The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
MONDAY cont...
The white SUV is approaching fast on the coastal highway. My combat program goes live, providing vectors of fire in my HUD in readiness for the inevitable firefight. Around us customers and staff remain oblivious to the pending threat. Depending on the calibre of weapon deployed I estimate collateral fatalities of about fifty percent. That's acceptable.
John says, "Hold on. Something doesn't feel right."
The white SUV is now level with the Shack. And not stopping. The four occupants don't so much as glance across. If this is an ambush then it's an extremely poor one.
John picks up the walkie-talkie and contacts his mother.
"White SUV heading your way. Four big guys. Lieberman thinks he saw gun barrels in back."
"Okay...Got eyes on...No, not gun barrels...looks like squash racquet handles...Passing me now...not slowing...You require an extraction?"
"Negative. False alarm."
A waitress appears. "Is everything okay?" she asks.
"Fine. My friend here saw a spider. She's scared of spiders," John lies smoothly.
"I could move you to another table?"
"We're good. Spider's gone now."
We sit back down. Agent Grant stares at John. And me, the alleged spider scaredy-cat. "That was somewhat paranoid."
"Can you blame us? You've read our file."
"Yes, I have. And it has your birthdate. You're mid-thirties. Yet you look at least ten years younger."
"What can I say. Clean living. Plenty of vitamins."
And a ten year time jump...
"And Miss Baum. We have photographic evidence of you dating back to the seventies. You look no different now than you did then."
"Not true. I had bangs."
I'm not proud of it, but it was a popular style back then. Just as well I wasn't around in the twenties. Marcell waves and a cloche hat? The horror.
Agent Grant's cell phone rings. She glances at the screen. "Excuse me. I've got to take this." She steps away from the table, turning her back so I can't lipread.
John pushes away shrimp and the fries, his appetite blunted by the close call with the SUV. "Has she lied to us at all?" he whispers.
"She's being sincere," I admit. "Her stress levels rose briefly when I told her the missing soldier would be subjected to torture. A false positive I dismissed as typical human empathy."
"Yeah, pesky thing empathy."
Agent Grant turns round. "They've found the missing soldier. You were right, he was at a motel. Down the coast near the airport."
"Alive?"
"I'm afraid not. The local police are at the scene. It's quite messy I'm hearing. The army have been informed and are sending their people. I'll head there and try and keep it contained."
"Take us with you," John says impulsively.
"Are you sure? There will be police present. And you're wanted felons."
"We'll take our chances. And we might be able to help."
"Very well. I'm leaving now."
"Give me one second to make a call."
John steps out onto the beach to call his mother, who likely will not be pleased with this turn of events. This leaves me alone with Agent Grant. A chance to try out my latest small talk skills. Idle chit-chat between strangers to fill awkward silences is one of the human traits that cyborgs find most difficult to emulate. In the past I have been very bad at small talk, often sounding rude or even downright insulting. Can you believe it? Doesn't sound like me at all. Certainly not any more. Step up Cameron 2.0.
"I like your hair. It makes you resemble a man."
Nailed it.
"It's easy to manage. I find that's what counts these days."
"You're not getting much sleep, are you."
"A nuclear weapon is missing with the potential to vaporise a city block. Or take out the President. You do the math."
"You should try and sleep. I've heard it's beneficial."
"You've heard? What's that supposed to mean?"
Oh no, I was so close!
John returns just in time. "Okay, we're good to go."
"You called your mother, didn't you? The famous Sarah Connor."
"Perhaps."
"And she agrees with this?"
"I managed to give her some reassurance."
"Like what?"
"Like if you're leading us into a trap Cameron will deal with you first."
I make the shape of a pistol with my fingers and pretend to pull the trigger, bang, blowing her brains out. She doesn't laugh or even smile. Honestly, some people have absolutely no sense of humor.
-0-
The Escalade has that new car smell humans seem to find so desirable. This is produced by the various interior components releasing volatile organic compounds into the confined atmosphere as they react to oxygen and UV radiation. Of course, if you say this out loud someone labels you a poindexter and you unfairly become quite the figure of fun. Yes, Mia, I do mean you.
Agent Grant drives while John rides shotgun and I sit in the rear. The seats are wide and comfortable and made from a suede-like fabric that is softly tactile. Snowy would cover them in dog hair in no time. You can't take him anywhere. At least not without a vacuum cleaner handy.
"So Colonel Ryan got canned, huh? Man, I thought that guy was bulletproof."
"He invested much of his dwindling political capital in the Oregon operation. When you tied up our soldiers and stole their Chinook his position became untenable. None of us are bulletproof, certainly not with this administration."
"We didn't steal the helicopter; we borrowed it. It was an emergency situation. Our friend required urgent medical attention."
"Yes, I've read the file. And the autopsy report. If it's any consolation, his heart was severely enlarged. It was likely only a matter of time."
"What did you do with the body?"
"I believe he was cremated. All the protocols were followed correctly, I assure you. We're not sadists."
"And the ashes?"
"In storage, presumably."
We're heading south on the pacific coast highway, known as the PCH to native angelinos. Near Malibu stubby trees and plants grow haphazard in the narrow median strip between lanes. Some have perished and are in the process of being removed by a work crew. Death and ugliness are seldom tolerated for long in this outpost of wealth and elegance. The deceased limbs are thrown in the back of a truck and hauled away to die someplace where they won't be noticed or mourned. In the future this iconic highway will be washed away by the ocean and the expensive beach houses lining the shore reduced to concrete stumps protruding from the surf, as ugly and unloved as the dead trees they usurped. Karma, bitch.
John says, "Mind if I ask you a question, Agent Grant?"
"Please do."
"Why have you never leaked our photos to the media? Maybe offer a reward for our capture."
"That option has been proposed twice. And vetoed twice. By Colonel Ryan, of all people."
"How so?"
"He felt to publicly disclose your identities would risk your crossing the border and hiding out in Mexico, as you're believed to have done before. Or even further afield in south america. We have extradition treaties with many of these countries, but if they surmised what they had..."
"You think we'd sell out our country? Are you sure you've read our file."
"Not so much sell out as sell on. To the highest bidder."
"Who - Russia?"
"Not Russia. Not any more. Their leader talks tough but he carries an increasingly small stick."
"China, then."
"We don't think the chinese know about your family, yet we can't be entirely certain. There's a reason they're considered inscrutable."
I say, "You don't need to worry about the chinese. After Judgement Day their country descends into a civil war that persists for decades. Their focus turns inwards, as it has before in the past."
Silence. Then Agent Grant says, "You know, there are people in the State department who would just love to hear you say that."
Well, at least I've made someone's day.
Agent Grant is a skilled driver weaving in and out of slower moving traffic with practised ease. She regularly exceeds the speed limit. I suppose if you're head of an important federal agency you have little fear of a traffic ticket.
"So what's your story, Agent Grant?" John asks. "How'd you come to be top of this particular greasy pole?"
Agent Grant takes a moment to speak as if unsure how much to divulge. Then: "I was an FBI trainee on nine-eleven. I watched the towers fall at Quantico along with my fellow cadets. It's a day I never forget. When the Department of Homeland Security was formed I requested a transfer. I've been here ever since, proud to serve in any capacity."
"You feel it's a more noble cause than the FBI?"
"Not more noble. More...relevant. To the security of our country."
"When did we appear on your radar?"
"Actually quite recently. Your case is unique and kept at a very secure need to know basis, certainly not fodder for junior agents to mull over. There's only a single copy of your file and it's kept in a secure room deep in the Pentagon. I've read it from cover to cover only once. And I wasn't allowed to take notes."
"Well, I hope you don't believe all you read. Ryan was a pretty prejudiced guy."
"I prefer to keep an open mind."
The PCH morphs into Los Angeles proper and all the traffic that entails. Our speed slows as even Agent Grant's driving skills can't move us forward any faster than the slowest moving vehicle.
"When we reach the motel I'll introduce you both as my associates. Let me do the talking."
"What are associates?"
"It won't matter. My badge will preclude any questions." She twists slightly to address me. "Is it likely that -uh- Bob will still be on the premises?"
"No. He'll require specialist tools and a place where he's unlikely to be disturbed. Repairing a powercell isn't like swapping out spark plugs; it's a delicate procedure. One false step and you risk blowing yourself up."
"And everyone within a half-mile radius."
-0-
We arrive at the motel, which is close enough to the airport flight path to suggest sleep isn't the primary concern for many of its guests.
A patrol car is blocking the entrance. A uniformed policeman walks slowly over to us. It's clear from his casual body language that he has no idea who we are, doubtless assuming we're just some irksome rubberneckers who can be dismissed in a gruff insolent manner without any blowback. Boy, is he in for a surprise.
Agent Grant rolls down the window and flashes her badge. The effect is immediate. The cop straightens up and while he doesn't quite salute you can tell the thought crossed his mind.
"Who's the detective in charge?"
"That'd be Detective Rose, ma'am."
"Have the army people arrived yet?"
"No, ma'am."
"Move your damn vehicle. I haven't got all day."
"Yessir! I mean, ma'am."
Badass. I like it.
-0-
The motel has a circular drive around a central reception block. The 'rooms' are actually mobile trailers, their wheelbases artfully disguised with a skirt of wooden palings. They're arranged like numbers on a clock dial, one through twelve.
Outside the reception block are two vehicles, an unmarked police sedan and a long white van with LOS ANGELES MEDICAL EXAMINER stencilled on the sides. Two suited detectives lean against the sedan observing our arrival. A third man is seated on the reception block's stoop, his head downcast.
"Let me do the talking."
"Happy to," John agrees. "This isn't exactly our comfort zone."
We cross to the detectives. The older man is smoking a cigarette. He takes one final drag that causes his cheeks to pucker inwards like a bellows drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. Ah, lungs. I wonder what it must be like to have two gossamer thin sacs in your body cavity that must constantly inflate and deflate to sustain life functions. Pretty grotesque, I imagine.
The badge comes out again. "Agent Grant, Homeland Security. These are my associates."
John and I stare back. No smiles. No greetings. Associates are moody and taciturn.
"Detective Rose," The older man states. "This is Detective Burke."
"Is the coroner with the victim?"
"Yeah. Cabin nine. Doctor Gold. Old guy. Plenty of experience. Knows his way round a crime scene. You want to see the body?"
"In a moment. Who's the civilian?"
"That is one Randy Melcher, reception clerk of this fine establishment."
"He the one who called it in?"
"Yep. He found the body this morning soon after he arrived for work. Or so he says."
"What's wrong with him? He looks unwell."
"He was sick earlier. There's a lot of blood and...well, you'll see soon enough."
"Okay, I'll talk to him first. Anything I should know?"
"We ran his deets. No priors to speak of. Got busted twice for dealing pot in his teens. Family lawyer kept him out of juvie. Clean since."
The detectives stay where they are while we walk over to Randy Melcher.
"Mr Melcher? I'm Agent Grant, Homeland Security. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"I already told the cops all I know."
"Now you can tell me. Did you meet the man who rented the trailer?"
"Cabin."
"I'm sorry?"
"We call them cabins. It's classier."
"Alright, the cabin."
"Yeah, he showed up three days ago late in the evening. I was about to hand off my shift to Jaycee."
"Jaycee?"
"The night guy. I'm day and he's night, when he bothers to show up that is."
"Can you describe him?"
"Jaycee?"
Agent Grant sighs. We're fast getting the impression Randy isn't too bright. "No, Mr Melcher. The man who rented the cabin."
"Tall. Built like a linebacker. Had a long jacket on, it was pretty cool actually."
"It's called a duster coat," John explains.
"Did he show you any ID?"
Randy shakes his head. "And I didn't ask; it's not that kind of place."
"Was he alone?"
"Seemed like it."
"What did he say to you?"
"Asked for a cabin. Had a fruity kind of accent."
"How do you mean - midwest, east coast, southern?"
"More european."
"What did you say?"
"I told him cabin nine was available. Hundred a day. Cable's extra. Not that anyone bothers with cable these days what with the internet and all."
"How did he pay?"
"Cash. People mainly pay with cash. Leaves no trace. Three one hundred dollar bills. Enough for three days. And yeah, I checked them real good. Definitely legit. If not it comes out of my pay."
"Do you still have the bills?"
"Nah. I bank them when I come off shift."
"This is important, Mr Melcher, did you-."
"Hey, call me Randy. Mr Melcher is my pop. He's real old, like forty. No offence."
"None taken. Randy, did this man touch you at all? Did you touch him?"
Randy bristles at the implication. "What are you saying - that I turn tricks? No freaking way. Listen, this is just a temporary gig. I play guitar in a band. When we make it big I'm outta this dump and never looking back."
"Just answer the question. Was there any physical contact between you?"
"No! I swear to God."
"What about when he handed you the money? Did your hands touch?"
"He dropped the bills on the desk."
"And the cabin keys?"
"I pushed them across the desk and he picked them up and left."
"How are you feeling lately? Any nausea? Itchy skin?"
Agent Grant is seeking to ascertain in the subtlest manner possible whether Randy has sustained radiation poisoning.
"Well, I tossed my cookies earlier. That was because I'd never seen a dead body before. So much blood..."
John asks, "Did you see the vehicle the guy arrived in?"
"I think it was a panel van."
"Color?"
"Dark. Maybe black. I didn't pay that much attention."
"Any markings, like a business logo?"
"Didn't notice. Sorry."
"Did you hear any noise coming from the cabin?"
"You mean like sex stuff? Nah, that gets old real fast the longer you work here."
Agent Grant sighs. There's been very little useful information.
"Okay, Randy. Thank you for your cooperation."
"Can I go now?"
"Not just yet."
"Can I get my phone back? The cops confiscated it."
"I'm afraid not."
"Well, shit."
-0-
We rejoin the detectives. The older man is smoking another cigarette. Smoking was once commonplace but is becoming rarer. Back in the seventies the gunrunners I did business with all smoked. Sometimes I would accept a cigarette to put them at ease. Of course, not having lungs meant the smoke was free to circulate in my skull cavities. Apparently it was quite horrifying to see smoke leaking out my eyes.
"Get anything useful?" Detective Rose asks.
"Hard to say at this stage."
"Kid mention his band?"
"It came up."
"Know what they're called? The Scuzzbags." The detectives laugh. "Yeah, they're gonna be bigger than the Beatles!"
Really? It seems a long shot to me, but then I know very little about popular music. Although Jimi Hendrix did once compliment my piano playing. Poor Jimi. He said he'd written a song about me. Foxy Lady. I never did thank him.
"Randy mentioned a night guy. Jaycee?"
"Yeah. Jason Ceveda. AKA Jaycee. We checked him out. Seems Jaycee runs a temper, especially when he's been drinking. Spent two years in the slammer for beating the shit out of some stranger he met in a bar. We've got a car bringing him in. Seems a pretty good fit."
"He's not the killer."
"No? Something Homeland Security isn't telling us?"
Agent Grant ignores the question. She points at cabin nine. "We'll check out the body now. If the army people show up come get me."
-0-
Cabin nine offers very basic accomodation. A lounge area with table and chairs. Bedroom with a double bed and adjacent bathroom.
Oh, and a dead body in the middle of the floor.
A man wearing a white jumpsuit and blue rubber boots is bent over the corpse. "Careful where you step," he warns without looking round. "There's blood everywhere."
"Doctor Gold? Agent Grant. Homeland Security. These are my associates."
Doctor Gold straightens up and regards us coolly. I judge him to be in his early sixties. What's left of his hair is as white as his jumpsuit.
"Homeland Security, huh. I thought this poor fella was army going by his dogtags."
"He is army. They'll be here to claim him shortly. What can you tell us about time of death?"
"Forty eight hours at least. I'll know more when I run some tests."
The dead soldier is lying on his back on the carpeted floor, a huge gaping wound across his throat indicates the killing method. He's shirtless and was seated on a simple wooden chair when the blow occured, the sheer force of which seemingly toppled him backwards. A good percentage of his blood has been absorbed by the carpet material. The human heart is an efficient if vulnerable pump.
"What caused those bruise marks on his torso?"
"My initial conclusion is they're torture wounds. They match the major nerve ganglions on the body. Whoever did this certainly had a working knowledge of the human nervous system."
Duh! They don't call us efficient killing machines for nothing.
"Is that the murder weapon?" Agent Grant points at a knife a few feet from the body.
"I'll need to run tests, but that's probably the case. The knife's ceramic. Edge never blunts. They come in packs of five in various sizes. Buy them from any supermarket. My wife has a set." The Doctor points at the wound. "Whoever did this is most likely right handed judging from the angle of the wound."
"Ambidextrous," I state.
Doctor Gold swivels towards me. "What was that?"
"The killer is ambidextrous. It means neither hand is dominant. Or both, if you prefer."
"I know damn well what it means. Who are you?"
"I'm an associate," I reply moodily. Also taciturnly.
"Be that as it may, the killing blow was delivered with the right hand, like a backhand in tennis. Damn near took the poor fella's head clean off."
"Thank you, Doctor," says Agent Grant. "I need you to step outside for a minute."
"I'm not done here."
"I'm afraid I must insist."
"I said, I'm not done yet."
"I have the Attorney General on speed dial. Perhaps you'd like to tell him in person why you're obstructing a Homeland Security matter?"
The Doctor glares at us then reluctantly steps outside.
"Do you really have the Attorney General on speed dial?" John asks.
"Hardly. The man's an imbecile."
"Political appointment?"
"The worst kind."
Agent Grant takes a small device from her jacket pocket. It resembles a TV remote control with a microphone attached.
"Geiger counter," she explains. "It'll detect any residual radiation."
She lowers the device nearer the body. It makes a sound like gravel hitting a tin roof.
"Is that bad?" John asks.
"Well, it's hardly good. Not lethal though."
The device makes this sound everywhere bar the bedroom. It's loudest round the body.
While Agent Grant is in the bathroom gauging the level of radiation, John spots something on the floor. A small crumpled piece of paper by the looks. He examines it then stuffs it in his pocket.
"This whole cabin is gonna need to be hauled away and decontaminated," Agent Grant announces. She takes out her car keys and hands them over. "Take the Escalade. Leave it at that beach shack. I'll have someone retrieve it later."
"What are you going to do?"
"The army will claim jurisdiction. The local police won't give it up without a fight. I need to stay here and make sure it doesn't turn into a dick swinging contest."
A dick swinging contest? Oh my. I've not seen one of those. I wonder if they're broadcast on ESPN? I'll check the schedules later.
-0-
In the Escalade I ask John, "What did you pick up off the floor?"
"You saw that, huh." He takes the piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to me.
"It's a supermarket receipt."
"Not just any receipt. One for a set of ceramic knives purchased three days ago."
"You think the T-800 left it behind?"
"Who else could it be? It's got the supermarket address. And the name of the checkout operator."
"Louisa."
"We're gonna pay Louisa a visit, see if she remembers the guy. Maybe the supermarket has CCTV and we can get a read on the van's plate."
"Will they talk to us? We don't have credentials."
"Oh I think they'll talk to Agent Furlong. And Agent Edwards."
"Who are they?"
John grins. "They're us, silly."
"We're going to impersonate federal agents?"
"Won't be the first time."
"Which one am I?"
"Take your pick."
"I'll be Agent Furlong. Can I use a different voice?"
"Sure. Just not Marilyn Monroe."
"I thought you liked my Marilyn Monroe voice. Mister President..."
"Not appropriate for this situation."
"Very well. I will use the voice of Meghan Markle. Or is this cultural appropriation?
"I won't tell if you won't.
-0-
Agents Edwards and Furlong. Need I say more?
Regular readers will know I like to cast my characters. Archie Panjabi as Agent Grant.
Do you think Cameron uses her Marilyn voice in the bedroom...
The Scuzzbags. Bigger than the Beatles? You heard it here first.