The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
TUESDAY
I am at the supermarket, my turn to do the shopping run. I have been pushing a shopping cart round the aisles for 2 minutes and 43 seconds.
ITEMS BOUGHT: ZERO
TOTAL SPEND: ZERO
I arrive at the aisle that has pancake mix. John likes pancakes. He regularly eats them for breakfast. He likes them so much he would have them for every meal if Sarah Connor would let him. But apparently pancakes do not constitute a balanced diet.
Pancake mix comes ready-made in sealed containers. Since John likes pancakes so much I decide to buy the entire stock.
ITEMS BOUGHT: 67
TOTAL SPEND: $512.45
In the next aisle I spot the Doritos John likes best: barbecue sauce flavour. Again I purchase the entire contents of the shelf. The cart is already almost full. I am on a roll.
ITEMS BOUGHT: 124
TOTAL SPEND: $798.37
Pushing the cart ahead of me I notice a small child in another cart sat in the foldable seat that is standard to each cart. This seat is designed for infants only, as I discovered when I tried to insert John in one. He was not pleased. Not pleased at all.
Facing me, the small child points its pudgy finger and says, "POO!"
I look behind me. I see nothing but rows of food-laden shelves.
"POO!" the child insists.
Can she be referring to me? I discreetly sniff the sleeves of my jacket. No discernable odour.
"You are mistaken," I inform the child. "Please check your nasal sensors for possible contaminants."
"POO LADY!"
Again the erroneous accusation. Perhaps a full system diagnostic will be required.
The child is promptly sick down the front of its clothing. Its small face crumples and tears well from its tiny eyes. It is crying. Loudly.
A woman, presumably the child's mother, attends to it, speaking in some sort of code.
"Oooo's a poor widdle babee, den? All icky-wicky sicky-sick. Nasty nooey noo-noos. There. All betty. All betty."
The child stops crying and resumes pointing its finger at me.
"POO!" It yells. "POO! POO!"
The woman turns to me and smiles. "Isn't she adorable?"
"Your child is falsely accusing me of a foul odour," I tell her. "This is not so. See."
I thrust my arm under her nose so that she can verify I am odour-free. She steps back hurriedly.
"Jesus! What is your damage?"
"No damage. All systems are nominal. It is your child who is malfunctioning."
"Get away from me, you crazy bitch!"
"BITCH!" yells the child. "BITCH! BITCH!"
"Now look what you've done. She's at that funny age when she repeats all the words she hears. Especially the rude ones."
Can this be true? I try an experiment.
"Flower," I say. No response. The child just stares at me.
"Booger."
"BOOGER! BOOGER!" the child yells.
"Get away from us, you nutjob!" says the mother, hurriedly wheeling the cart away.
"NUTJOB! NUTJOB!" echoes the child at the top of her lungs. "POO!" it adds for emphasis. "BOOGER!"
They move away into the adjacent aisle but I can still hear the child's voice. It is combining the words it has learnt to form crude sentences. This is how infant humans learn, by repitition.
"POO JOB! BOOGER LADY! BITCH POO! POO BOOGER JOB-JOB!"
Apparently there is still much to learn. But it is a start. Of sorts.
I make my way to the produce aisle. This is where fruit and vegetables are sold. Fresh fruit and vegetables are important for a balanced diet and Sarah Connor has instructed me to buy as much as possible. This may be difficult since the cart is already filled to the brim with pancake mix and Doritos. Nevertheless I purchase one lettuce.
Further along is an adult female who is selecting melons and squeezing them with her fingers. She sees me observing her and says, "This is how you tell they're ripe. Squeeze them. If they give a little that means they're ready to eat. I saw it on TV."
If it was on TV then it must be true. I pick up a melon and squeeze.
It explodes in my hand.
So do the next three I try. Does this mean they're not ripe? Or too ripe? I look to the adult female for advice but she has hurried away to be out of range of the exploding bits of melon which now litter the aisle.
"Hey! Crazy lady in aisle one!" A man in overalls yells at me. "You break it you bought it!"
Why would I buy something that's broken? Illogical. I move on, careful not to slip on any shards of melon now strewn across the floor.
I head for the checkout till where my items are scanned and bagged. The checkout girl announces the total I already have in my HUD.
"Eight hundred fourteen dollars and fifty-two cents."
I hand her nine crisp hundred dollar bills. "Keep the change."
"Uh - we're not allowed to do that."
"Why not?"
"It's against store policy to accept tips from customers."
"What shall I do with the money?"
"Uh - keep it, I guess."
Odd. Humans expend so much time and energy in acquiring money yet here is one actually refusing it when it is offered gratis. What strange contrary creatures they are. I will never fully understand them.
I push the shopping cart across the parking lot to the SUV. As I load up the small child seated in the cart passes me by still being pushed by its mother. It notices me and waves, smiling wide in recognition. I smile and wave back. Evidently the earlier animosity between us has been forgiven. Possibly I have made a new friend, albeit one with a somewhat limited vocabulary.
HOME
My grocery shopping does not meet with universal approval.
"What's all this?" Sarah Connor demands as I place the shopping bags on the kitchen counter.
"Pancake mix."
"I can see that. Why is there so much of it?"
"It's all they had."
"There must be ten gallons worth here."
"John likes pancakes."
"Not this much he doesn't. It'll take years to use it all. And what's this?"
"Doritos."
"There must be sixty bags here."
"Seventy-two," I correct. I like to be accurate. "John likes barbecue sauce flavour Doritos."
"And I suppose if John liked Beluga caviar you'd have bought a ton of that too?"
"John doesn't like Beluga caviar. It would be a waste of money."
"Oh now you're worried about wasting money. And where are all the fruit and vegetables I asked you to buy? One lettuce. Is that all?"
"There was an incident in the produce aisle."
Sarah Connor sighs dramatically. "What did you do now?"
"Why do you assume I did anything?"
"Because you're always doing something. Just tell me you didn't kill anybody."
"I didn't kill anybody. But---"
"Here it comes..."
"---four melons suffered collateral damage."
"Melons?"
"Melons," I confirm. "They were beyond resusitation."
Before she can ask me any further questions John enters the kitchen.
"I thought I heard the door. Hey - Doritos! Cool. Did you buy any dip?"
"No, John, she didn't buy any dip. She bought seventy-two bags of Doritos and enough pancake mix to fill a bathtub."
"And one lettuce," I add. As I said, I like to be accurate.
"Oh. Was there a sale or something?"
"Or something."
"Maybe next time you remember the dip. Hey, mom, Cameron and I are gonna head over to RadioShack. The batteries in the TV remote stopped working."
"Keep an eye on her, John," Sarah Connor cautions. "Don't let her buy a thousand batteries when two will do."
"Gotcha."
We take the SUV and drive away from the safe house then on to the freeway.
"This isn't the way to RadioShack," I point out.
"We're not going to RadioShack. That was just something to tell mom."
"Where then?"
"Culver City."
Culver City. The NSA.
NSA
Culver City. 11.32AM. John and I are slowly cruising the streets in the SUV. Sarah Connor is blissfully unaware we aren't shopping for batteries at RadioShack back in OC. She is gullible that way.
"Here we are. Ambrose Street."
We find No.57, where the two NSA agents seeking us reside, and park kerbside 50 yards back.
No. 57 Ambrose is a non-descript tract house, seemingly no different from any other in this residential street. Shades are drawn over the windows to keep out the fierce summer heat and a black Lincoln saloon is parked in the driveway.
"Stay here."
John dons a rudimentary disguise of sunglasses and baseball cap and walks casually down the sidewalk. As he nears No.57 he crouches low and attaches something to the underside of the Lincoln's fender. He returns to the SUV.
"You placed a tracker on their automobile."
"Yeah. They're now lo-jacked. If they snoop around OC we'll know about it."
"Forewarned is forearmed."
"Exactly."
"Unless they change automobiles."
John shakes his head. "Cops are creatures of habit. I think they'll keep this set of wheels while they're in LA."
He takes out his cell phone. "Hi, information? Yeah, I'd like the listing for 57 Ambrose, Culver City......Uh huh...that's 217-555-475? Okay, got it."
John turns to me and asks, "You remember that guy we watch in the evenings - Jay Leno?"
"With the large chin?"
"That's him. Think you can imitate his voice?"
"You mean like this?" I say in Jay Leno's vocal pattern.
John grins."I'm going to write something down and I want you to say it in that voice when I tell you."
He writes briefly then dials the number obtained from information. He hands me the cell and a notebook with his handwriting in. A male voice answers in my ear.
"Foster."
"You want to find Sarah Connor, secret agent man?" I say in Jay Leno's voice.
"Who is this? You sound familiar."
"Never mind who it is. You want Sarah Connor or not?"
"Uh - yeah. We want her."
"Meet me in an hour outside the Viper Room off Sunset. Bring ten grand in cash. I'll give her to you on a plate. You know the Viper Room? It's where River Phoenix croaked."
"I know it."
"One hour."
"Wait! How will I recognise you?"
"I have a large chin."
I end the call.
John smiles. "I didn't write that last bit down."
"I improvised."
Ten minutes later Agents Foster and Duffy come out of the house and get in the black Lincoln. They drive off towards Hollywood.
John is a genius.
"Does it have an alarm?" John asks as we stand outside the back door of the vacated NSA house.
"No. Locked but no alarm."
"Open it."
I do so. The door splinters in its frame. We enter.
The inside shows signs of recent occupation. Dirty dishes are piled in the sink and opened cereal boxes left on the table. There is a copy of the LA Times open at the sports section.
"I'll search downstairs you take upstairs. Look for anything connected to us."
Agent Foster has the bedroom overlooking the street. He appears a tidy, fastidious man. All his jackets and shirts are hung neatly in the closet. His bed is made, bathroom spotless.
Agent Duffy's room is very different. Unlike her superior she seems to be a slob. Her bed is unmade, make up items litter the dresser and bras and underwear hang up to dry on the shower rail.
There is a paperback book on the side table. I scan the title.
THE LOVELY BONES -- ALICE SEBOLD
Are bones lovely? I suppose they are if you are human. Personally I prefer my coltan endo-skeleton. Perhaps there is a book entitled:
THE LOVELY COLTAN ENDO-SKELETON
I think it unlikely.
John rejoins me. "Anything?"
"No."
"Me neither. I haven't found jack."
"Who is Jack? Are we looking for Jack?"
"I meant I haven't found jackshit."
"Jack Shit? That's an odd name. Is he listed in the phonebook?""
"I thought there would be files, maybe a laptop we could hack. But there's nothing."
"Perhaps they took it all with them in the Lincoln."
"Lot of good that does us."
"What do we do?"
"Let's turn the place upside down."
We proceed to turn the place upside down. Not literally, of course; even I would struggle to invert an entire building. We search each room thoroughly.
We find several odd items. Agent Foster has three cartons of cigarettes hidden in the clothes closet, suugesting he is not as clean-cut and disciplined as first thought.
In Agent Duffy's room I find a device called a 'rabbit' hidden in her spare boots. It is a narrow cyclindrical object made of white plastic. I hold it up to the light.
"What is this?"
John glances across then hastily away. He won't look directly at me. His face reddens.
"Nothing. Put it back."
"What does it do?"
"Don't know. Put it back."
"Why is concealed? It might be a weapon."
"It's not a weapon. We're wasting time."
John walks out of the room.
Strange. I sense he knows what it is but is reluctant to share the knowledge with me. Why? Perhaps it is a test, an examination of my deductive skills. Very well. Let the test begin.
I study the device from all angles. It looks vaguely familiar but my database offers only partial matches. There is a button in the base. I press it. The device begins to vibrate and oscillate slightly.
Now I know. Now I have learnt its secret. All is very clear to me.
It is an egg whisk.
whisk, verb, an instrument used in the culinary preparation of eggs
Truly, my deductive skills are unparralled.
Perhaps I will purchase one for the safehouse kitchen. Sarah Connor has been a sourpuss lately maybe this will cheer her up.
I find John downstairs. He is still searching but has found nothing. He is very frustrated.
"Let's search again."
"But there's nothing here."
"There must be," he insists mulishly.
And there is. I notice it first; the floorboards don't quite fit together correctly in the entrance hall. I point out the anomaly to John.
"You're right. I think it's a trapdoor. See if there's a hidden switch to open it."
I don't bother. Instead I batter the floorboard planks with my fists. A sizeable hole emerges.
And a staircase leading downwards.
"Oh wow."
The hidden lower storey has three identical cells of the type found in prisons. Each cell has a barred door and individual wash basins, cot beds, and basic toilet facilities. All three are empty.
"This must be where the keep the bad guys they catch. Bet they don't get lawyers."
"Are we the bad guys?" I ask.
"Of course not."
"We're the good guys? I don't feel like a good guy."
"Well you should. We're trying to save the world." John looks around. "Can you believe this place. This is how they spend our tax dollars - playing secret agents."
"We pay tax?"
"It's a figure of speech."
One of the cells has porcelain inserts around the metal bars. "I think it's so they can electrify the bars," John speculates. "Man, these people aren't fooling around."
There is a desk by the bottom of the steps. The drawers are locked. Not for long.
"Finally. Something to show for our efforts."
Manilla folders thick with papers. Alphabetically arranged. There is a C.
C for Connor.
John removes and opens it, shuffling through the documants.
"They have our real names and accurate physical descriptions. Photographs are at least two years out of date though. Mostly stuff about Miles Dyson. They just won't let that drop. Listen to this - subjects are considered armed and extremely dangerous. Extreme force authorised during apprehension phase. Level two containment protocols to be observed once in custody. All rights waived."
"What does that mean?" I ask. "All rights waived?"
"It means they can do whatever they like with us and no one will ever know."
John replaces the folder in the drawer. He finds a clear CD case containing a DVD-R labeled:
CONNOR WITNESSES
PRELIM. INTERVIEWS
FOSTER/DUFFY
He pockets it then checks his watch. One hour has elapsed since we broke in.
"We'd better go. They must know they've been hoaxed by now. If they find us here things could turn nasty."
"I will not let them apprehend you, John," I assure him. "I will terminate them both."
"That's what I meant about things turning nasty."
We drive to a mall parking lot. Once stationary John boots his MacBook and inserts the disc. A menu of contents appear indicating the disc contains video files, each clearly labeled:
1) Hayley Fratero
2) Joshua Cohen
3) Natasha Gregorieva
"Hayley's a girl at school, yes?"
"She is a Queen Bee. An ally of Louise and Alexis."
"And Mr Cohen's our math teacher, I know that. Who's Gregorieva?"
"My ballet instructor."
"So they're questioning people who knew us."
There is another name listed. John's fists clench as he reads it.
4) Katherine Brewster
"How did they connect Kate with us? She doesn't go to our school. There's no way they can---"
John's cell rings. He checks caller ID.
"Mom. Damn. She'll know we're not at RadioShack all this time." He flips the cell open. "Hey, mom...No, we left RadioShack...We're at a theater watching Avatar...Yeah, Cameron's with me. She really likes the blue-skinned aliens...I know I should have told you...sorry...we're fine...talk later."
"We're at a theater?" I query.
"As far as mom is concerned."
"And I really like blue-skinned aliens?"
"Yeah."
"Why do I really like blue-skinned aliens? I have never expressed an interest in blue-skinned aliens, or aliens of any skin hue."
John sighs. "You just do."
I decide to take his word for it.
-000-