So I’ll finally see the ocean…”

Outside, the first wan light of a winter morning was seeping down the sides of buildings. A delivery truck rolled past, a man in the back hurling newspapers across the sidewalk to land in front of locked doors. From a café down the street came the smells of coffee and baked goods. Cole gazed longingly in that direction, but Kathryn was already striding into the street and flagging down a cab.

“James — over here —.”

Behind the wheel a fiftyish woman with white hair and a plaid jacket greeted him. “Don’t keep the lady waiting, hon,” she drawled in a thick Southern twang. “What time’s your flight, friends?”

Cole shrugged and looked at Kathryn, resplendently blond once more in sunglasses and gleaming lipstick.

“Nine-thirty,” she said, patting Cole’s knee and grinning.

The cab shot out into the street. “Might be tight,” the driver announced.

Kathryn looked startled. “Tight?” She glanced at her wrist. “My watch says seven-thirty.”

The cabbie nodded. “On your normal mornin’, okay, plenty a time, but today, you gotta take inta account your Army-of-the-Twelve-Monkeys factor.”

Kathryn froze. “What? What did you say?”

The cabbie glanced back at them. “Twelve Monkeys, honey. Guess you folks didn’t turn on your radio this morning.” She lit a cigarette, then went on.

“Buncha weirdos let all the animals outta the zoo last night. Then they locked up this big-shot scientist in one of the cages. Scientist’s own kid was one ‘a the ones that did it!” she cackled. Cole and Kathryn stared at her, stunned. “Now they got animals all over the place! Buncha zebras down the Schuykill ‘bout an hour ago and some kinda thing called an ‘ee-moo’ got traffic blocked for miles over on Route 676.”

Kathryn turned wildly to Cole. “That’s all they were up to! Freeing animals!”

Cole began to nod, slowly. “On the walls — they meant the animals when they said, ‘We did it.’”

The cabbie grinned and switched on the radio. With a cry Cole pointed out the window. Kathryn whirled in time to see a neighboring freeway, traffic at a dead standstill, police and traffic helicopters hovering overhead. Down the median strip, their heads moving up and down like those of carousel animals, loped three giraffes.

“—and now we have one of the many animal rights activist who are critical of the so-called Twelve Monkeys—”

A second, angrier voice blared from the speaker. “Can these fools seriously believe that releasing an animal into an urban environment is being compassionate to the animal? It’s mindlessly cruel, almost as indefensible as holding the animal in captivity in the first place.”

Outside, skyscrapers glittered in the morning sun. As Kathryn and Cole watched, a flock of flamingos rose from a thicket and arrowed across the sky. Cole’s hand covered hers as she gazed at the sun-colored birds and whispered, “Maybe it’s going to be okay.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way. When they reached the airport the cabbie waved as Cole and Kathryn slid from the car.

“Watch out for them monkeys,” she drawled.

Kathryn smiled. “Oh, we will.”

The two of them hurried inside, past waiting skycaps and businessmen. The terminal was crowded, enough so that they walked unnoticed past a ticket counter where a paunchy man in plainclothes was handing flyers out to the counter supervisor.

“Thanks, Detective Dalva,” the supervisor said, and studied the photocopied images.

Dalva turned to go. “Tell your people if they spot either one of them, not to try and apprehend them. They should notify us through airport security.” He walked off briskly, disappearing into the crowd.

Not far off, Kathryn paused to scrutinize an information kiosk, teetering somewhat uncomfortably on her high heels. Beside her, Cole stared at the immense terminal stretching all around them, the huge observation windows and knots of people hurrying toward their gates. From overhead a woman’s voice rang out over the PA system.

“Flight 531 for Chicago is now ready for boarding at Gate Seventeen…”

Cole shook his head, shocked. “I know this place! This is my dream!”

Kathryn continued to gaze at the kiosk, frowning. “Airports all look the same,” she said tersely. “Maybe it’s—”

She turned and gasped. “James! Your mustache — it’s slipping.”

“It’s not just my dream,” Cole went on. He didn’t look at her. “I was actually here! I remember now. My parents brought me to meet my uncle. About a week or two before… before… before everyone started dying,” he ended in a whisper.

Kathryn stepped back from the kiosk, glancing around nervously. At the other end of the lobby she spied two uniformed policemen strolling side by side, scanning the faces of passing travelers.

“They may be looking for us, James,” she said quickly. She opened her purse, pulled out a small tube of spirit gum, and handed it to him. “Here — us this to fix your mustache. You can do it in the men’s room.”

But Cole was still staring at the observation windows. “I was here as a kid,” he said, his voice detached, almost dreamy. “I think you were here, too. But you looked just like you look now.”

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?”

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.

“Maybe we can stop him,” she said, her voice thin and unsteady. “Maybe we can actually do something…”

Cole gazed at her, nodding, his eyes pricking with tears as he tried to pull it all into focus one last time: the blond woman, her own pale eyes revealed momentarily as she pulled her sunglasses aside and stared frantically at the security gate; the airport bustling with its first surge of holiday travelers; the observation windows where a line of dark silhouettes stood watching the deceptively calm trajectory of jets across the blue sky.

“I love you, Kathryn,” he whispered. “Remember that…”

She did not look at him, or even seem to have heard him, as she pulled him after her toward the gate.

They joined the line. Cole moved like a sleepwalker, the endless echoing drone of the gate announcements buzzing in counterpoint to the pulsating of his heart. Beside him Kathryn fidgeted, but he watched numbly as each traveler stepped up to the steely arch, setting luggage and pocketbooks and cameras, stuffed animals and skis and all the other detritus of an ordinary day onto the conveyor belt. As they neared the front of the line, he saw a small boy dart in front of his parents, flashing them a grin as he proudly marched through the magnetic archway. In his pocket, Cole’s hand tightened against the butt of the pistol as he watched his six-year-old self walk out of sight, into a future he could never have imagined.

“…Bags face down, please. Face down…”

Beside Cole, Kathryn stood anxiously on tiptoe, trying and failing to get a view beyond the knot of travelers ahead of them.

“Oh, God, we don’t have time for this,” she said.

Where the crowd was thickest several yards away, an airport security guard and a paunchy police detective stood with their backs to the mob, carefully surveying passengers as they bent to retrieve their luggage.

“…Face down, please. Face down…”

A man slung a bulging Chicago Bulls bag onto the belt and moved briskly through the arch. As the bag passed through the X-ray machine, the airline security officer staring at the monitor frowned.

“Excuse me, sir. Would you mind letting me have a look at the contents of your bag?”

On the other side of the arch Dr. Peters stopped, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“Me? Oh, yes, of course. My samples. I have the appropriate papers.”

He stepped aside, glancing placatingly at the suddenly stalled line behind him. The security guard motioned him to a table. Dr. Peters unpacked his bag, lining up six metal cylinders, along with a change of clothes and a Walkman.

“Biological samples,” he explained with an apologetic smile. “I have the paperwork right here—”

He held up a sheaf of official-looking documents. Meanwhile the security officer examined one of the tubes, turning it over in his hands and squinting, puzzled. Finally, he said, “I’m going to have to ask you to open this, sir.”

“Open it?” Dr. Peters blinked stupidly. "Oh! Well, of course—”

He took the metal cylinder and started to unscrew it. Behind them came the sound of raised voices. Dr. Peters paid no attention, but the security officer turned away, scowling.

A woman had stepped from the line and was gesturing excitedly at another guard. A leggy blond woman, wearing flashy clothes and jewelry that even from that distance looked fake. The security officer glanced at where Detective Dalva and the airport detective stood watching the commotion with interest, then turned back to his inspection.

“Here! You see?” With a flourish Dr. Peters pulled a glass tube out of the metal cylinder and held it up to the light. “Biological! Check the papers — it’s all proper. I have a permit.”

The security officer stared at the sealed clear glass tube. “It’s empty!”

Dr. Peters nodded slyly. “Well, yes, to be sure, it looks empty! But I assure you, it’s not.”

From the line came the echo of angry voices. Once again the security officer looked back.

“Please listen to me,” pleaded Kathryn, still arguing with the other guard. “This is very urgent!”

The security officer shook his head patiently, “You’ll have to get in line, ma’am.”

“We’re all in a hurry, lady!” yelled an aggrieved businessman. “What’s so special about you?”

Shrugging, the security officer looked away. “Holidays. They make people crazy, you know?”

Dr. Peters smiled benignly, producing glass tubes from the remaining five cylinders as the security officer examined his paperwork.”

“You see!” Dr. Peters waved a hand at the neat little line of crystal vials. “Also invisible to the naked eye!” Suddenly he grinned and swept up one of the glass tubes. Leaning toward the security officer, he opened it and waved it beneath the man’s nose. “See!” he chuckled. “It doesn’t even have an odor.”

The security officer looked up from the sheaf of papers, glanced at the seemingly empty vial, and smiled.

“That’s not necessary, sir.” He returned the papers. “Here you go. Thanks for your cooperation. Have a good flight.”

Hastily Dr. Peters snatched up all his tubes and vials, shoving them into his gym bag. He glanced back to where the same blond woman was raging at the now-irate security guard.

“Who you calling a moron, lady?”

Suddenly, from behind the woman a blond man stepped: muscular, wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt. “Get your hands off her!” he said in a cold voice.

The security guard backed away from Kathryn, stiffening and glancing over his shoulder for reinforcements. Beside the metal detector, Detective Dalva and the airport detective stood with arms crossed, watching the fracas intently. Suddenly Detective Dalva frowned.

“James…” Kathryn whispered, her hand brushing his arm.

Instinctively Cole reached for his mustache, felt its feathery touch too low on his upper lip. For an instant his eyes linked with the detective’s; then Cole looked away. On the other side of the metal arch, Dr. Peters grabbed his bag and hurried off.

“Hold it! Just a moment—”

Dr. Peters froze, his face suddenly gone white. He turned, slowly, to see the security officer approaching, waving a pair of jockey shorts.

“Sir! You forgot these—”

Dr. Peters grabbed them, stuffing them into his bag as he strode down the windowed concourse toward the gates.

“I said, get your hands off her,” Cole repeated in a steely tone. In front of him the security officer somewhat unsteadily stood his ground. “She’s not a criminal. She’s a doctor — a psychiatrist.”

Kathryn shot him an alarmed look, turning as she heard a flurry of footsteps. A few yards away she recognized the bulky figure of Detective Dalva, several photos clutched in his hand. Behind him the airport detective brandished a walkie-talkie. Desperately she turned back to Cole and spotted Dr. Peters hurrying out of sight.

“THERE HE IS!” she shouted, pointing down the concourse. “THAT MAN! HE’S CARRYING A DEADLY VIRUS! STOP HIM!”

Cole whirled. He saw a ponytailed man hurrying down the hallway, looking back over his shoulder with a pinched, frightened face. A man with a ponytail and baggy plaid pants.

The man from his dream.

“PLEASE, SOMEBODY — STOP HIM!” Kathryn’s voice rose to a shriek as Detective Dalva ran up beside her.

“Police officer,” he gasped, flashing a badge. “Would you step over here, please?”

Before she could move Cole lunged at him, knocking him off balance, then sprinted toward the magnetic arch and through it. With a deafening wail the alarm went off. People murmured, then cried out as the airport security officer dashed after him. Without looking aside Cole slammed his fist into him and sent him crashing to the floor. On the concourse fifty yards ahead, the ashen-faced Dr. Peters looked back to see James Cole yank a pistol from his pocket. On the ground the sprawling officer shouted, horrified.

“He’s got a gun!”

Cole raced on, heedless of terrified travelers screaming and diving for cover in his wake, heedless of the small boy standing before the observation window between his parents, watching in pure wonder as a 737 touched down upon the runway.

Another scream. Brow furrowed, the boy turned, and was knocked backward as a ponytailed man bumped into him.

“Watch it!” the man yelled.

The boy stared wide-eyed as the man clutched a Chicago Bulls gym bag to his chest, pirouetting gracelessly as he ran. An instant later a second man appeared: blond, wild-eyed, a mustache drooping ridiculously from his lip as he waved a pistol. Behind him lunged a uniformed man with another gun, aiming for the blond man as he angled through the crowded passageway.

“NOOOOOO!”

As in a dream the boy turned, slowly, slowly. Up the hall raced a blond woman, her high heels nearly tripping her as she staggered forward desperately, her mouth thrown open in anguish. There was a crack! — a thousand thunderous echoes in the endless corridor. A few feet in front of the boy the blond man shuddered, staggered forward a few steps and then fell — falling, falling…

“My God! They’ve shot that man!”

His mother’s voice, his mother’s hand tightening on his shoulder. The boy stared, mesmerized, as the blond woman rushed up to the fallen man and knelt beside him. Across the gaudy tropical print crimson petals bloomed, stained the woman’s hands as she leaned over him. So slowly he almost seemed not to move at all, the blond man lifted his hand. Tenderly he grazed the woman’s cheek, touched her tears as she grasped him and shook her head.

“Come on, son.” His father pulled him away, gently but insistently, as airport medics ran up and pushed the woman aside, frantically trying to save the man. “This is no place for us.”

As his father led him away, he looked back. The medics exchanged looks, shrugging helplessly. His father pulled him roughly toward a corner. His mother’s hand nestled in his hair and he could hear her murmuring, more to herself than to him: “It’s okay, don’t worry, it’s all going to be okay…”

But then and always and forever after, he knew that she was lying — nothing was ever going to be okay again. Even then, he knew he had watched a man die.

He slowed, not wanting to turn the corner, and looked back. Beside the dead man the blond woman staggered to her feet, her face streaked with tears. Quickly she turned and began scanning the crowd of onlookers, desperately searching for something. Two men in uniforms approached her, said something. The woman replied, her eyes still scanning the concourse. She looked around, distracted and unresisting, as the detectives handcuffed her. Suddenly, she froze.

And gazed directly at the boy.

He stared at her mutely, overwhelmed by her expression: love, but not what he had ever seen in his parents’ eyes. Instead her eyes held a wild unruly thing that, even as he gazed back at her, he saw tamed, grow calm, even resigned, as though by looking at him she had somehow found some peace she had been frantically looking for.

“Hurry up, son.”

With a last lingering look at her, the boy turned away. His eyes filled with tears and he began to cry, silently, as his mother ruffled his hair and murmured:

“Pretend it was just a bad dream, Jimmy.”

At the entrance to Gate 38, the last few passengers boarded Flight 784 to San Francisco. In the first-class cabin, Dr. Peters swung his Chicago Bulls bag into the overhead luggage rack, then pulled the door shut and with a noisy sigh collapsed into his seat.

“It’s obscene, all this violence, all the lunacy!” the passenger next to him exclaimed. “Shootings at airports now. You might say, we’re the next endangered species!”

Smiling affably, Dr. Peters agreed. “I think you’re right, sir. I think you’ve hit the nail right on the head.”

Beside him, a courtly silver-haired gentleman wearing a business suit and one gold earring offered his hand congenially.

Once, James Cole would have recognized him as the astrophysicist from the future. But that James Cole was dead.

“Jones is my name,” he said. There was a glint of very white teeth as he smiled. “I’m in insurance.”

Moments later in the airport parking lot, a small boy stood and watched as a 747 climbed into the pale blue sky, higher and higher, until it winked like a tear from view.