chapter 6

The Secret Diary Of Cameron Baum

nb. This chapter deals with the fallout from chapter 4, when Cam and Becca roadtripped to Vegas and won a million dollars at roulette. But what happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas...

SATURDAY

When is a door not a door?

This is the conundrum presently occupying 98 percent of my CPU's processing power. John asked me 8 minutes ago and I have still to formulate my response. It is meant to be a joke. Machines are not good at jokes, which is why I must cogitate further.

"Well?" John asks.

"I have not finished processing."

"Processing? It's a joke, Cam, not rocket science."

John and I are in the yard, seated together at the wooden bench. Our backs rest against the table part of the bench allowing us to tilt our faces at an angle of 60 degrees to the sun. John is wearing a pair of mirror shades over his eyes, so that when I look at him I see two tiny reflected images of myself.

This is called catching rays.

The sun's ultra-violet radiation bathes us. John's skin tans; mine does not, having a predetermined amount of pigment. Factory issue, John says with a smile. This is correct. Skin tone: Caucasian. Batch number 288T. Designed for use in the North American and European theaters of war. TOK 715s in South America have darker skin, those in the African continent darker still. I have never met my - sisters? It would be an interesting experience.

"Want me to tell you?"

"Yes. When is a door not a door?"

"When it's ajar."

"But a door cannot be a jar, a glass receptacle, unless it is altered fundamentally at the molecular level by an advanced particle accelerator, which do not exist in this timeframe."

"Not a jar. Ajar."

I consult my database. "Ajar? A verb meaning partially open. I see. The door is partially open and not a glass receptacle. Do I laugh now?"

"It's a play on words. Corny, I know. Like why did the chicken cross the road?"

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

"To get to the other side. Ha! You fell for that one."

"What was a chicken doing on the freeway? Poultry are normally found on farms, not in areas of traffic."

"Cam--"

"And chickens are low in intelligence. It is possible the chicken had no set itinerary in mind when it set out on its journey and merely strayed across the road heedless of any specfic destination. So the correct phrasing should be: Why did the chicken cross the road? Answer: Insufficient data."

"Insufficient data? Cam, it's a joke. Chill out."

I lean back and catch some more rays. In the house Sarah Connor is baking her second meatloaf of the day. The first was pronounced inedible by both John and Derek Reese and is now in pieces on the birdtable. So far no takers.

"I have a joke of my own," I announce finally.

"Great. Let's hear it."

"Why did the cyborg cross the road?"

"I don't know."

"To terminate all lifeforms on the other side. This is funny, correct?"

"Sure. Genocide's always a hoot."

"The cyborg then recrosses the road and terminates all lifeforms everywhere. It is our mission, what we are designed for. Total annihilation."

"You're a regular Jay Leno."

John reaches over and pats my hand.

"Remind me to never ever play you Abbot & Costello's Who's on First. Your logic chip would just explode."

AFTERNOON

The telephone rings. John and Sarah Connor are out on a food run. Derek Reese is outside in the yard, lying on a bench and straining to lift iron weights.

"Someone get that!" Derek Reese yells between grunts.

I put down the AK-47 I am cleaning and pick up the receiver.

"Is that Cameron Baum?" A male voice asks.

"Yes."

"We have your friend, you thieving bitch, so listen up."

"You have John?"

"What? No, her name's Becca something."

The voice is familiar. It is the man who rang Rosselli, the man from the casino whom I killed in Vegas. The vocal pattern is an exact match.

"You want to see your friend Becca alive again then you shut up and hear me?......Hey, you still there?..... Damn it, answer me!"

"You instructed me to shut up and listen."

"Cute. Real cute. We've got your pal and what's left of her half of the money. You still got your half?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Good. Bring the money to 48 Bleeker. It's down by the docks. Know where it is?"

"I will find it."

"You've got two hours. No cops. Come alone."

"I intend to."

The phone goes dead. I go into Sarah Connor's room and select a Glock 9mm handpistol from the arsenal she keeps beneath her bed. I take two fresh ammo clips from the drawers of her bureau. The ammo is stored by caliber. Sarah Connor is very organised. It is a good trait. A machine trait.

I tap 48 Bleeker into the computer search engine. It shows me the directions. I memorise them and shut it off. I take a holdall over to the laundry basket and fill it with dirty clothing. My half of the money is buried in the yard and is impossible to retrieve without arousing Derek Reese's suspicions. The bag is a decoy. It might be useful.

"I am going out," I inform Derek Reese.

"Fine by me," he replies, still doing reps and not looking round. "Hey, who rang earlier?"

"Wrong number."

"Try not to kill anyone while you're gone."

I make no promises.

BAR

I head west on foot for several blocks until I reach a bar, where humans congregate to drink alcohol, shoot pool and perform mating rituals with the opposite sex. A neon sign states:

LIVE MUSIC

and

LIVE XXX GIRLS

Who would anyone want to see dead xxx girls?

I stand in the parking lot near the rear and wait for my transport to arrive.

I do not have to wait long.

A motorcycle pulls into the lot. A man in leathers stops, dismounts and begins to remove his helmet.

I step forward and say, "That's a tight ride."

"Sure is. Speaking of tight rides, sweetcakes, what say you and me go someplace quiet and---"

I lift him by the neck and knock his head against the wall. His body goes limp. I carry him over to a dumpster and drop him inside.

This is called tidying up after yourself. For a cleaner America.

I scan the motorbike. A Harley-Davidson. The schematics appear in my HUD. I climb on, twist the throttle and join the traffic heading towards the coast.

48 BLEEKER

48 Bleeker is in part of the docks that is mostly warehouses, large structures designed to temporarily shelter freight before it is transported inland or overseas.

I stop the Harley outside and wait. A man steps out of the shadows.

"Cameron Baum?"

"Yes."

"Is that the money?"

"Yes," I lie.

"Smart girl. You did the right thing. Show me and I'll tell them you're here." He indicates a walkie-talkie on his belt.

I step off the bike and place the bag at his feet. He bends down to inspect it and I break his neck with one blow from my right hand.

There are 206 bones in the human body. They are all listed in my database.

I know the breaking strain of each one and how to exceed it.

I exceed it.

I pick up the walkie-talkie and press the send button.

"The girl's here," I announce, mimicking the dead man's voice.

"Good. Does she have the money with her?" Another male voice answers.

"The money's here."

"Like candy from a baby. Bring her to me."

"Where are you?"

"Whaddua mean, where am I? Where d'you think I am, Sandrelli - Disneyland? Back of the warehouse."

I enter a large empty vaulted space. My footsteps echo as I walk but I have no need for stealth. I make for the light I can see at the rear and enter an office room. A man in a dark suit with slick hair greying at the temples is seated at a table, dealing himself cards from a deck. There are piles of cash next to him. In a corner Becca is bound and gagged. Her eyes widen in surprise as she sees me.

"Where's Sandrelli?" the man asks.

"Outside," I answer truthfully.

"Is the money in the bag?"

"It is dirty laundry."

"Funny. You're a real hoot. Throw it over here."

I toss the bag at his feet. He bends to unzip it and pulls out Sarah Connor's undergarments.

"What the---"

I shoot him three times in the chest. He topples backwards and lies still.

I remove the tape over Becca's mouth. She babbles, words spilling out of her in random incoherent snatches.

"Cam? He's not...but...did you shoot...is he...not dead?"

"How many men?" I ask.

"What? But...how...did you kill..."

I slap her face. "How many men?"

"Hey, that really hurt! Three. Three men."

I replace the tape. Her eyes bulge in surprise.

Three men. One left.

I return to the large empty space and listen, my audio receptors on maximum. Nothing. Merely the soft swish of the fans in the vaulted roof. The rear of the area is divided up into cubicles by sheets of plywood and opaque plastic. I raise the walkie-talkie to my mouth.

"This is Sandrelli," I announce in the first man's voice. "I'm outside and heard gunshots. Everything okay in there?"

The walkie-talkie crackles into life. Another man's voice. The third.

"Sandrelli? The twink shot Frank, man. I think he's dead. She was meant to just give us the money. Plan's gone all to shit. We gotta end this. Nut up and get in here now."

I fire the Glock where I estimate the voice to be. The gunfire is loud at first then echoes away to silence again as the clip empties. The air is full of smoke and dust and tiny splinters of plywood that float gently towards the fan in the roof.

A door to one of the cubicles opens. A man crawls out on his belly. The bullets struck low down in the hips and legs, which now drag uselessly behind him. He leaves a trail of blood as he pulls himself towards the outer door.

Human instinct in stressful situations is to fight or flight. He has closen flight. It is the correct choice. Just too late.

The outer door is made of heavy iron and runs on rollers along a metal track set in the floor and wall. I grip the handle and stop the man with my boot as he reaches the open doorway. He turns his face upwards.

"When is a door not a door?" I ask.

"Please. The shakedown was Frank's idea. Keep the money. Please. I need a doctor..."

"When is a door not a door?" I repeat.

"I don't...please..."

I roll the door shut, crushing his skull.

"When it is a ajar," I explain. "It is a joke. I'm a real hoot."

The man does not laugh. He lacks a mouth.

But his brains are everywhere.

OFFICE

I untie Becca. She appears to be calmer.

"I can't believe you came. I was so scared. They grabbed me when I took the Ferrari for a drive. They said they'd kill us and bury our bodies in the desert if we didn't hand over the money."

"A shakedown."

"How did you learn to shoot like that?"

"Software."

"Like a DVD? Do you visit a range? Daddy took me to one, but the noise was so loud I got frightened and wouldn't go again."

She crosses to the table and begins to put the money back into the holdall.

"Is that what a dead person looks like? Gross. I've never seen one before."

All dead humans are different; none are exactly the same. They are like snowflakes in this respect. Bloody, fleshy snowflakes.

"We should call the police."

"No police."

"But they were bad men who wanted to hurt us. We should definitely call."

I turn to face her. "Do I have to shoot you also?"

Becca laughs nervously. "That's so not funny."

"It wasn't a joke."

She chews her lip thoughtfully. "I suppose the police will ask lots of questions? And they'll probably confiscate the money. Omigod - you suppose they'll expect me to pay back the money I've already spent? I've spent like 150 thousand dollars. My allowance is 200 bucks a week. How long will it take to pay back 150 grand?"

"Fourteen years and four months."

"Maybe you're right, Cam. No police."

Becca keeps glancing at the dead man. "Shouldn't we cover the body with a sheet or something?"

"Why?"

"I don't know. Out of respect? They do it on TV. And he's kinda old. D'you think he had children? Grandchildren? They'll be real sad he's dead."

Fluid begins to well from her eyes; Becca is crying. Again.

"Why do you cry?" I ask. "He intended to kill you and steal the money."

"I know. He was a bad dude," she snivels. "It's just really really sad for his family."

She zips up the holdall and wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

"Daddy said once that money makes everything better."

"You told me. In Vegas."

"Well, he's wrong. Sometimes it makes things worse."

"Time to go," I inform her.

"Okay. Someone will find them, right? And give them a proper burial?"

"This warehouse is not abandoned merely empty. People will use it and discover the bodies."

"Good. Their families deserve closure."

We leave the warehouse. Outside Becca notices only the motorbike, not the dead man lying in the shadows.

"Cool Harley. Is it yours?"

"For now."

BECCA'S HOME

I pull up outside Becca's house. She climbs off the Harley and glances nervously at the windows.

"Come inside with me. Please? I'm really late. I'll tell mom I was with you studying. She's a real ballbreaker since she got sober."

We go inside. Becca's mother meets us in the Hall. She looks different from the last time. Her eyes no longer stare vacantly, and she isn't swaying or leaking fluid. She has pale skin and short red hair. Those damn Irish genes.

"And what time do you call this? I'm been worried sick."

"Sorry, mom. I was with my friend Cameron. We were studying."

"With your abysmal grades? A likely story. Good lord, what does the girl have on her feet? Army boots? Is she a lesbian?"

"No! Mom, please don't embarrass me."

"Oh I have no problem if she is. Lord knows, you're never likely to attract many boys."

"Please don't say that, momma," Becca says in a tiny whisper.

"What was wrong with your last friend? Mimsy?"

"Mindy. You thought she was possessed by the devil and chased her down the street with a bread knife."

"Alcohol is a disease. A terrible disease. I should call Mimsy and apologize."

"Mindy. And I wouldn't. She's only just out of therapy."

BECCA'S ROOM

We go up to Becca's room. She shuts and locks the door and hides the money under the bed. We sit cross-legged on the floor like before.

"There's no booze in the house now Mom's out of rehab, which is a total bust. But she won't be like that for long. Her last dry spell was three months. Then Daddy called by to wish me Happy Birthday and they ended up arguing. Next thing Mom's skunko on her back in the gazebo singing Helen Reddy's I Am Woman."

"Alcohol is a disease."

"Puh-lease. I get enough bullshit from her. Oh and it's so not true what she said. I do attract boys. One anyway. Last summer me and Danny Delvecchio fooled around. I touched his thing."

"His thing?"

"Yeah, it kinda, you know, shot off.

"He shot off? Were you hurt?"

"You mean my feelings? Disappointed mostly. I hope all boys aren't like that."

"It is important to squeeze the trigger slowly," I explain. "Or the pistol will fire prematurely."

"Pistol? Is that what you call it?" She giggles. "So you've banged loads of guys?"

I presume by banged she means shot dead.

"Yes," I confirm. "I have banged loads, several at once."

"Cameron - omigod! You're such a player."

"Play-ah," I correct her.

She giggles again. "Play-ah. Do you, y'know, take precautions?"

"I carry extra rounds."

"Oh. I don't really know what that means, I haven't actually...but as long as you stay safe."

"You are concerned for my safety?"

"Well, yeah. We're friends - right?"

"Yes. Friends. Right."

I spot a familiar shape at the window. I open it to let Mr Babbykins enter. The cat emits a low frequency hum then climbs on to my shoulders and uses his paws to knead my flesh."

"Boy, I could use a drink," Becca says.

"You swore you would never drink alcohol again."

"That was before---Cam, your shoulder! Can't you feel that?"

I look round. Mr Babbykin's claws have gouged deep scratches in my shoulder dermal layer, fortunately not down to the coltan. I lift him off.

"It is nothing."

"Do you want some Bactin put on it?"

"No."

"You're such a badass."

The cat immediately climbs on my lap, turns in a circle and falls asleep. I smooth his fur. In my HUD termination options numbered one to ten appear. I cancel them.

Some habits are hard to break.

"I'm glad he likes you now. You and Mr Babbykins are my two best friends in the whole world."

Becca's bottom lip trembles and she suddenly bursts into tears. I have never met anyone like her who leaks so much fluid from various orifices. Humans are composed of 70 percent water. In her case the percentage seems much higher.

"Sorry. It's just...those bad men today. Being kidnapped. The way you rescued me. The money. School. And Mom. When did my life get so complicated?"

She weeps some more. I hesitate then reach forward and hug her.

It seems like the human thing to do.

---006---

The second act was darker than normal because it's kinda tough to squeeze laughs out of three brutal murders. Instead I tried to contrast Cameron's cyborg indifference with Becca's all too human reaction to violent death. Yeah, I'm not just about the funny(!)

Am I going some place with Becca? Or do I just like binge-drinking redheads?

Both. LoL.

No, there is a story-arc and when it concludes that'll be the end of this fic. No rush.

Next chapter: Cam/Sarah mission. Cam reacts badly to a marriage proposal. (Nope, not who you think.)