The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
MONDAY
It is early morning. I stand at the attic room window and observe, a sentinel once more.
From this high vantage point I have a clear view of the neighbourhood we live in. To the left is the property of a middle-aged couple named Frank and Coral. Frank owns a chain of auto-repair shops in the city. They have a hot tub in the back yard instead of a pool. A hot tub is a cross between an outdoor bath and a large washing machine. At the weekends they invite various people over and sit in the hot tub, consuming large quantites of alcohol. I have heard Sarah Connor speculate that Frank and Coral are swingers. I do not know what this means and she didn't elaborate. Certainly parts of Frank and Coral swing since they are both very overweight. Mostly they wobble. Possibly they are wobblers as well as swingers? I will clarify the matter at a later date.
To the right live Joel and Anna, two teachers at a nearby school. They own a cat named Mr Tibbles who spends the daylight hours sleeping and sunning himself on the wooden decking beside their house. At night Mr Tibbles roams far and wide. Our paths often cross when I am on patrol and we exchange nods of recognition, one predator to another. Mr Tibbles is a skilled and ruthless hunter of small rodents. Yet he never eats what he catches, killing merely for fun or to assuage some base instinct domesticity hasn't managed to tame. He is crafty, burying or hiding his victims so no one suspects he is anything other than a loveable if slightly lazy housecat. Mr Tibbles never ventures into our yard. Snowy believes this is down to his presence, since cats are supposed to be fearful of dogs. This is not the case. Like all animals Mr Tibbles senses I am not human and is careful to give me a wide berth. Of all the animals I have ever encountered only Snowy has shown the least empathy for my kind.
I turn from the window and close my eyes. I boost my audio sensors to maximum and allow the house to talk to me. Not literally, of course. No, that would be crazy. Yet the house does make distinctive noises I can isolate and identify from repetition. The low bass sounds the wooden frame makes as the exterior of the house expands as the sun heats it. The soft gurgle of the water in the plumbing, exacerbated to a tsunami of sound when someone opens a faucet. The high thin whine of the air-conditioning units. From outside intrude the sounds of distant traffic, the hiss of lawn sprinklers, and right at the limit of my sensorum the feral screech of a lone weedwhacker as a yard maintenance crew make an early start. Elsewhere comes the buzz of a power saw and the brisk ratatatat of a nailgun impacting on plywood as a construction crew begin work. Humans are always building something, filling their brief lives with activity while striving to harness the enviroment to their own peculiar designs. One hundred years ago this area was orange groves. Now it is tract housing with swimming pools and barbecue pits. Progress? Of a sort.
I open my eyes and find John staring up at me from the bed. "You okay?" he asks. "You seemed kinda zoned out."
"Five by five," I reply. This is a military expression meaning all is well.
"Sit."
He pats the bed next to him and I do so. We kiss. This is unlikely to be a prelude to coitus. Satistical analysis shows that less than five percent of our sexual activity occurs in the early hours, the majority whilst we share a shower. John is not a morning person.
"I've been thinking."
"About me?" I ask hopefully.
"Actually, yeah."
Score!
"I've been thinking about those encrypted files in your chip."
"Oh. That's not very romantic."
"Maybe not. I think it might be important though. I want to take a look at them. If it was me who put them there then maybe I can figure out how to crack them."
"You wish to extract the chip from my head."
"No. It's too dangerous. I don't want to run the risk of damaging you. We have a spare - remember?"
"Cameron subprime."
"Exactly."
-0-
The desert is blooming. Even in such a desolate place nature's annual cycle of renewal is occurring.
John pays scant heed to the flowering landscape. His eyes are fixed on the screen of his cellphone, reading off the GPS coordinates that will tell us where Cameron subprime is buried.
"Here, I think. Start digging."
I insert a shovel into the gritty desert soil and begin digging. John retreats to the shade cast by the Suburban. I excavate the soil in a steady, methodical manner. I don't tire. I don't perspire. These words do not feature in my lexicon.
"I've found her."
John approaches the trench I have dug and jumps in. Revealed at the base is a body shrouded in canvas. He carefully brushes off the soil and peels back one corner.
"Oh. Her flesh hasn't rotted. I thought she'd just be an endo-skeleton by now."
"The pseudo-flesh will continue to regenerate as long as there is power in the fuelcell," I explain. My kind have even better longevity than Duracell bunnies.
John picks up the small glass jar with the chip in that we buried along with Cameron subprime. He climbs out of the hole.
"Okay. Got what we came for. I guess we rebury her."
-0-
Once home John heads up to the attic room where he spends the rest of the day hooking the chip up to his computer and examining the contents.
He comes downstairs in the early evening looking crestfallen.
"Couldn't break the encryption," he admits rubbing his eyes. "If it was me who locked those files away then I used techniques I haven't learnt yet."
I give him a consoling kiss. "You did your best."
"And it wasn't good enough."
"It will be. One day."
TUESDAY
John and I drive Mia to school. When we arrive she hugs Snowy goodbye and John hands over her school bag.
"Be good, munchkin. And if you can't be good then don't get caught."
Mia giggles. "That's funny!"
"Why is it funny?" I ask, curious.
"It just is."
Helpful much? I think not.
"Mia was in a good mood today," John says as we begin the drive home.
"She has show and tell first period," I explain. "She is looking forward to it very much."
"Yeah? What's she showing and telling?"
"Ricardo the robot."
John hits the brakes so fiercely I am catapulted forward and only the seat restraints prevent me from crashing through the windsreen.
"She's using that robot you built for show and tell?"
"Correct. Is something wrong?"
"Cam, in Japan they spend millions trying to invent robots that aren't half as sophisticated as the one you made out of Lego bricks. The kids may not realise it but one of the teachers sure will. The last thing we need is a newscrew on our doorstep. We have to stop her."
The Suburban makes an illegal U-turn and we head back the way we came.
-0-
With the children in class the school corridors seem eerily quiet and deserted. Neither of us knows the whereabouts of Mia's classroom and there are more than a dozen of them. My suggestion that I demolish all the doors until we locate her goes unheeded.
"Let's try the lockers. Maybe Ricardo's stowed in there and we can grab him back without anyone knowing."
The lockers are similar to the ones found in the high schools we attended - except for one small detail. These have the student's names on the front. Very helpful.
"Okay, here's Mia's." He glances around. We are still alone. "Break it open. Discreetly."
I tear off the door. It clangs noisily on the floor.
"I said discreetly," John chides.
The locker is empty save for some textbooks and a colour photograph of Snowy. No Ricardo.
A woman emerges from one of the classrooms carrying a pile of books in her arms. I surmise she is most likely a teacher. She stops when she notices us and frowns at the broken door.
"Who are you? Did you break that?"
"No. Probably - uh - rust."
"Rust is bad," I agree. "Also very itchy."
"Maybe you can help us. We need to find our little sister right away. She's a pupil here."
"I'm afraid the children are all at their lessons. You'll have to wait until recess."
"We can't wait that long. It's a family emergency,'" John adds.
"Oh. In that case I suppose we can bend the rules. What's your sister's name?"
John tells her and she hurries off to fetch Mia.
"Hope we made it in time," he says with feeling.
Mia emerges from one of the classrooms and walks towards us, the bag with Ricardo the robot inside slung casually over her shoulder.
"What is it?" she asks anxiously. "Snowy's not sick again, is he?"
"Snowy's fine. D'you have the robot Cameron built for you?"
"Ricardo? Yeah, he's in my bag. I'm gonna show and tell any second. It'll be awesome!"
"I can't let you show and tell Ricardo, Mia. I'm sorry."
"Why not? I'm bound to get an A. I've taught Ricardo to sing the Mexican anthem. He's so cool!"
"Remember the bad people after us? Well, it's possible if they hear about Ricardo they'll know it's us and try extra hard to find us."
"But what am I gonna show and tell? I've nothing else. I'll get a failing grade - like Jenny Barlow! And she's an total idiot who eats her own boogers!"
Mia seems so distraught at the prospect of resembling the booger eating Jenny Barlow that John takes pity on her and suggests, "How about you take the day off and come with us?"
"Can I do that?"
"Sure. I already told a teacher it's a family emergency. It'll seem downright suspicious if you don't take the day off."
"Okay! Can we go to the skateboard park?"
"I don't see why not."
"I've never cut class before," Mia admits as we walk out of the school. "My friend Megan does it all the time. She tells her mom she has cramps and needs the rag. What's that mean?"
"Uh - I don't know," John replies unconvincingly, his face reddening. "Maybe you should ask mom later."
"I don't think so. She's still mad at me because I ate five Pop tarts in a row. I mean, what's her damage? She's always on at me to eat more fruit and when I do she's still mad."
"Are Pop tarts fruit?"
"There's a picture of fruit on the box."
"I don't think it's the same as fresh fruit. Did you really eat five in a row? Respect."
"Uh huh. I felt a bit ill afterwards. But I didn't barf," she adds defiantly.
Once back at the safe house Mia runs upstairs to change out of her school uniform and grab her skateboard, the one John bought for her in San Diego. John explains the change of plans and the reason for it to Sarah Connor. She agrees he did the right thing. She frowns in my direction without saying anything. It is clear she blames me for this situation. Honestly, I get the blame for everything.
-0-
The skateboard park is like a regular park except it has a hemisphere of curved concrete in the middle of it. This is called a halfpipe.
As it's a school day there are fewer people here than normal. One person standing nearby to watch the skateboarders perform has a large dog on a leash. My database informs me the dog is a Rottweiler, a breed know for its aggressive nature.
While John helps Mia don her protective arm- and knee-pads, Snowy bounds around barking.
is it snowy's turn yet? snowy love skateboards! is it snowy's turn yet?
This gets the attention of the Rottweiler who snarls menacingly, straining at its leash to get at this small, noisy interloper.
Then the Rottweiler notices me.
The change in demeanour is abrupt and total. The snarls become whimpers and the large dog tries to hide behind its owner's legs. Like all animals it has sensed I am not human and this knowledge terrifies it. Plus la change.
The dog's owner notices this sea change in his pet but misinterprets the reason. "Jeez, Tyson, you're not scared of that pissant little dog, are you? You're twice his size. Nut up, dammit, you're making me look bad."
The Rottweiler - Tyson, presumably - doesn't nut up, whatever that means. Tyson begins to tremble uncontrollably and finally voids his bladder. All over his owner's sneakers.
"Dammit, to hell, Tyson! Look what you've done. Brand new Converses too! Come on, we're out of here."
As Tyson is led away Snowy barks proudly:
big dog scared of snowy!
"So it seems," I agree.
Why burst his bubble?
-0-
"Okay, you're all set, champ. You ready for this?" John asks as he makes the final checks to Mia's safety gear.
"Yeah!"
"Take it easy at first. No one gets a prize for breaking bones."
This is very true. Or else I would have won a great many prizes.
"You gotta watch me."
"We will," John assures her.
"Cameron won't. She'll stare off into space like she always does."
This is not strictly accurate. I am scanning the perimeter for possible threats, although Mia doesn't realise this.
"I told my friend Megan and she says Cameron sounds like a stoner. What's that mean?"
"It means your friend Megan is talking out of her ass," John retorts. "Cameron sees more than you can possibly imagine."
"John said ass!" Giggles ensue.
After composing herself Mia launches down the halfpipe, picking up speed as she descends. She crosses the flat bottom and allows the momentum to carry her up the opposite slope. When it seems certain she will fly off the rim and break the bones John cautioned her against she skilfully pivots the skateboard, bringing the front end up and the rear round in one smooth movement. Back she goes down the slope. And does it again. And again.
"Wow, she's good," John opines.
"You're better," I assure him.
"Oh I doubt it. Haven't boarded in years. And I don't have that low center of gravity anymore. She's picked it up in a matter of weeks."
Mia's traverses get faster and faster until finally she stumbles and sprawls across the concrete. This is called a wipeout. "I'm okay!" she grins ruefully, getting up and tucking her board under one arm before rejoining us, face flushed red with exertion. "Did you see? Wasn't I awesome?"
"The awesomest," John concedes, somewhat ungrammatically.
"I own this pipe!"
"Unlikely. This is municipal property," I point out. "It belongs to the city."
Laughter. Once again I have taken someone's words too literally. It is not the first time and will probably not be the last.
"Okay, Snowy's turn."
Snowy bounds forward, tail wagging enthusiastically. Mia lifts him onto the board and gently launches him down the slope. The board picks up speed, crosses the flat base of the halfpipe, then climbs the far slope, almost but not quite reaching the lip. Gravity takes hold and the board rolls backwards. Snowy deftly turns around so he facing the right direction. He has no means of steering or stopping, a mere passenger of gravity.
"Look at him! Isn't he adorable!"
John and Mia laugh at Snowy's antics. I don't laugh. I have seen something they haven't.
Someone is watching us.
Someone is filming us.
On the opposite side of the halfpipe a heavy set man is holding up a cellphone. Such devices have video cameras.
The man continues to film even as I approach him, oblivious to the danger. I snatch the cellphone from his grasp and crush it into tiny pieces with my hand.
"Hey! What d'you think you're playing at, you crazy bitch!"
He shoves me hard in the chest and seems surprised that I don't budge. He is even more surprised when I grip his neck and lift him off the ground. He begins to make choking sounds. It is just like old times.
"Cam, no! Put him down."
I obey John's instructions. The man staggers slightly as I release him then turns to glare at me, rubbing his throat as he does so.
"What happened?" John demands.
"He was filmiing us," I explain.
"Why were you filming us?"
"I wasn't filming you," the man insists. "I was filming the dog."
"Snowy? Why?"
"Dude, it's a dog riding a freaking skateboard. Funny as hell. I was gonna post it on YouTube. Till your crazyass girlfriend broke my cell."
I analyse the stress levels in his voice and announce, "He's telling the truth. My bad."
John takes out his wallet and says, "A misunderstanding. Here, I'll pay for the phone. Three hundred, okay?"
"No way, man. That's a highend Motorola. Four hundred or I call the cops. That's wilful destruction of property. And assault," he adds rubbing his neck once more.
John produces more bills and offers them over. The man takes them with ill grace and departs.
"We were in the background of the shot," I explain. "My kind will be checking all media outlets. Had he posted the clip on the internet we could be traced."
"You did the right thing," John agrees. "Just check with me next time. There's a better way to handle it."
"How?"
John pressses up against me, so close our bodies are touching. He is attempting coitus? In a crowded park? In front of Mia?
"Got your cell with you?"
"Of course."
"Show me."
I reach into my pocket. Empty.
"Looking for this?"
He brandishes my cell in front of my face, grinning.
"You picked my pocket," I accuse him.
"Sneaky, huh. And a lot more cost effective."
-0-
Mia stares at me open mouthed with shock as we rejoin her and Snowy.
"Wow, Cameron's a major badass! That guy was huge and she just lifted him off the ground with one hand. What'd he do anyway?"
"Videoed Snowy with his cell."
"So? Snowy wouldn't mind. He loves it when people make a fuss of him."
"I know,sweetie, but we were in the background. If certain people had seen it they might've-"
"-tracked us down," Mia finishes the sentence. She looks around apprehensively. "Are the bad people here now?"
"No, we're fine. We just have to be careful that's all. Hey, what say we go to the Mall and grab lunch?"
"Can we have pizza? And ice cream?"
"Sure. And if mom asks later we tell her we had salads."
"Can we visit Banana Republic afterwards?"
"We don't have our passports with us," I point out.
"Huh?"
"Banana Republic's a clothes outlet, Cam, not a foreign country," John explains.
"Oh."
"Cameron's kinda goofy sometimes, isn't she," Mia giggles. "Are you sure she's not a stoner?"
"Quite sure."
TUESDAY
John is going up and down.
Up and down. In and out.
Up and down. In and out. Back and forth.
"You can join in, you know," he points out. "These crates aren't going to move themselves."
I help him take the crates from the spare bedroom upstairs and load them into the trunk of the Suburban. Many of the weapons we obtained from Paradise and Leroy are defective. Some are badly corroded while others so poorly maintained that firing them would be more dangerous to the shooter than the intended target.
John, his mother and I have sorted through the defective guns and placed them in a separate crates for disposal at a later date.
That later date is today.
Since Mia is too young to look stay home alone and would ask too many awkward questions if she were to accompany us, John stays behind to care for her. This means I get to spend the day with Sarah !
This is called being ironic.
We head north on the freeway. It is a warm day. Correction: it is a hot day. Temperature in the 90s. A high-pressure system has positioned itself over the city and shows no sign of moving any time soon. With no wind to shift it the smog layer sits over the land like a lid on a kettle. The smog is bad in downtown LA and even worse in the San Fernando valley, where CNN reports elderly people are being hospitilised with respitory problems caused by the heat and build up of carbon particulates in the atmosphere. What a chore it must be to have to breathe. In and out. Out and in. Every single day.
Lungs.
Who needs them?
We leave the freeway and enter the narrow winding roads of the canyons. Sarah Connor hasn't spoken a word since leaving the safe house. No attempt at small talk on this occasion. No listening to music on the radio. I consider telling her the joke John told me about the penguins visiting a bar. I think I understand the joke better now. The penguins were obviously part of a secret government research experiment and were on the run and seeking shelter. I decide not to tell the joke; Sarah Connor is not known for her sense of humour.
"I grew up around here," she states finally breaking her self-imposed silence. "Of course, back in the 80s it was a lot more bo-ho than it is now."
"Bo-ho?" I have not heard this expression before.
"Bohemian. Lots of artists and writers lived in the canyons. It was a very creative, liberal-minded community. Now it's mostly corporate types."
"And this is a bad thing?"
A shrug. "Takes all sorts. It's just a shame things have to change."
"And yet change is necessary in the scheme of things. Without change progress would be impossible and life would never have evolved beyond a single-cell ameoba."
A smirk. "Thank you, Charles Darwin."
My database provides the information. "Charles Darwin. 18th century English botanist," I recite." Author of 'On the Origin of the Species'. You know I am not he therefore your addessing me as such is meant to be jocular."
"No pulling the wool over your eyes."
"No", I agree. "Unless I wore a hat woven from a sheep's fleece then it might indeed be possible to pull the wool over my eyes by tugging the brim down and obscuring my vision."
This provokes a smile. I let it pass. My donning a woollen hat is extremely unlikely. I am so not a hat person.
We round a sharp curve in the road. On either side is forest. We cannot be observed doing what we have come here to do. Sarah Connor brings the Suburban to a stop.
"Grab the crate and follow me. I know just the place to dump it."
-0-
The temperature drops rapidly under the leafy canopy of the forest trees. Even so it is not long before the rigours of our hike cause Sarah Connor's hair to go lank and her tanktop darken with perspiration. Sweat glands. As with lungs - who needs them?
"There's a ravine near here," she declares, stopping to wipe the sweat from her brow. I halt also, balancing the wooden crate on my right shoulder. "There used to be a tree that grew out over the edge with an old tire hanging from a branch. We used to hang out there. Kids with too much time on our hands."
"You mean like that one?" I ask pointing at a tree very similar to the one she has just described.
"My God, I think it's the same one!"
The tree is a sycamore with its roots clinging precariously to the edge of a deep ravine. One thick branch extends over the drop. Tied to this is a rope. Tied to the rope an old automobile tire.
"We used to take a run up here and leap out and catch the tire. We'd swing out and back again. Took some nerve when you're ten years old."
"If you had miscalculated and slipped the fall would most likely have killed you."
"That's where the buzz comes in."
"You risked your existence for a buzz?"
"What can I say? We were young and stupid."
She reaches out and grasps the rope, hauling the tire towards her. It appears as if she is about to repeat her childhood follies. "No," I state firmly, placing my hand on her chest to prevent her leaping.
"Get your hands off me."
"The rope is rotten. It will break. See."
I give the rope a tug. Its fibers part and the tire crashes into the ravine.
Sarah Connor stares after it. "Good call," she says.
This is the thanks I get for saving her life.
We take the guns from the crate and throw them into the ravine, where they disappear into the undergrowth. In the unlikely event someone discovers them they will be of no use. I have removed the firing pins.
Soon all the guns are disposed of. "Okay, let's head back."
"What about the crate?" I ask.
"Toss it over as well."
I do so. The wooden panels make a splintering sound as they encounter a hard object, a rock possibly, at the base of the ravine.
We emerge from the forest in a different place than which we entered, neccesitating a short walk back up the road. As we round the curve we find we are not alone. A policeman is standing beside the Suburban, peering inside. His black and white patrol car is parked nearby. "Let me do the talking," Sarah Connor whispers. "He's on his own so it's probably nothing."
The policeman senses our presence as we approach. He turns, hand going instinctively to the holster at his waist. It contains a Beretta 9mm. He doesn't draw the weapon merely keeping his hand nearby waiting to see what danger we pose.
"Is there something wrong, officer?" Sarah Connor asks.
"Is this your vehicle, ma'am?"
"That's right."
"This is a no-parking zone. There's a sign at the bottom of the hill."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I must've missed it. I used to live round here. I'm showing my daughter some of my old haunts. She's off to college in the Fall and this might be the last chance we get to spend some quality time together. They grow up so fast."
"That they do. Which college?"
I say Cal Tech at the same instant Sarah Connor says Berkeley. She attempts to recover from this discrepancy by smiling and saying, "She was accepted into several colleges. It's hard to keep track."
Some humans have a rudimentary lie detection facility. They call this intuition. This policeman appears to possess such a talent. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Let's see some ID," he demands coldly. "License and registration."
Sarah Connor hands over her license then nods at the Suburban. "The registration's in the glovebox."
"Okay. Why don't you reach in and get it for me. Nice and easy now. Hands where I can see them and no sudden movements.
The policeman examines the documents. The registration is genuine while the license and IDs are the handiwork of the forger Andre Cordoba.
"Okay, Sarah - you said you live around here?"
"Used to. Not any more."
The policeman takes in the dust caked on the bottom of our pants legs. "Been hiking in the woods?"
"Briefly. It's too hot for hiking."
"Only there's been reports of firestarters in the area. You know anything about that?"
A shake of the head. "Like I said, this is my first visit in years."
"That a yes or a no?"
"Do we look like firestarters?"
"Oh they come in all shapes and sizes, believe me. Fifteen years on the force nothing surprises me any more. This place is so dry it's like a tinderbox. Only takes one spark and it could reach all the way to Topanga."
"I can well believe it."
"You're very quiet," he says to me. "What's the matter - cat got your tongue?"
"I don't have a cat." I inform him. "And I would hardly let such a creature have possession of my tongue."
"You sassing me, college girl?"
I make no reply. My database draws a blank for 'sassing'.
"I'm gonna run your plates and IDs," he says. "Something about you two doesn't quite add up."
As he turns to go back to his patrol car the radio crackles into life and begins to broadcast.
"All units. Code 3. All available units code 3. Sunset and Vine. Repeat Sunset and Vine. Respond, over."
"Code three," I state. "Police officer requires immediate assistance."
"How do you know that?"
"She watches a lot of cop shows on TV," Sarah Connor lies on my behalf.
"Well, TV got it right for once. It's your lucky day. I gotta respond toot sweet. If you two are here when I get back I'm hauling you both in for questioning."
The black-and-white races down the hill, siren blazing.
Sarah Connor lets out a sigh of relief. "That was a lucky break."
"Yes," I agree. "For him."
This earns me a sharp glance. "Killing a policeman doing his duty isn't the same as two lowlife's looking to kill us."
"You would prefer our documents be subject to close scrutiny?"
"If you'd kept your mouth shut like I told you we'd be fine."
"You were foolish to flout the parking regulations."
"I honestly didn't see the sign."
"Then you were careless. This isn't the first time. John believes the deaths of Paradise and Leroy were unnecessary, that you are on tilt."
"Tilt?"
"A poker expression meaning you are reacting to events in a reckless, ill-considered manner."
"I'm not on tilt. John really said that?"
"You believes the events in Mexico continue to influence your judgement adversely. I concur."
She mutters several obscene oaths, none of which are physically possible for me to comply with.
"I sometimes think I should just take you on Oprah, slice you open and let the world see for itself what's in store."
"Then why don't you?"
"Because live TV isn't really live. Even supposing I could get on the show there's a tape delay. The moment I cut you open the Network would cut the broadcast. I'd be slung in jail and you'd end up on some lab table in Area 51 while the military try to clone an army." She gestures brusquely at me. "Get in the car. No telling when that cop might decide to come back."
The ride home takes place in silence. No surprise there.
-0-
Once home I go up to the attic room and boot up John's laptop computer. A glance out the window reveals him and Mia playing in the pool, with Snowy floating on a rubber dinghy where he is safe from the harmful effects of the chlorine. I stifle an impulse to join them. There is work to do.
The spybot I installed in the LAPD mainframe is still functioning, although it has been lying dormant for several months. Today's run in with the police seems an opportune time to check up on things.
I input the badge number of the policeman who was so suspicious of us. His details appear on screen. Robert Vincento. Age 41. A policeman for fifteen years. He is married with two children. An address in Glendale. He came off duty one hour ago without filing a report or requesting our details from the police database. It seems his suspicions weren't solid enough to act on.
While I have the entire LAPD files at my disposal I check up on the investigation into the deaths of Paradise and Leroy. As expected their murders have been assigned a low priority. They were dangerous men involved in dangerous activities and therefore their deaths are not wholly unexpected. The case officier's report is brief. Cause of death is listed as blunt force trauma. Do they mean me? I have never been called that before.
Blunt. Force. Trauma.
It is not much of a nickname.
Next I check on the investigation into the murder of Lars Anderson, a journalist killed by a terminator who assumed his identity in a failed attempt to kill John. Sarah Connor left blood traces at the scene which were later matched to her DNA. She is clumsy that way.
NO FILES FOUND
Odd. The last time I checked the investigation has generated many megabytes of data. What has happened to the files? I input some keyboard commands in an attempt to track them down. As I do so I become aware that I have attracted attention to myself. Another spybot lurking in the LAPD mainframe has noticed my interest in these files and begins a pursuit, retracing my steps in an attempt to discover my IP address. It has already reached the Santa Monica node when I order my spybot to self-destruct. The screen goes blank. I stare at it for several moments. This is unprecidented.
Someone has laid a trap for me and me alone.
Someone knows I have hacked the LAPD mainframe.
The hunter has become the hunted.
-0-