The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
WEDNESDAY cont.
The twin turbine engines start to howl as the power increases. The HunterKiller wobbles on its cradle then lifts into the air, a few inches at first, the newly installed AI just beginning to realise its potential.
The gantries tilt and begin to fall. I leap off and onto the broad back of the craft. The T-888 is not so limber. It falls to the floor where John pounces. I see but don't hear the muzzle flashes as he dispatches it the same way as the other.
The HunterKiller is now clear of its cradle. I want to yell run, run as fast as you can, but it wouldn't be heard over the sound of the engines.
The craft dips its nose, bringing the targeting laser online. The hanger is swept by a thin blue line that washes over everything like a narrow fast moving tideline. The two men flinch as the light moves over them. No need. The targeting laser is harmless.
What happens next not so much.
The weapon nacelles open fire simultaneously, bullets rather than the laser cannon of the future. The rounds hit the hard concrete floor sending up smalls puffs of vaporised lime and leave behind tiny impact craters. John dives for cover behind one of the fallen gantries. Russell Osmond is not so alert. He stares at the advancing craters like a rabbit caught in headlights. Several rounds strike him in the chest knocking him over, mouth a perfect O of surprise.
The nacelles cease fire. The targeting laser lashes out again. There is no second wave. The HunterKiller seems satisfied with its initial assault. The engines increase in volume and we begin to rise higher. The roof is constructed of flimsy fiberglass supported by metal struts. No obstacle to progress. We smash through with ease. Upwards until the HK is fifty feet above the building. It begins a slow pirouette, scanning the surrounding countryside and likely matching what it 'sees' with the topography mapping software. I somehow doubt this comes with SatNav.
Below I watch as John creeps out from behind the gantry shelter. He looks up briefly. I resist the urge to smile and wave. I am so not that type. He crosses to Russell Osmond and attempts to stem the bleeding. I could tell him he's wasting his time, that the blood shed so copiously is arterial blood and Osmond is already beyond help. Not that he would hear me from this height or over the engine noise. And I know him well enough now that he wouldn't stop anyway until every last vestige of hope is gone. Gotta love a tryer.
-0-
The twin turbos carry us upwards. The land recedes below. Miles high now. The opportunity to safely depart has passed. I am a passenger now, like it or not.
There is a song I once heard played on FM radio. The chorus went:
Should I stay or should I go now
If I go there will be trouble
If I stay there will be double
So, babe, you got to let me know...
Should I stay or should I go.
This song accurately describes my predicament.
Go: I will destroyed by the imapct of a fall from this height. Unless there happens to be a conveniently placed haystock or neatly stacked pile of empty carboard boxes to break my fall as there so often seems to be in movies or TV shows.
I consider the likelihood remote. This isn't a movie. Or a TV show.
Stay: Then sooner rather than later the US airforce will send fighter planes to investigate the anomaly that has suddenly appeared on their radar screens. The HunterKiller will react with typical belligerence and the fighter planes superior firepower will blow it out of the sky - and me along with it.
Should I stay or should I go?
This must be what the saying 'up shit creek without a paddle' denotes. Though I am still at a loss why anyone should wish to vacation in waterway filled with human waste, paddle or not. Doubtless Snowy would find this destination pleasing, just so long as he refrained from jumping in for a swim...
The HunterKiller continues to climb - we are several miles high now and roughly following the coastline south, seemingly heading for LA. What does it expect to find there? In this time there is no Skynet citadel, no machine enclave where it can refuel and reload weaponery. There is nothing there but humans. Millions and millions of them.
Prey...
An object catches my attention, below and to the left and rising to meet us. Has the airforce found us and launched a missile strike already? No, too slow. It's a passenger jet climbing out of LAX, doubtless outbound for a city on the Pacific rim, many thousands of miles west of here.
The HunterKiller also spots its ascent and changes course to intercept.
Once again, a dilemma.
The passenger is full of people - travellers, vacationeers, businessmen. Their fate is not my responsibility. Yet John would expect me to do something to prevent their imminent massacre. He is funny that way.
It is fruitless to try and destroy the AI; it's buried deep within the nose of the craft and protected by several layers of armor, even supposing I could reach it from my present precarious position.
The HunterKiller's main vulnerability is the twin turbo engines situated either side of the fuselage. In the future, the human Resistance target them with heat seeking missiles launched from the ground. I don't have a heat seeking missile on me. Bummer.
But I do have my pistol.
The HunterKiller rises up on full throttle, closing fast on the hapless passenger jet. Through the windows I can see people within the fuselage, oblivious to the danger approaching at mach speed. I creep up the back of the HK until I am aligned with the turbo jets. I bring my arm up and attempt to aim the pistol. The slipstream buffets me so badly I get a servo overload alarm in my HUD. It fortunate the engines are just yards away, I could never hope to hit them at distance.
The guns discharges silently it seems such is the engine noise. I empty the clip. All bar one bullets strikes the target, the fast spinning maw of the turbo blades. At first there is no change, then a thin stream of smoke trails away, evidence of severe internal damage.
With its two fully functioning engines, the passenger jet begins to leave us behind. The HK has lost half of its motive power yet still doggedly pursues its designated target. We never give up, remember?
I am out of bullets, the gun a useless lump of metal. Or is it? Jet engines are fragile constructions, even stray birds can destroy their internal workings if they are sucked in accidentally. What will a solid lump of metal do?
Let's see...
My aim is true. Duh! Both engines are now mortally stricken and belching dirty black smoke like one of Sarah Connor's backyard barbecues. And smell about as nice. The passenger jet recedes in the distance, safe from the HK's predations. I wonder if its occupants were even aware of how close to a fiery sudden death they were while they watched their inflight movie and pondered their menus.
The HunterKiller descends, both turbo engines now burning out of control. It will know now it is doomed and there is nothing it can do to avert the inevitable. No one cheats gravity, after all.
Not even me.
The HunterKiller descends on a westward trajectory, taking us out over the ocean approximately fifty miles north of Los Angeles. Possibly it prefers a watery grave to a land based impact. Wittingly or not, this will create a small window of opportunity for me to survive. If I jump too soon the depth of water might not be sufficient to break my fall without severe damage. Jump too late and I will enter the ocean beyond the continental shelf, sinking into deep water where the pressure will ultimately crush even my reinforced titanium alloy chassis. Better time it just right then...
I look before I leap. I am two miles high. The coastal beach is a thin sandy ribbon between the green of the land and the seemingly endless expanse of blue ocean. I push off with my boots and fall through the air, parting company with the HK for once and for all. I'd like to say 'farewell, it was nice knowing you' but I'd be lying.
There is nothing to do but wait and let gravity do its stuff. As I fall I find myself thinking about all the cool things John has taught me in our short time together. How it is better to be kind than mean. That extreme violence is not the solution to every problem. That all human life is valuable and should be protected and treasured. Ooh - and fellatio, don't forget that.
I enter the water feet first and begin to sink. The journey to the bottom of the sea takes some time. I see no sign of aquatic life at all. Evidently fish aren't curious about this strange new interloper into their realm. I always did give a lousy first impression.
Finally my feet hit the seabed. It is dark here. And cold. But at least the pressure is survivable. My servo motors protest as I turn ponderously to face east and begin walking. Each step is small and slow but the worst is past. It is now simply a case of putting one foot in front of the other. Baby steps. At my age.
-0-
I finally make landfall at Santa Monica, just north of the pier, emerging from the waves like Aphrodite - if Aphrodite was a cybernetic killing machine.
The long freefall followed by the impact with the ocean has ripped off my croptop and cowboy boots, though my jeans are robust enough to remain intact. Thank you, Mr Levi. And you, Mr Strauss. You make good product.
It's early evening and the beach is filled with people enjoying the late sunshine. Many are in bathing costumes as they dart in and out of the water, so my semi-nudity is unlikely to be remarked upon.
Wrong.
No sooner am I ashore than a man in a yellow tee shirt and red shorts accosts me. A lifeguard.
"Sorry, miss, this is a family beach. No topless sunbathing allowed."
"Do I look like I'm sunbathing?"
"Either cover up or leave the beach."
Having just saved the world you'd think these people could cut me some slack. Apparently not.
Further up the beach two teenage boys are seated side by side on a towel. They snigger as I approach. A body scan shows the one on the left is a perfect match.
I halt before him. "Your tee shirt. Give it to me."
He stares up at me. "Water a bit nippy?"
They both snigger afresh, seemingly unable to stop staring at my torso.
I look down.
Oh. Right. Nippy. Got it.
"Your shirt. Now."
"I'll trade my shirt for your number."
This seems a fair exchange. I write on the piece of paper he proffers and we swap items.
"Hey - what's this? TOK 715. That's not a phone number!"
Oh. He wanted my phone number...
I ignore his protests and head up the sand to the promenade, pulling the shirt on as I go. It's black and has a slogan on the front.
METALLICA
KILL 'EM ALL
WORLD TOUR
I couldn't have put it better myself.
-0-
The walk inland soon dries my hair and jeans and I attract no startled looks from the few people I pass. The only anomaly is my lack of footwear, though this is minor. Nothing to see here. No need to be alarmed. Just another blissed out barefoot hippy chick in the city of angels. Probably high. Unemployed. Deadbeat. Loser.
If they believe that they'll believe anything.
I am gratified to see the Suburban parked in the driveway as I reach the street with the safe house. John has made it back safely from Sacramento. It is a reminder of how much time has passed. Walking the seabed certainly takes a big chunk out of your day.
I am halfway along the front path when the door opens and John charges out. We embrace. "I thought I'd never see you again," he says in a voice shaky with emotion.
"Wild horses," I assure him," couldn't drag me away."
Or runaway HunterKillers!
SATURDAY
The events in Sacramento attract only token media attention. Apparently the end of the world can't compete with the latest Justin Bieber meltdown.
An accident at a military plant caused the deaths of three employees when an experimental prototype aircraft exploded during a test flight.
Brief. Concise. And entirely untrue.
"They're hushing it up," Sarah Connor states. She has just finished disposing of the T-800 and T-888 that John managed to bring home, like two paticularly grisly tourist souvenirs. Nothing left now but a pile of metallic ash.
"Can you blame them? A multi-billion dollar top secret defence project just up and flew away of its own accord. Even Karl Rove couldn't spin that one."
"They'll know we were involved."
"Sure. Julia Osmond. She'll give us up in a heartbeat. I killed her husband."
"John..."
"Why didn't I make him stay in the office with his wife? Be safe. We can handle it. All I had to say. Now he's dead."
"You weren't to know that thing was so close to being operational."
"And I liked him. Okay, he was greedy and chose to ignore the warning signs, but he was an okay guy in the end. And I led him to the slaughter."
I say, "Don't beat yourself off over it."
A tired smile. "It's beat yourself up. And nothing can change the fact that I had the chance to keep him safe and didn't."
"The wife. She knows they were cyborgs?"
"Yeah, she had a front row seat. Not that anyone's likely to believe her since I removed the evidence."
"One man will."
"Creed. Another crime he can add to our rap sheet. Man, if he ever catches me I'm never seeing the light of day again."
MONDAY
The Wizard is missing.
Erik raises the alarm after not hearing from him for five days. Despite the huge discrepancy in their age, the teenage nerd from Pasadena is the nearest thing Sam Clemens has to a friend.
"Maybe he's Nevada photographing UFOs. Isn't that what these people do?" Sarah Connor suggests when John raises the subject with her.
"Erik says he always gets a heads up when that happens. He's worried. Cameron and I are gonna swing past Anaheim and make sure he's okay."
"It's not your responsibilty, John."
"Mom, if it wasn't for Sam Clemens we'd never have known about Cybertech or what was going on in Sacramento. We might be having this conversation in a sewer tunnel underground. If at all. The least we can do is check up on him."
-0-
Anaheim is little changed from our last visit. Clemen's house is still shabby and ill maintained compared to its neighbors. The one change is the garbage can is no longer overflowing.
We approach the front door and knock.
"Mr Clemens? Wizard? It's - uh - White_Knight and Tock. We just wanted to make sure you're okay."
Silence. John trys the door handle which opens easily. None of the many locks are engaged.
The house is empty and shows signs of a sudden evacuation. A half eaten meal is still on the kitchen table. A wooden chair is overturned. In the tinfoil room a laptop computer is missing its hard drive and the file cabinet is empty, the drawers pulled out and dropped on the floor.
"I think someone grabbed him and took him away."
I concur. The question is - who?
Outside in the front yard of the house opposite, a young woman is busy pruning bushes. She's wearing thong sandals, denim shorts, a red bikini top and a wide brim hat to keep the sun off. Her boobs are smaller than mine so I am relaxed about John crossing the street to talk to her. Now if it was Kelly Brook...
"Excuse me, do you know what's happened to Mr Clemens?"
She wrinkles her nose in puzzlement. "Sorry - who?"
"The old man who lives across the street."
"You mean the crazy old dude?"
"He's not so crazy. He had an important job once. He worked for NASA on the shuttle program."
"Really? Was he an astronaut?"
"Software engineer. Behind the scenes stuff."
"Oh." She sounds disappointed. "Is he a friend of yours?"
"In a way."
"They came for him a few days ago. People with a van. I don't think he wanted to go."
"Didn't anyone call the police?"
"I think they were the police. They seemed very official, with badges and guns and everything. As they took him away he kept yelling the same thing over and over. 'Hunt her killer! Hunt her killer!' Bizarre."
"I think you mean, HunterKiller."
"That's what I said. Hunt her killer. I wonder who he meant? Did he murder someone?"
"No, nothing like that. Do you know where he's been taken or when he'll be back?"
"I hope he never comes back. Look at the state of his yard. It's a disgrace. All those weeds set seed and then blow over here. I'm forever weeding."
"There are no weeds," I point out. "Merely plants growing in places people don't want them to. A better description is biodiversity."
She frowns and says with onvious disdain. "Pardon me, miss, but you are obviously not a gardener."
Now how did she know that?
TUESDAY
I design and build a TV remote control for Snowy, since the regular type has buttons too small for his paws. I use a reconditioned iPad with touchscreen pictograms instead of numbers denoting his favourite channels.
Snowy is thrilled with this new gadget and spends ages in front of the TV, prodding the touchscreen with his paws and occasionally his snout. However, one consequence I hadn't envisaged was his short attention span. If the program hasn't sufficient dog-related content he flips channels. Constantly. And he forgets to mute the sound meaning Sarah Connor becomes infuriated by the din. At this point she usually pulls the plug out, picks Snowy up and tosses him out into the backyard like so much trash. Snowy accepts this treatment stoically and wanders off to brag to the cat next door about his latest toy. Mr Tibbles affects indifference, as he does about most things, but I suspect is secretly jealous. After all, it's not as if you can buy a pet TV remote control off the shelf at Target.
WEDNESDAY
Tennis seems an easy sport to master: use a hand implement to hit a ball over a net into the prescribed area beyond in such a manner that the opponent is unable to return it. A simple combination of spatial geometry and brute force. Should be right up my street.
Wrong.
After two broken rackets, three exploding balls and a partially demolished perimeter fence I decide that tennis isn't up my street.
"Better stick to tiddlywinks!" John quips as we hastily flee the public court, which now resembles the scene of a bombing outrage.
Yet Serena Williams makes it seem so effortless. Maybe I need a different racket. And a considerably bigger ass.
FRIDAY
The Wizard is back. Or rather he isn't.
"Erik says there's someone posting as the Wizard. But it's not him."
"How can he tell? I thought it was all anonymous," Sarah Connor replies.
"Well, for one thing thing this Wizard keeps asking a lot of questions. Erik says the real one never asked questions."
A smirk. "Typical man."
"The questions are about White_Knight and Tock."
"Who?"
"Long story. Us basically. So it's either someone posing as the Wizard and trying to get information that way, or they're holding a gun to his head and forcing him to do it."
"And I suppose you want to make another daytrip to Anaheim?"
"Just a quick visit. If there's time we'll bring you back a pair of Mickey Mouse ears."
"They'll suit you," I add.
-0-
Change has come to Anaheim. Opposite the Clemens residence is a Lincoln town car parked kerbside. Seated inside is a man wearing a dark suit reading a newspaper spread across the steering wheel.
"Government type," John says. "You can practically smell it. Okay, here's what we're gonna do."
I listen carefully. Excellent. I get to be a badass.
We leave the rental car and walk slowly down the street, careful to keep in the blindspots created by the Lincoln's side pillars. The man notices nothing, too absorbed in his newspaper to even look up. I wonder if he's checked the funnies today? That Garfield. The way he treats Opie!
I yank open the rear door while John does the same on the passenger side. I press my handgun against the base of the man's skull. "Make a move and the last thing you see will be your brains flying through the windscreen."
This is not strictly true. If I pull the trigger he will be dead long before his optic nerves can register the necessary information. It's a cool line though. I heard it in Steven Seagal movie.
"Let's see who we're dealing with," John says reaching into the man's jacket pocket and withdrawing a leather wallet. "Patrick Ryan Kielty. Military Intelligence. Isn't that an oxymoron?"
The man doesn't reply. Possibly he is unaware of the meaning. "An oxymoron is two words combined to give a contradictory meaning," I explain. Duh!
"Okay, Patrick, how about you tell us where you took Sam Clemens?"
Still nothing. John sighs. "Silent type, huh? See the pretty girl behind you, Patrick? She may look all sweet and innocent, but I'll let you into a little secret: she's a natural born killer. And guess what? She's so crazy in love with me she'll do anything I ask. Watch this. Say 'cream cheese'."
"Cream cheese."
"Say 'ooga booga booga'."
"Ooga booga booga."
"Say 'a costermonger in Cucamunga sells seashells by the seashore'."
"A costermonger in Cucamunga sells seashells by the seashore."
"Now what d'you suppose will happen if I say pull the trigger? Huh? Wanna roll those dice, Patrick? Pull. The."
"Okay, okay!"
"He speaks! Goshdarnit, it's a miracle! Now, where's Sam Clemens?"
"Military prison Texas."
"Since when are civilians detained in military prisons?"
"Clemens worked for NASA. He signed the official secrets act when he joined. They all do. That makes it our jurisdiction."
"He quit NASA years ago."
"It still pertains."
"Okay, when's the trial date?"
"There isn't one. Probably never will be. The Patriot Act of 2002 grants the right to detain any individual indefinitely without recourse to trial or legal representation."
"You're kidding."
"The United States government never kids."
"Wow, that's some sweet deal you've got going there, Patrick. A real doozie. Stalin would've been proud of that one. Okay, if Clemens is in jail what are you doing here? I hope you're not casing the joint or I might have to call the cops."
"My orders are to watch for visitors and inspect any deliveries."
"Have there been any deliveries?"
"Just an LL Bean catalogue and the newspaper."
"Which you helped yourself to."
A shrug. "It's not like he's gonna need it where he is."
"What are you supposed to do if he has visitors?"
"Call it in. There's a snatch squad on standby."
"The same heavies who grabbed Clemens?"
"I suppose. I wasn't here for that."
"Who's giving the orders here? Is it Rubin Creed?"
"I don't know anyone by that name."
The stress readout in my HUD spikes suddenly. "He lying," I say.
"Oops, you just lost your brownie points, Patrick."
"Okay, I've heard of him. I mean, who hasn't? He's a Spook legend. I've never met the guy. Way above my paygrade."
"So who's giving the orders?"
"My CO, Colonel Westmoreland."
I say, "Colonel Avery 'Tex' Westmoreland?"
"No one calls him Tex. Least not to his face."
"You know him?" John asks.
"Colonel 'Tex' Westmoreland commands the 5th Army against Skynet forces in the last major land battle of the first phase of the war. They are completely annihilated due to a combination of tactical incompetance and inadequate weaponery. The battle is known as 'Westmoreland's Folly' and marks the abandonment of conventional military doctrine for the the guerrila tactics of the Resistance."
"What's she talking about? Colonel Westmoreland isn't a field commander; he works a desk."
"Some day everyone is a combatant."
"Clemens isn't involved in anything illegal. Your boss must know that by now."
"Clemens is believed to be an terrorist agent called 'Wizard' and in contact with two fellow enemy agents codenamed 'White_Knight' and 'Tock'."
John laughs aloud. "Sorry. It sounds kinda funny when someone else says it."
"It's believed these enemy agents might be involved in stealing a top secret defence project and selling it to the Chinese."
"Oh yeah? Suppose I told you White_Knight and Tock are right here in the car with you."
"You mean you two are..?"
"The one and onlies. We left the spandex costumes at home. You wouldn't believe the looks we get."
"I'm placing you both under arrest."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" I point out, nudging his skull with the barrel of the Glock.
"And we're not stealing or selling anything to anyone. This top secret defence project is currently at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, which is the best place for it, trust me."
"Three innocent men died during that robbery."
"Actually, only one. And he wasn't that innocent. I regret it like you wouldn't believe. Now listen up. I'm gonna tell you how it went down. Listen real good. I won't be asking questions later but someone will. You can count on it."
John imparts a version of what occured in Sacramento. Kielty listens then shakes his head and scoffs, "You really expect me to believe that?"
"I don't give a shit what you believe, Patrick. The fact that you're dumb enough to let us sneak up on you and were even sent on a nothing assignment like this in the first place suggests you're not the brightest star in the intelligence firmament. Just tell your boss to tell Creed. Have him check the backgrounds of Jonathon Smith and Bud Jones. Ask Julia Osmond about them. And ask the Sacramento PD about a bank robbery from three years ago. If Creed is half the legend you say he is he ought to be able to see the connection."
"Why don't you come in and tell him yourself?"
A weary smile. "Nice try. Okay, we're done here. The trunk for our Oirish friend, I think."
"Hey!"
I drag Kielty out of the vehicle and bundle him in the trunk. He doesn't appreciate it very much. There's no pleasing some people.
-0-
We are halfway to the rental when a black Lincoln town car identical to the first enters the street. It brakes to a halt as the driver spots us.
"Oh shit. What are the odds?" John groans.
The side door of the Lincoln opens and a man in a dark suit levels his firearm at us.
"Hold it right there! Hands where I can see them!"
I oblige, bringing my hands up in clear sight.
Of course I am also holding a Glock 9mm pistol.
I have a clear headshot. So tempting...
Instead I shoot out the vehicle's side window. The man flinches and ducks as the glass shatters inches from his face. This allows John time to reach the rental car and start the engine.
"Quickly! Get in!"
The rental car makes a tight U-turn across several front lawns before rejoining the highway.
"What's he doing?"
"Following. And closing. Optimum proximity deficit in less than thirty seconds."
"If you mean he'll be on our ass toot sweet just say so."
"He'll be on our ass toot sweet."
"We'll never outrun him in this piece of junk. Take him out. Aim for the tires or radiator. Use the sunroof."
I punch out the sunroof and stand up. The wind blows my hair out horizontally. This type of extreme backcombing is not a good look on me.
The Lincoln is fifty yards back and closing. I aim at the radiator grille and fire three times. Steam erupts from the holes that suddenly appear and the vehicle slows and pulls over to the side of the road.
"Nice shooting," John comments as I drop back down. "Gonna need to ditch this, though. They'll call the cops for sure. We can't outrun an APB all the way to Santa Monica."
We continue for several miles before John makes a tight left turn into a supermarket parking lot. A grocery laden Volvo estate is just vacating a slot and John steers the Honda in with mere inches to spare.
"Do we steal another vehicle?" I ask.
"Let's not tempt fate. I'll give mom a call to come pick us up. I know she's been itching to get involved and here's a chance to do that."
The supermarket has a self-service cafeteria. John selects a cheese danish and a pot of steaming coffee. I of course choose nothing, though at least here there are no sarcastic waitresses to ridicule my non-choice.
We sit at a table next to a plate glass window that affords a perfect view of the parking lot. A police cruiser speeds past on the road beyond with its siren blaring. "He won't sell many ice creams at that speed," John quips.
"They'll be looking for a white Honda compact."
"Of which there must be thousands in LA county. And what kind of fugitive stops for coffee and a cheese danish?"
"How did Kielty manage to summon help?"
"He didn't. I think it was the end of his shift and the other guy was his relief. Just our bad luck it happened when it did.
Ah yes, luck. That most mysterious of qualities. You can't see luck. Or hear it, feel it, smell it, summon it or dismiss it. Yet the majority of humans believe it plays an important if not decisive role in their lives, for better or ill. Toss a coin enough times and statistical probablity demands it will land heads or tails the same amount of times. There will be long sequences when one or the other will predominate, hence the expression lucky streak.
Does luck actually exist?
I wouldn't bet on it.
"Westmoreland's Folly, huh? Is he really that bad?"
"His stubborn refusal to alter tactics even in the face of absolute disaster costs the lives of thousands of men."
John nods and chews his Danish thoughtfully.
"Will we break the Wizard out of military prison?" I ask.
"And do what - adopt him? We gave all our spare cash to Lieberman. We can't finance another fugitive on the run from the law so we'll just have to hope he's treated okay. He's most likely told them all he knows anyway. They'll have to cut him loose eventually."
"I have one more question."
"Okay, go for it."
"Cucamunga is a town situated many miles inland from the coast."
"So?"
"How does a costermonger in Cucamunga sell seashells by the seashore?"
I wait patiently for the laughter to subside. I have a lot of experience by now.
-0-
Sarah Connor arrives to pick us up. As we climb in the back of the Suburban we find another passenger already there.
"Hey, you brought the Snowman!"
Snowy's tail wags happily. He loves his nickname preferring it to the one I gave him - Perpetual Pooping Organism.
"Not on purpose. He snuck in back when I wasn't looking. He's lucky I didn't dump him on the freeway."
"A naughty little stowaway, huh. Well, he must be punished. I think a severe tummy tickling is in order."
Snowy gleefully submits to his 'punishment'. It is hardly draconian since there are few things he enjoys more than having his stomach rubbed vigorously. It's a dog thing.
At one point during the journey back to Santa Monica traffic slows to a crawl. John winds down the window to see why. "Cops," he reports, ducking back in. "Not stopping anybody. Just diverting traffic. I think there's been an accident."
It's no accident. A white Honda compact is hemmed in by two police cruisers. The two passengers, a young couple dressed in casual clothes, are lying side by side on the tarmac, hands bound behind their backs with plastic ties. A state trooper stands next to them talking urgently on his radio.
"They think it's us," John surmises. "Young couple driving a white Honda. They're probably requesting Kielty to come and make a positive ID."
"Did he get a good look at you?"
"Oh sure. He'll know it's not me in a heartbeat. Maybe not Cameron. She was behind him most of the time."
"Holding a gun to his head," I add.
"I bet you enjoyed that," Sarah Connor smirks.
"No, not really."
I didn't get to pull the trigger.
-0-
We take a circuitous route through the city, since these narrower backstreets will be harder to police than the freeway. As one city block gives way to another, Sarah Connor slows the Suburban and brings it to a halt kerbside. She stares at the tall apartment building opposite, an odd wistful look on her face. Makes a change from her usual scowl.
"Uh - Mom? What is it? Why are we stopped?"
"I used to live here. Years ago."
"Here?"
"That building. I shared an apartment with my best friend Ginger. I haven't been back since she was killed. Murdered. By them. This is where it all started."
We stare at the apartment building in silence. I know little of John's mother's past, only that she was once targeted for termination before she could bear a son.
"You - uh - want to go inside, look around?"
"What's the point? It was years ago. Everything's changed. You know, I don't even know where Ginger's buried."
Silence. Even Snowy senses the somber mood and refrains from licking his genitals too vigorously.
"I remember I worked the late shift that night. Ginger invited her boyfriend over to the apartment. Mike, I think - no, Matt. I remember telling her to keep her pants on long enough to feed Pudsley."
"Pudsley?"
"My pet iguana."
"You had a pet... iguana?"
"Things were different then."
"I'll say. You had a pet iguana for one. And yet you give Snowy a hard time."
"Pudsley didn't sleep on my laundry. Or shed fur all over the sofa."
With a last look at the building, Sarah Connor steps on the gas and we merge once more with the traffic flow. It seems our little trip down memory lane is over.
Not quite. A few blocks further we again pull over and stop. Opposite is nightclub-style building with tubes of neon attached to the wall that flash the curious message:
LIVE! XXX GIRLS!
"Ginger and I used to work here," Sarah Connor states simply.
"You were an LIVE XXX GIRL?" I ask.
"We were waitresses. The place was a family diner back then."
Snowy presses his snout against the window, mesmerised by the flashing lights and doubtless hoping to spot an LIVE! XXX GIRL. No such luck. The only people entering or leaving the club are men. Whether they are LIVE! XXX MEN it is impossible to tell.
Since it is now mid-afternoon, it is decided to proceed directly to Mia's school rather than return home and make a second journey later.
Mia is pleased to see us but also suspicious. "How come you're all here? It's usually just one."
"We had business in the city," John replies cryptically. "Hey - did you know when she was younger mom had a pet iguana?"
"One of those lizard things? Cool! What was its name?"
"Pudsley."
"I want an iguana!"
"Absolutely not."
"You had one so I can too"
"I also had a bubble perm. You want one of those?"
"Gross! An iguana would be a companion for Snowy, for when I'm at school," Mia wheedles.
"Iguanas are aggresive carnivores," I point out as the information scrolls across my HUD. "The lizard might regard Snowy less a potential companion and more a convenient source of food."
Snowy's ears prick up in alarm and he begins to whimper and tremble. He is seldom the bravest of dogs.
There is no more talk of iguanas.
-0-
Bit of a g-a-p between updates. I'd like to say I was working on some Great Project but basically I was slacking off during the heatwave. Seems my muse prefers a cooler climate.
It's not as if you can buy a pet TV remote control off the shelf at Target. Not yet. I'm sure they're working on it.
He won't sell many ice creams at that speed. The late great Eddie Braben.
The Sarah Connor facts were checked with the Terminator wiki page. The iguana really was named Pudsley. Fate unknown. Ladies, check your Louboutins...