The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

MONDAYcont.

We wait until Mia is safely at school then restart her laptop. The password is snowyisthebest.

John finds the picture and says, "It's him, isn't it."

"Ninety-two percent probability," I confirm.

"So what the hell is Rubin Creed doing there? And why is he talking to Angie?"

"The logical explanation is he knows she visited us and therefore our location."

"No. If Creed even suspected she knew us and where we live she'd be in custody. Look at the tags. These pictures are three days old. He'd be battering down the door long before now. It's gotta be a coincidence."

"A coincidence. You really believe that?" Sarah Connor asks.

"Guess we'll just have to ask her."

-0-

It takes an hour to locate Angie and engage her in a FaceTime conversation.

"What is it, General? Not being drafted, am I?"

"Not yet. And you can call me John."

"Whatever."

"Congratulations on your degree. Mia showed us the pictures. You looked very pretty in that dress."

"I looked like a cheap hooker."

"Have it your way. I hear you threw up on the Dean."

"Threw up on someone, know that. What's this about? You didn't call just to congratulate me."

John holds up a photograph printed from the image of Rubin Creed and Angie talking together. "This guy, Angie. Who is he and what did he want with you?"

"Why d'you want to know?"

"Humor me. It's important."

"Said his name was John Ryan and he worked for the Defense Department. He offered me a job."

"He offered you a job working for the government?"

"Yeah. So what?"

"You don't sound too surprised."

A shrug. "I've been offered quite a few jobs the last few days. The 3D imaging software I'm working on is picking up some heat."

"And Ryan, he didn't mention us?"

"Why should he?"

John gives her some backstory, just enough to warn her this is a very dangerous man.

"Does he know you can time travel?"

"No. You've seen the videos; people have a hard time believing that."

"People are stupid."

"You're not thinking of working for the government, are you?"

"Nope. I told Ryan - or Creed, whatever his name is - I prefer to work in the private sector. With a little more research my software can be made to run on TVs. That's real 3D TV without those dumb glasses."

"Or the headaches."

"Exactly. Samsung have agreed to fund more R&D. I'll be heading up my own division in SanFrancisco. I told them, no way I'm moving to Korea, not if there's cats and dogs on the menu."

"I'm sure you were your usual charming self."

"Damn straight. I played hardball. Five year contract. A million a year clear of tax. Open-ended budget. Pick my own team. Percentage of the gross once these things roll off the assembly line."

"How did Ryan take it you turning him down?"

Another shrug. "He didn't seem too happy. Tried to talk me round. Gave me some crap about patriotic duty. The pay was a tenth what the koreans are offering. Seems Uncle Sam can talk the talk but when it comes to walking the walk he comes up short."

"Be careful, Angie. This guy is used to having things his own way."

"Oh yeah? Last time I checked this was still a free country."

"When was the last time you checked?" I ask.

-0-

"So it really was a coincidence?" Sarah Connor suggests after the call ends.

"Of sorts. Although Angie would probably have never designed the software if she wasn't searching for us."

"So it's our fault now?"

"I wouldn't go that far. I suppose the government keeps an eye on what's happening on campus. That 3D software probably has a whole bunch of potential military applications, not just tracking us down." John taps his fingers on the table. "Let's give Professor Tillman a call. Maybe he can give us another angle on the evening."

"A million a year, did she say?" Sarah Connor shakes her head. "At her age I was waiting tables for minimum wage plus tips."

My comment that this seems about right does not go down well.

-0-

We contact Professor Tillman via the university's website. He appears in his college room, a tall bookcase behind him lined with leatherbound books. Why are books always wrapped in the skin of dead animals? Does it make them a better read?

"John. Sarah. Cameron. What an unexpected pleasure! Uh - I trust the end of the world isn't nigh?"

"Still hanging in there, Prof. We just spoke to Angie. She was telling us about the ceremony the other night."

"Yes. A delightful evening. I'm afraid Angie got rather drunk and vomited on the Dean." Athroaty chuckle. "He is normally the most fastidious of men, so you can imagine his dismay!"

"She told us she got a job offer. From the Department of Defense, no less."

"Yes. I spoke to the man. Ryan, I think his name was. He gave me his business card."

"He gave you his card?"

"Oh yes. He seemed to feel I might be able to influence Angie's decision." Another chuckle. "She is undoubtedly the smartest student I have ever taught, but also the stubbornest. I would have more luck persuading the sun to rise in the west."

"Do you still have the card?"

"Why, yes. Let's see...where did I put it..."

Professor Tillman disappears from the screen. We hear drawers opening and closing. I can sense John's tension. Are we about to learn the location of Creed's California base?

"Here we are. I knew it was here somewhere. It seemed rude to just throw it away."

"Is it a California address?" John asks leaning towards the laptop screen.

"No, it's a Washington address. The Pentagon presumably. It's his private office number, would you like it?"

"That'd be great."

Professor Tillman recites the number and John jots it down, disguising his disappointment. So near...

"Professor, one last question. When you came west did you tell anyone where you were going?"

"Oh no. As you so rightly pointed out, a man of my age accompanying a young student across state lines would be dubious at best. I have a small cabin up by the Lakes. I fish there from time to time. No cell reception. I simplytold people I needed a little R and R. No reason for them not to believe me."

"And you never used credit cards while you were here?"

"No. Strictly cash. Why -d'you think someone suspects?"

"No. You seem to have covered your tracks pretty well."

"I take it this Ryan person is not on the side of the angels?"

"Not unless the angels have horns and forked tails."

-0-

After the call ends John and his mother discuss the implications of what we have learned.

"So Creed is also John Ryan?"

"Seems like it. An alter ego. Like Batman and Bruce Wayne. Batman does the dirty work while Bruce Wayne pays his taxes and looks good in suit."

"You believe this is the end of it?"

"I don't know. Angie basically told a very powerful man to go take a hike."

"He can't kidnap her and force her to work for him. She has family. University colleagues who would miss her and demand answers."

"Yeah. I hope you're right."

WEDNESDAY

Today the shit hit the fan.

Not literally, of course. No. Poop has very poor aerodynamic qualities and fans are quite fragile. There is projectile vomiting but no projectile pooping. This is just as well or Snowy would be a lethal weapon.

The call comes in mid morning. Angie via Face Time. She looks every bit as distraught as the time she told of her brother's death.

"It's gone! It's all gone! What am I gonna do?"

"Whoa, calm down. What's gone?"

"My laptop! My notes! Everything!"

The story is pieced together slowly, painfully. Angie and her family travelled to Detroit to support her sister who was competing in a spelling bee. What is it with these spelling bees? Learn to spell already. When the family returned it was to find their house broken into and personal items stolen.

"Was it just your stuff?"

"No. My sister lost an iPad and my mother a heap of jewelry. The cops say it's an opportunist break in because the thieves saw the house was empty. But that makes no sense. Why would a bunch of street hoods steal my notebooks?"

"They wouldn't. This was a professional job made to look amateurish. That's how these people operate."

"How who operates?"

"The man you know as John Ryan. He wanted something you had. You wouldn't give it to him so he took it anyway."

"But that's..."

"Illegal? Unethical? Unconstitutional?"

"Yeah!"

"Welcome to our world."

Sarah Connor speaks up. "Angie, this is Sarah. When you found me at the Mall was there anything I could have done to prevent it?"

"You mean like wear a disguise? Sure. A full length burka would do it. Of course, these days that might get you a whole different sort of attention."

"Angie, John again. Is your data backed up?"

"Sure. I'm not some dweeb. It's on the university servers. And at the Samsung premises in San Francisco. My most recent research is in the notebooks. That's gonna set me back a coupla months. The koreans are gonna be pissed. They want everything yesterday. Jeez, throw another dog on the barbie and chill."

"I know this is gonna be hard for you, but you have to let this one go. The police won't be any help. And if you kick up too much of a fuss and start accusing people, important people, then there could be consequences."

"So I'm just supposed to lie back and let these jerks ream me?"

"Glad we're on the same page."

-0-

There are consequences for us as well. "We have to assume Creed will do the same as Angie and target Mall security cameras," Sarah Connors declares after the call ends. "We'll need to stop using the Malls and shop at smaller stores from now on."

"They have cameras too."

"So we starve?"

"No. We'll probably be okay. A lot of the smaller places still use video tape. Creed won't be able to access that. Mia's not gonna be pleased. She'd live in the Mall if she could."

"She'll like it even less if we're jailed and she's sent to an orphanage and that dog of hers to the pound."

"You could always covert to islam," I suggest.

This is not well received.

FRIDAY

I am in the backyard making running repairs to Snowy's doghouse. Snowy is infatuated with the light switch I installed and his new-found ability to turn the light on and off at the slightest whim. He does so several hundred times a day. This has caused the lightbulb to break. I am replacing it with a superior model. Would that I could upgrade the dog's wits as easily.

"This is not a toy," I explain. "Only use it when it is dark and you require illumination."

Snowy nods his understanding. On the wall behind him is a small painting in a simple handmade wooden frame. Over the tiny windows hang clean drapes, both provided by Mia. Snowy's sole contribution to the decor has been to fill the meditation room with old gnawed bones. I have speculated that this is his philosophical comment on the brevity of life and the nature of all flesh to decay and become bone. John laughed when I suggested this and says it's more likely Snowy is too lazy to bury them in the yard. This is probably true. After all, few philosopher's have wet noses and a tendency to lick their own genitals.

I crawl backwards through the small doorway with the DUNPOOPIN sign above. No sooner am I outside and standing upright than the light inside the doghouse goes on. And off. And on.

The insolence!

I am about to return inside and scold the dog when John appears. "Stop what you're doing and come with me," he says without preamble.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll find out."

"Are we going to have sex?"

"What? No. Nothing like that. Here. You might need this."

He hands me a pistol wrapped in an oily cloth. A Glock nine millimeter. So, no sex but the possibility of gunplay? I'll take it.

-0-

We head into the city where we rent a vehicle from a leasing agency using cash and false names. I am Rita Rubenstein. When the girl behind the desk hands us our keys and wishes us a good day I thank her in perfect Yiddish. She gives me a strange look. Oy vey...

South via Interstate 10 until we reach the vast turnpike where the 110 freeway bisects the Interstate. A truckstop diner is situated on the freeway's north side, its parking lot affording an impressive view of these vast concrete canyons that stretch off into the distance north, south, east and west.

"I figure we'll have ten to fifteen minutes before they manage to pinpoint the nearest cell tower. From here we'll see trouble coming way before it arrives. And we have our pick of escape routes."

I gaze upwards. It's a sunny day but the sky above our heads is tinged brown. Smog. Particulate matter produced by the exhausts of millions of vehicles that pass this way. Makes me glad I don't have lungs.

"Suppose the police scramble a helicopter?"

"Once we're moving we'll be just one vehicle among thousands."

"Roadblock?" I am such a negative ninny.

"Bring all this to a stop at a moment's notice? I doubt Creed's got that kind of clout, not from half a continent away. He'd need the Governor's okay and that'd take time."

I raise no more objections. John produces a disposable cell phone and jabs in the number given us by Professor Tillman. I lean close so I can hear every word.

"Department of Defense. Colonel Ryan's office."

A woman's voice. Youngish. Well educated. I envisage an east coast preppie wearing tweed and flatties.

"Let me speak to John Ryan."

"Is Colonel Ryan expecting your call?"

"Tell him John Connor would like a word."

"The Colonel is in a meeting, Mr Connor. I'll need to put you on hold."

"Tell him he has sixty seconds to pick up or he never hears from me again."

"Very well. One moment."

Behind us the door to the diner slams open. A middle-aged couple exit, slightly over weight and in the throes of an argument. The woman says to the man, "That was a twenty dollar tip you left. We had coffee and bagels. That's a five buck tip max. Since when are we the Rockefellers?" The man makes no reply so the woman continues, "It 's because the waitress was blonde and big boobed and smiled at you, isn't it? God, in your wildest dreams do you really think-" "I'll tip how I like," the man snaps. " Now shut the hell up and get in the car. I've heard enough of your yapping."

Their vehicle, an elderly Ford saloon, pulls out of the lot and accelerates up the slip road, merging seamlessly with the traffic flow. Neither so much as glanced over at us, possibly because I am not blonde. Or big boobed. No tip for me.

At the fifty second mark an all too familiar voice comes on the line. "John - is that really you? What an unexpected pleasure."

"Hey, Rubin. Or do I start calling you John Ryan now?"

"What's in a name? How did you get this number?"

"Yellow Pages. Under arrogant sonofabitch."

A chuckle. "Droll. Where are you?"

"Barabados. Kicking back on the beach sipping a pina colada under a palm tree."

"I suppose you can afford it now. The bank robbery was a success."

"What bank robbery?"

"The poker business was a mess though. What happened,son - did the men protest when she robbed them?"

Robbed them? "Flush beats a set," I insist aloud.

"Is that Cameron? Excellent. Is Sarah present as well?"

"Mom's lying in a hammock counting the money."

"And how much was that? Fifty thousand from the poker. A little more from the bank. Chickenfeed."

"You must have some seriously spoilt chickens."

"What about Mr Lieberman - is he there enjoying la dolce vita? You went to an inordinate amount of trouble breaking him out of jail."

"Lieberman's dead. He was a liability. Cameron killed him. I couldn't stop her."

"You can't control her, can you, son? At least not fully."

"I've learnt to live with it."

"Which is more than poor Mr Lieberman."

"While we're taking a trip down memory lane - is Sam Clemens still in custody?"

"Sam Clemens? Ah yes, the so called 'Wizard'. Or as we call him now, Prisoner 90465-784."

"He's an old man. Completely harmless. Let him go."

"On the contrary, we found enough classified documents in his possession to detain him for, well, as long as we care to. And that's before we take in his connection to you."

"There is no connection. We barely knew the guy."

"Again, I beg to differ. We know you visited his house in Anaheim on at least three occasions. The last time you were there you assaulted a military intelligence operative, threatened to shoot him in the head then locked him in the trunk of his own vehicle."

"It was for his own good."

"Really. And what about the three innocent men killed in Sacramento? Did they die 'for their own good?'"

"It was one man and that was...an accident."

"Stealing a billion dollar drone prototype and attempting to sell it to the Chinese was an accident? You really expect me to believe that?"

"Selling what to the who? Chinese?"

"Don't play coy with me, Connor. We have an airline pilot with twenty years experience swears he saw a teenage girl riding the fuselage of an unmanned aircraft as he was piloting a passenger jet out of LAX. They damn near collided. It was Cameron, wasn't it? She was flying the thing right into the arms of the Chinese. Only she lost control and crashed."

"She didn't lose control. She saved those people aboard the plane from being blown out of the sky by your precious prototype."

"Radar tracked the drone to its crash point in the Pacific. The closest vessel was a Chinese freighter less than ten miles away and heading precisely in that direction. That was the rendezvous, wasn't it? She was meant to land on the freighter deck and the Chinese would pay you - what? Twenty million? Fifty million? What's the going rate for treason these days?"

"That's not how it happened!"

"You're a disgrace, Connor. A liar. A murderer. A traitor to your country."

"Now you listen to me, you arrogant jerk!"

In the distance, three police cruisers head at speed along the southbound lanes of the Interstate.

South bound.

Towards us.

"John, we have to go," I say touching his arm. He shrugs me off and continues, "You call me a traitor? What about you? You're a traitor to democracy. To justice. To - hey!"

I snatch the cell phone from his grasp and drop it on the ground, crushing it with my boot for good measure. This ends the call. Permanantly.

"Why did you do that?"

I point at the approaching cruisers. "We need to leave. Now."

-0-

We are a quarter mile from the diner driving north and completely anonymous in traffic when the police cruisers flash by in the south lanes. None of them so much as glance at us "Close call. You did good. That guy was yanking my chain something rotten," John admits.

"It's what I'm here for. To stop people yanking you."

"Can you believe him? He thinks we're common criminals, doing what we do for money."

"Isn't that the plan, to make him believe that?"

"Yeah, I guess, but...jeez, being called a traitor by him of all people."

"John Connor is the greatest patriot who ever lived."

"Yeah, well, in the here and now I'm apparently right up there with Benedict Arnold and Alger Hiss. And how did it go bad so quickly? How long was the call?"

"Seven minutes eight seconds."

"And from half the continent away in Washington DC Creed manages to mobilise the LAPD into tracking us down. Man, the guy has some serious pull in high places."

"' The King's might is greater than human, and his arm is very long'."

"What's that - Shakespeare?"

"Herodotus."

"The king's might is greater than human, and his arm is very long. Good one. I'll have to tell Snowy that when I catch him pooping in the veggie patch."

I say nothing. It's unlikely Snowy will understand the phrase. He has trouble understanding 'What's up, Doc'.

We head north. Five miles from the diner a California highway patrolman on a Harley Davidson Electra Glide cruises alongside us and glances across. The windows of the rental car aren't tinted like those of the Suburban. We are entirely visible. If the man has been issued with our descriptions...

The Harley drops back, taking station thirty yards behind us. In the rear mirror we watch as the patrolman speaks into something held in his hand, something attached to the bike with a curly lead.

A radio transmitter.

"Shit! He's made us. Hang on!"

The rental surges forward and we begin to slalom through traffic. The Harley stays on our tail, easily matching our pace.

"Faster," I advise.

"I'm trying, dammit."

The rental isn't designed for high velocity chases. It's a low powered five door saloon used and abused by a variety of drivers both good and bad. The speedo tops out at ninety-three MPH. The engine temperature gauge edges into the red zone. There is a faint smell of burning in the cabin.

"We're never gonna lose him in this piece of junk."

"Agreed."

I take the pistol from my waistband and roll down the window. John says, "No. Don't shoot him."

"I will aim for the tires."

"A crash at this speed is just as fatal as a bullet in the head. There's another way."

I listen to the plan. It has a chance of working, though not a hundred percent. Not like a bullet to the brain. That's a banker.

John drifts the rental left until there is clear space. Then he brakes. The Harley passes us, surprised by our sudden deceleration. John hits the gas and aims for the patrolman who is blindsided and doesn't see us coming.

"Now!"

I lean out the window at the moment of impact, grabbing the patrolman and lifting him off the bike which jacknifes and tumbles in our wake causing the vehicles behind to swerve to avoid collision.

"Got him?"

"Affirmative."

"Don't let go."

The wind roar is enormous. Even so I can hear the patrolman yelling in my ear. Something about Miranda. Is he reading me my rights? He's game, I'll give him that.

We drift further left and the rental slows to almost walking speed.

"Let him go!"

With pleasure. The patrolman hits the ground hard and tumbles over several times.

"He okay?"

I take one final look. The man has climbed shakily to his feet. His pants are torn and his left arm is sticking out at an unusual angle.

"He'll live."

-0-

The engine lasts long enough to take the exit ramp and travel a few blocks west. Then it expires in a thick cloud of bluey white smoke. Time to leave.

"Stupid piece of junk!"

John aims a kick at the door panel and leaves a dent in the metal. With that and the burning engine I am pretty certain we have forfeit our security deposit.

We find ourselves in a residential street, wide and flanked by lawns that slope down to narrow sidewalks. The grass seems to glitter in the sunlight, myriad tiny droplets of water left by sprinklers shimmering like diamonds strewn by a particularly careless person. Apart from a few flowering shrubs there is no shelter, nowhere to take refuge. The houses are distant sanctuararies and the sirens close. Too close. An increasing susurrus of noise, of impending unavoidable threat.

I take the pistol from my waistband and ensure a round is in the chamber. In my jacket pocket I find a crosshead screwdriver, the tool I used to fix the doghouse lightbulb.

A pistol with a single clip. A crosshead screwdriver. And a terminator to wield them.

It will suffice.

It will have to.

-0-

Bit of a gap between updates. Still, the downtime means I've plotted the next four chapters. Not quite ready to let this one go just yet.

Herodotus. In a fanfic. Score!