The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
MONDAY
John Connor is dead.
It is reported on the TV news. Shot at close range. Three gunshots to the head. He didn't stand a chance.
His wife Selina Connor was shot also. Gunned down while she fixed dinner at their Pasadena home. Selina Connor was a housewife while her husband worked selling life insurance policies. There is some irony there, though it is of little comfort to the victims. They had been married for eight years, no issue. They are survived by Mr Biscuit, a three year old pomeranian, and Flipper, of indeterminate age and sex. It is unlikely they will be able to help identify the killer since Mr Biscuit is a dog and Flipper a goldfish. And the police seldom elicit eyewitness testimony from animals.
Murray Weintraub isn't a dog or a goldfish. He is a sixty-two year old neighbor of the Connors' who happened to be in his front yard across the street at the time of the killings, fixing a faulty lawn sprinkler. Murray Weintraub saw the killer arrive on a motorbike, enter the house by kicking in the door, and heard six gunshots. 'One after another, quick like,' he tells a TV news reporter. 'Hardly any gap between them. Bam. Bam. Bam. I knew it was a gun straight away. High calibre weapon, sounded like to me. Heard enough of those. I did my duty in 'Nam.' He saw the killer emerge from the house, climb back on the motorbike and calmly drive away.
The killer is described as a tall powerfully built man in his thirties. Dark jacket. Short hair. Face devoid of expression. A man who looked like he meant business and nothing was going to stand in his way.
A Terminator, in other words.
-0-
"It could just be coincidence," John suggests with more hope than conviction. "There must be plenty of people with my name in Los Angeles."
"Sixteen," I confirm. "Twenty two if you include only the initial J. Connor. Thirty-two if you include Conner with an e or with a single n. Forty-four if you include Connors. Sixty-"
"Okay, okay. Point taken."
"Where was this guy in the phonebook?" Sarah Connor asks. A shrewd not to say prescient question.
"His was the first name in all current editions. His middle name was Adam."
"Damn. It's happening again."
"Come on. No way can one of those things believe I'd be stupid enough to live in Los Angeles under my real name."
"Agreed."
"Then why murder this guy if they know it can't possibly be me?"
"A terminator is attempting to lure you out into the open. It believes you will act and do something to help the other John Connors, who it will kill one by one until you show up to try and prevent the slaughter."
"How do you know all this?" Sarah Connor demands.
I look her straight in the eyes. "It is what I would do."
"So what do we do?" John asks.
"I advise doing nothing."
"But if you're right all the other people with my name will be killed one by one."
"Correct. However, they are unimportant. And you will be alive. Which is all that matters."
John shakes his head. This option is unacceptable to him. As I knew it would be. As this other terminator knew it would be also. Compassion for others is a predictable human trait, in this this man perhaps more than others. A trait to be exploited.
"We should at least warn them."
"And tell them what?." His mother demands. " Run for the hills because a cyborg from the future is going to kill you. But, hey, it's nothing personal. I never believed in the beginning when it happened to me and neither will they."
WEDNESDAY
The second John Connor dies 48 hours after the first. A construction worker living in Santa Barbara, he is shot three times in the head just seconds after entering the two bedroom clapboard house he had built with his own hands. The terminator was inside waiting for him. This time two children playing in the yard next door heard the shots and saw a tall man walk to the kerb, climb aboard a motorbike and drive away. One child describes him as 'the baddest badass you ever saw.'
John switches off the news broadcast. "We need to do something," he announces somberly.
"That's what the triple -8 wants you to do."
"So we just sit back and let the others be murdered one after another?"
Sarah Connor nods. "You're right. We have to stop this. Who's next in the book?"
"John B. Connor. Lives in West Hollywood. It's not that far from here."
"Let's try and find out some more about him before we drop by. It would just be our luck if he turns out to be a cop."
-0-
John Byron Connor isn't a cop; he's a orchid grower who works at the big commercial glasshouses south of the city. Like so many humans in the early part of the twentieth century, he is extremely careless with the details of his personal life which are listed on the social networking sites for anyone to peruse.
"Thirty-two. Recently divorced. Studied botany and horticulture at Arizona State. Drives a '98 Corvette. Went to Acapulco for vacation. The pictures are all online. He sunburns way too easy. Tall and skinny. Losing his hair slightly. According to his tweets he thinks Norah Jones is way cooler than Lady Gaga."
"She certainly dressses better," Sarah Connor smirks. "What about his house?"
"Apartment. Third floor twin bed in a five storey block in West Hollywood. His wife got their house in Encino as part of the divorce settlement. Judging from some of his posts he's still pretty sore about it."
"Any kids?"
"Nope. No girlfriend mentioned. Or pets. Looks like we lucked out there. He lives alone."
"So what's the plan? Do we sit on him until the triple -8 shows up? If it shows up."
"Sort of. Cameron and I have been experimenting with making fake FBI badges. Be a big help in a situation like this. Here, take a look."
Sarah Connor examines the documents which we researched thoroughly on the web, scanned and printed on similar paper to the real thing. "Hmm, not bad. Wouldn't fool a policeman though."
"Maybe not. But I figure they're good enough to fool an orchid farmer."
"There's more to passing yourself off as FBI than a badge. We'll have to look and act the part."
"Absolutely. I've got our cover stories worked out. You're Agent Pasco. Senior agent because - uh - because..."
"Because I'm old?"
"Uh - yeah. I'm Agent Higgs. Cameron's Agent Valente. We're rookies fresh out of Quantico."
"You've put a lot of thought into this."
"It's best if we don't go off half-cocked."
"No one likes a half-cock," I agree. This provokes smiles for some reason.
"She'll have to keep her mouth shut if this is gonna work. Another crack like that and he'll see right through us."
She.
Meaning yours truly.
"Don't worry. Cameron knows enough to keep her mouth shut."
"When d'you want to do this?"
"Tonight. Better safe than sorry."
"What about Mia?"
"Sleepover at Megan's?" John suggests.
"Awfully short notice."
"Her parent's seemed pretty liberal. I think they'll go for it."
-0-
They do. Mia is delighted to hear the news and she and Snowy dash around readying themselves for the unexpected sleepover at her best friend's house. Then when she has calmed down she seeks me out in the kitchen.
"What's going on?"
"I am loading the dishwasher," I explain. "Then I will wipe down all work surfaces with an anti-bacterial spray. Just because you can't see germs doesn't mean there aren't any."
This is true. I saw it on an infomercial.
"I meant why am I being packed off to Megan's? It's a school night."
"You don't want to go?"
"Sure I want to go. It's just... something's going on. My spidey sense is tingling."
"You have a spidey sense?"
This is news to me. Can Mia be a superhero and we not know it?
"I'm picking up a vibe. Like with Papa in Mexico. He'd tell me he was going away for a few days on business and he'd be all tense until he left. He was smuggling guns across the border and it was dangerous. I'm picking up the same vibe from John and Sarah."
"What about me?"
"You never give off a vibe. Apart from that time John cut his finger fixing a sandwich and you came on like Florence Nightingale."
"I merely observed correct medical procedures. He might have bled out."
"It was barely a scratch!"
"Nevertheless, correct procedures must be adhered to."
"Okay. Whatever."
Mia bites her lip, then crosses the room and hugs me.
"Please don't let anything bad happen to John or Sarah."
It's as if she knows.
-0-
In order to pass as FBI agents we must first dress the part. This means abandoning my cowboy boots, tight jeans and halter top - even though I totally rock this outfit. Instead I don pants, shirt and jacket. And I require my hair to worn up. As does Sarah Connor. We help pin each other up since even a terminator lacks eyes in the back of her head.
"Your hair's very glossy. What do you do to it?"
"Wash and condition three times a day," I divulge.
"How d'you find the time?"
"I don't sleep, remember?"
"Oh I never forget. Okay, you're done. And one other thing. We take down this triple 8 if we can. But one imperative overides that. John's safety."
"Agreed."
John joins us, rocking his own suit and tie outfit. He's accesorized with slicked back hair and a pair of mirrored RayBans. "All ready, Agents Pasco and Valente?" he grins. "Our squad car awaits. And by squad car I mean family Suburban."
"This isn't a game, John."
"I know, mom. Okay, here's the badges - with genuine leather wallets to match. Quick flash like they do on TV. With any luck this Connor guy won't look too closely."
"And if he does?"
"Then we tie him up and lock him in his closet. It's for his own good."
-0-
West Hollywood is busy and we slow to crawl fighting traffic as the denizens of Los Angeles head home during the evening rush hour.
"Too bad we don't have a siren like the real FBI," John complains as the traffic slows to a virtual halt.
"Be a little out of place on a Suburban."
We finally reach the apartment block, which is horseshoe-shaped around a communal swimming pool, fairly typical for LA. John Byron Connor lives on the third floor. Apartment 7.
"At least we know he's home," John says, indicating a bright red sportscar parked in the building's lot. "That's '98 Corvette. Not many of those around. Sweet."
The elevator in the lobby is out of order requiring a walk up three flights of stairs. Neither John or his mother are out of breath when we reach the correct floor. Their physical conditioning is superb. As for me - who needs breath?
John knocks on the door of apartment 7 then steps back to place his mother at the forefront. She is the senior agent on account of her advanced age, though she doesn't like it if you put it like that.
The door is opened by a man in his early 30s. Tall. Skinny. Thinning hair. Just like his Facebook photos. The vacation suntan has faded somewhat.
Mr Connor?" Sarah Connor asks. "Mr John Byron Connor?"
"Uh - yeah. Although I never use the middle name. Who are you?"
"FBI, Mr Connor. May we come in?"
We all flash our forged badges, flipping them shut before his gaze can linger on them. He doesn't ask for a closer inspection.
"Uh - I guess. What's this about?"
"Inside, if you don't mind, sir."
We troop in. The apartment is small and minimally furnished. A large flat screen TV faces a long leather chesterfield. There are orchid plants on every windowsill. Apparently he is man who brings his work home with him.
Sarah Connor makes the introductions. "I'm Agent Pasco. These are Agents Higgs and Valente. Do you live here alone, Mr Connor?"
"Yeah. For the last nine months. I'm divorced. The judge gave my ex-wife the house. And a whole bunch of other stuff she didn't deserve," he adds bitterly.
"The reason we're here, Mr Connor, is we believe your life may be in danger."
"From my ex-wife?"
"Hardly, sir. Have you watched the news lately?"
"Uh - not so much. I'm more an ESPN kinda guy."
"Then you won't be aware of this."
She hands him two photo-copied reports on the John Connor murders. "Notice anything unusual?"
"They have the same name. My name!"
"Exactly. We have reason to believe you might be next. The person who did this is extremely dangerous."
"But why me? What the hell did I do?"
"He's a psychopath, sir. People like that don't act rationally."
"What should I do?"
"For now, nothing. We're here to protect you. It's entirely possible this man might be planning to attack you this very evening."
"Christ! This is incredible."
John crosses to the balcony. "This the only other way in?"
"Yeah. The landlord's talking about installing a security cardswipe system in the lobby but it's just talk. He's too cheapskate to even fix the elevator. It's been out of action for a week."
"Yeah, we noticed. You work on an orchid farm, correct?"
"Nursery, yeah."
"You notice a customer show up riding a big Harley-Davidson motorbike? Tall guy, dark leather jacket?"
"It's not a retail nursery. It's a commercial glasshouse and we don't deal directly with the public. We propagate orchids then ship them to stores all over the country. Those moth orchids you can buy for ten bucks in K-Mart? We grow those."
"So if someone like that did show up you'd be able to spot him straightaway?"
"I doubt it. I work in the lab."
"Lab?"
"Laboratory. Growing orchids isn't like growing tomatoes. We don't use soil, for one thing. We micro-propagate using agar jelly on a commercial scale. We grow millions every year. That's how we keep the costs low. It's a completely sterile enviroment and more like manufacturing computer chips really. "
"We understand you drive a red '98 Corvette, is that correct?"
"Oh yeah, absolutely. My pride and joy. The bitch didn't get that. Sorry, I mean my ex-wife."
"Messy divorce?"
"Yeah. Didn't help that my attorney was a jackass."
"A donkey?" I ask, surprised. It seems an odd choice for legal advice.
"Is there a way up to the roof?" John asks hastily, frowning in my direction. Oops.
"Uh - yeah. Up the backstairs. Door to the roof's locked though. Someone tried growing weed up there and the landlord padlocked it."
"Okay, we'll check it out. Agent Valente, why don't you accompany me?"
Agent Valente. That's me.
We ascend the backstairs. The door to the roof is indeed padlocked. Not for long.
The roof is a bare expanse of asphalt broken by ventilator chimneys and the large bulk of the elevator shaft. There are signs of recent human usage. Lengths of nylon washing line hang between the chimneys. A rusty barbecue is pushed in a corner and several lawn chairs are scattered around, their seat fabric faded and sagging from long exposure to the elements.
John crosses to the low parapet and peers over. "Good view of the entrance from here." He pulls up a lawn chair and sits down. I remain standing. The sky is beginning to darken as evening becomes night. In the distance is the freeway, an eight lane sinuous snake of light. Vehicles rush past in both directions. Humans in transit. Forever on the move. Until the bombs fall and send the survivors underground.
"A donkey!" John mocks gently. "Man, I thought mom was gonna have kittens when you said that!"
I don't bother point out this eventuality is extremely unlikely.
John loosens his tie. "Sit down. Take a load off. We could be here sometime."
"I'm fine, thank you."
"Are you mad? I wasn't making fun of you."
"People should speak more precisely."
"Yeah, we suck at that."
I sense movement behind me. I twist round, bringing my Glock to bear as I do so. My targeting graphics lock on to... John Byron Connor. He stands in the doorway holding two styrofoam cups. He stares slack-jawed at my pistol which I hurriedly reholster.
"I - uh - thought you might like some fresh coffee."
"Right. Thanks. Don't mind Agent Valente; she's a little trigger happy."
"Wasn't the door locked?"
"I guess not."
"I could've sworn... Anyway, that's where it was."
"Where what was?"
"The weed I told you about. They used rockwool as a growing medium which is a complete nonstarter in this climate. Everyone thought it was me doing it because I have a background in horticulture, but it wasn't me. I swear to God."
"Relax, sir. We haven't come here to bust you."
"I think it was one of the tenants on the first floor. I'm pretty sure I've heard them playing the Grateful Dead. Bunch of deadbeats."
"I think they prefer deadheads."
"Well, it definitely wasn't me."
"That's a matter for the local police department."
"If you don't mind me saying, aren't you both pretty young to be FBI agents?"
"We graduated from Quantico in the spring." John lies smoothly. "Agent Valente here was top of the class in markmanship. You wouldn't want to get in her crosshairs. This is our first major assignment."
"Right. Okay. I'll be going then. Catch you later."
"Thanks for the coffee."
The sky darkens further. The freeway seems to pulse with a strange intensity, like a living breathing entity, the vehicle headlamps becoming one continuous stream of light.
"Hmm, this is good coffee," John comments appreciatively. "I wonder how mom's getting along? Hope that guy isn't boring her to tears over how you grow orchids. Or bitching about his ex-wife. Hey - was he lying about not being involved with growing weed?"
I review the appropriate memory file. "No," I judge, "he was truthful. His stress levels were comparatively low."
"Seemed mighty narked over it. I guess his profession would make him a prime suspect."
"Narked?" I query.
"Upset. Annoyed. Pissed off."
Narked. (verb)
I add the word to my database for possible future reference.
"The cultivation of a banned substance is a federal offence," I point out. "If convicted he would face a jail term. What I believe is called 'a stretch'. Correct?"
"You nailed it."
I decide to walk the perimeter of the roof, leaving John to sip his coffee and watch the entrance. I step over discarded beer bottles and duck under the sagging clothes lines until I reach the opposite end of the building. Below is the communal pool, lit with underwater lights that make it glow like a turquoise jewel. From this vantage point I can observe the other apartments, many of which have lights on and no drapes offering a glimpse into the occupants lives. I spot a woman wrapped in a yellow towel emerge from a bathroom, her hair wet and lank; a man balancing two microwave meals in one hand and a sixpack of beer in the other; another clad only in shorts reclines on a barcalounger perusing TV Guide. Ordinary people living ordinary lives, who assume their days on earth will be spent in this manner for ten, twenty, thirty years until they die a natural death in old age. How wrong they are. How deluded. Soon a storm will swing through of such ferocity they can scarcely imagine, sweeping their complacency away like so much flotsam in a hurricane.
I find John has finished his first cup of coffee and has started on the second. I hope he doesn't drink it too quickly. Too much caffeine all at once can trigger heart palpitations. I learnt this from Dr Phil.
"Spot anything unusual?"
"Not really."
"What's the security like round the back?"
"There's a chainlink fence," I recall. "Although it woudn't detain one of us for very long."
"D'you think it'll come from there?"
"No. The triple-8 will prefer a frontal assault, believing nothing would be gained by employing stealth."
"Cocky little devil."
Police sirens sound in the street below. Crime is an everyday occurrence in a city the size of Los Angeles. Skynet has nothing to teach humanity about greed, duplicity or violence. There is no reason to suspect the police are heading here.
Two black and white cruisers slow and turn into the front entrance, sirens still blaring.
John leaps from his lawn chair and fumbles his cell phone. "Mom! Two squad cars just arrived! Where's Connor?...What? No, he was here. He brought us coffee. Then he left. I assumed to rejoin you...Damn. He got suspicious and called the cops. We need to bail. Fast."
Below four uniformed officers charge into the building. Unseen by them, unseen by anyone except me, a lone figure guides his Harley-Davidson motorbike into the lot, dismounts and surveys the apartment block. The triple-8's gaze travels upwards until our eyes meet. Target acquired.
"John..."
"Oh damn! Mom - the triple-8 just showed up. We've got cops coming up the stairwell and a terminator blocking our escape route. It's the perfect storm. And we're slam bang in the middle of it."
-0-
I figure if the long haired dude in Supernatural can pass as an FBI agent then the Connors' can too.
Glad the 'dream' chapter was a hit. Originally it was going to be an Angry birds game, with Skynet as the birds. Bit too weird - even for me.
If you think that's a cliffhanger wait till you read the next one...