T2, page 21
Their truck’s windows were only partially darkened, so that the driver could still be seen, but dimly. It found a pair of sunglasses on the dash and put them on, trimmed away the strips dangling from its lips, started the engine, and began to drive. Except for the smell and the Band-Aid on its nose that hid exposed steel, it could pass for human again, in a dim light and as long as the human didn’t get too close.
BIG BEE DINER, ROUTE 85, NEW MEXICO
Waylon Bridges and Luke Hardy sat sipping their Cokes and watching the TV mounted over the counter. Conversation was over for the time being and they were just waiting for their customer. One of their favorite “reality” programs was on, a show called Crimefighters. They reenacted actual crimes and then showed pictures of the suspects in hopes that people would call in with the whereabouts of these people.
Tonight they were showing exclusive footage of a murderous raid on a police station in California. The host grimly warned that this sequence was not suitable for children or very sensitive viewers. Then the blurry tape began to roll and a huge man in sunglasses, carrying guns in both hands, began murdering cops by the dozen.
Waylon and Luke sat with their mouths open and watched the carnage. “My God,” Luke murmured.
“Damn!” Waylon agreed.
The camera froze on the man’s face. “If you have any information on this man,” the host intoned, “call this number, or contact this Web address.”
Waylon quickly wrote the numbers down on a napkin. “Love to git my hands on that sucker,” he said.
Luke lit up a cigarette, blew a speck of tobacco off his lip, and shook his head. “You ‘n me both, brother,” he said. “Wonder what they’re offerin’ for ‘im.”
“E-nough,” Waylon said, slapping the pen on the table. He lit a cigarette of his own and leaned back to watch the show.
A kid of about seventeen came into the diner and paused inside the doorway, looking around. He spotted the two men and walked over to them. Waylon and Luke pretended not to notice.
“Excuse me,” John said.
They looked him over thoroughly before one of them condescended to answer. “Ye-ah,” Waylon drawled.
“I’m looking to buy a used car,” John said.
John assumed these were the men he was supposed to speak to. They were the only two customers in here. The Jeep with the “For Sale” sign in the window was supposed to be the signal that the gun dealers were in. He waited politely for them to make the next move.
Waylon and Luke exchanged glances . . . at length.
I’d forgotten what dealing with good ol’ boys could be like, John thought impatiently. I guess it’s kinda like forgetting pain once it’s gone. If you didn’t, you’d never go back to the dentist and there would be no second children, as Mom puts it.
“Not from us you’re not,” Luke said, his blue eyes cold. “I ain’t gonna sell nothin’ to no kid. I don’t wanna be responsible for no high-school shootin’ spree.”
“Maybe you’d like to speak to my dad,” John suggested. “He’s out in the car.”
And he could whup both of y’all with one hand tied behind his big ol’ back. My God, he thought. I can’t believe I thought that. It must be contagious.
Luke and Waylon exchanged another meaningful look. Luke turned his eyes to stare at John while Waylon examined his thumbnail closely, then he looked up at Connor from under his eyebrows.
“How come yore daddy dint come in hisself?” he asked.
Aw, c’mon, John thought. Nobody talks like this. This guy’s probably from San Diego! He looked from one man to the other. “My daddy is lookin’ at yore car, mister,” he drawled. Then he spread his hands at hip level. “You want to do business or what?”
They dragged themselves up like they’d been bustin’ broncos all day and adjusted their hats carefully, then sauntered out of the diner. Behind them John rolled his eyes.
They all walked through the reddish dust to the white Ford Dieter had rented. He was leaning over, putting something back into the glove compartment. Von Rossbach straightened up and looked at them, and Luke and Waylon froze. It only lasted an instant, but to men as experienced as John and Dieter, it was the equivalent of a shout.
“Do I know you?” Waylon asked.
John gave him a sharp look; he could have sworn there was a slight tremor in the man’s voice.
“No,” Dieter said crisply. He got out of the car and the two men stepped back. Von Rossbach leaned against the door and casually crossed his arms over his chest. “But we have mutual friends.”
“These friends got names?” Luke asked.
Dieter mentioned one; the two dealers glanced at each other and Waylon raised one shoulder in a half shrug.
“So what you want?” Luke asked.
“I want Barrett fifty-caliber sniper rifles or their equivalent. I want Browning heavy machine guns. I want Carl Gustav or LAW or other light antiarmor weapons; plus any military-grade small arms you have on hand, preferably battle-rifle caliber. I’ll need them shipped all over the U.S.,” he added.
Waylon tugged down the corners of his mouth and frowned.
“Gonna be expensive,” he cautioned. “That there is some heavy shit.”
“For top-quality goods, I can live with expensive,” von Rossbach said easily. He pushed himself off the car door and managed to loom over the two men, even though their heights were almost equal. “Not getting what I’m paying for, that I couldn’t live with.” He stared hard at Waylon until the other man broke eye contact, grinning as he looked at his companion.
“With us y’always get what ya pay for.” He flicked a hand at Dieter. “Ya think our friend’d steer ya to a bum deal?”
Dieter stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ll want to see some samples,” he told them. “So that there are no misunderstandings about what I want.”
Waylon bit his lip and the two men looked at each other for a long moment. Then Waylon nodded. “No problem,” he said cheerfully. “But we don’t carry the stuff with us, nat’cherly.” He pulled a map out of his pocket and spread it on the hood of von Rossbach’s Ford. “We got us a little out-of-the-way spot where we do our private business.” He pointed at a spot marked on the map. “Meet us here tomorrow night at seven o’clock. You got any questions?”
“Can I keep this?” Dieter asked.
“Sure thing,” Waylon said generously. “I know my way already.” He grinned. “Till tomorrow,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.
“Yes,” Dieter said. He folded the map and put it in his breast pocket. “Tomorrow.”
John got in the passenger side of the car and sat watching the two gun dealers as Dieter started up and drove away in a cloud of dust, the plume vanishing into the dry crackling grass and occasional dark green scrub cedar.
“Is it my imagination, or was there something wrong about them?” he asked.
Dieter grimaced. “Hard to say,” he answered. “There’s often something off about these people. Maybe to them I still smell like cop. Holmes wouldn’t steer me wrong,” he added. “Of that I’m confident.”
John nodded, then looked out into the desert, frowning. Something still didn’t feel right. “Not deliberately,” he said. “But Holmes might be wrong. Or something might have spooked those two.”
“My God!” Luke said.
“Da-amn!” Waylon agreed, having trouble controlling his gleeful laughter. “That is fuckin’ unbelievable! It was really him!”
Luke punched his fist in the air. “Yes!” The he looked at his friend. “How are we gonna handle this?”
“First we call that number,” Waylon said, heading toward their table. “Oh shit! Hey! Who cleaned off my table?” he shouted.
The waitress turned to stare, her mouth wide open.
“I wrote something important down on a napkin, Maria! Where is it?”
She pursed her lips and pulled the wastebasket from under the counter. “This it?” she asked, pulling up a dirty napkin with a number written on it.
“Yeah,” Waylon said, snatching it from her fingertips. “Whad’ ja do, barf on it?”
Luke pulled his lips back from his teeth in disgust. “Sure looks like it,” he muttered.
“Hey, bring me some coffee,” Waylon shouted as he went back to his table.
“Yeah,” Luke agreed.
Pulling out his cell phone, Waylon dialed the Crimefighters show, started to speak, and then stopped with an exasperated expression.
“Lines are busy,” he said to Luke. Then, “Yeah. That guy who shot up all them cops, what’s the reward for findin’ him?” His mouth and eyes opened wide. “Five hundred thousand dollars?”
Luke punched the air again and again, stamping his feet beneath the table.
Waylon cocked his head, listening. “Aw, bless your heart, honey. Don’t you worry ’bout me! I’m considered pretty dangerous myself.” He listened. “No, ma’am, I won’t tell you where I’m callin’ from. But I will tell you that by tomorrow night that sucker’s gonna be on his way to jail! I gah-run-tee it!” He disconnected and grinned at Luke. “Five, hundred, thousand dollars, buddy! Whoo!”
Luke shook his head in wonder, then slowly sobered. “Think we should have help?”
Waylon made a face. “Bringin’ somebody else in means less money fer you ‘n me,” he pointed out. Then he looked thoughtful. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Good idea actually. We’ll get Luis, have ‘im wait out in the desert; then if anythin’ goes wrong we’re covered. He’s one mean li’l greaser.” He nodded. “Yeah.” Then he grinned again and high-fived his buddy. “Yeeee-HAWWW!”
U.S. SECTOR HEADQUARTERS
“Sir.” The young woman turned from her console toward her superior. “I think I’ve got something here.”
The man hurried over; surveillance was in what Sector operatives called “the pit,” below the slanted glass of the office from which operations oversaw HQ.
“Whatcha got?”
“Crimefighters has received an anonymous phone call from New Mexico inquiring about the reward. He told the operator that he’d have the suspect in custody by tomorrow night.”
The supervisor frowned and leaned toward her, looking over her head at the screen. “What’s his location?”
The agent turned to her computer and tapped a few keys.
“Route 85 . . . he’s at a diner named the Big Bee,” she said.
“We have an agent nearby?”
She queried the database. “The nearest is in Los Alamos,” she said. After a few more taps she said, “He can be there in an hour.”
“Good.” The supervisor nodded once. “Send him or her now. Even if this guy has left, someone there might know something.”
UTAH
Alissa smiled, looking positively angelic as she dangled her short legs and feet in their little red shoes off the edge of the too-tall chair; her hands flew over the computer keyboard in a blur of machine-accurate movement, and the crackle of the keys sounded like distant machine-gun fire. The moment she’d heard about this TV program she’d hacked into their computer and phone system. Then she’d thought better of it and checked out the various government agencies and antiterrorist groups. Only the Sector was also listening in.
While Crimefighters had received the call, the Sector had zeroed in on the location of the caller. The tiny I-950 was delighted by her own cleverness.
*Sister!* she sent to Clea.
Clea, who was having a quiet but, she sensed, important conversation with Roger Colvin, barely skipped a beat as she answered her little sister.
*Bad timing, Alissa,* she warned. Aloud she said to Cyberdyne’s CEO, “There are all sorts of ways this material can be used. I’ve thought of several weapons, for example. They’d require some additional research to bring them to manufacture, but they’d be very useful.”
Alissa paused, reluctant to interfere with her sister’s progress. Her success with Cyberdyne was vital. Still, this would be a very brief report. *We have a lead on von Rossbach,* she said. *It’s possible he’s in New Mexico.*
*The Blackhawk, did you acquire it?* Clea sent.
“Where did you take your degree?” Colvin asked.
*It will be delivered tomorrow,* Alissa said. *I can have a team in New Mexico well before tomorrow evening.*
“I had an unusual upbringing,” Clea said to Colvin. “My uncle was a genius and educated me himself, more or less in isolation, in Montana.” She shrugged, which did interesting things to her dress. “Consequently I lack a degree, I’m afraid. But perhaps because of that, I feel I’m more creative than a lot of scientists and engineers who have a hard-and-fast ‘field,’ or ‘discipline.’ ” To Alissa she said, *Excellent. Keep me informed. But I want you to stay in Utah. Send no more than four Terminators. We need to keep some for backup.*
*Understood,* Alissa responded. *I’ll keep you informed. Out.*
Alissa hopped down from the chair, folded her hands under her chin with her shoulders high, and spun in sheer delight, her golden locks floating in the still-cool air of the new Utah headquarters—underground, of course. The area had many abandoned mines.
The regulators worked overtime to deprive her of this natural high, and unlike Serena, she resented the interference. She had reason to feel good and wished she could enjoy it.
Then she dropped her hands to her sides. It was gone; her brief celebration was over.
Well, it is more efficient, she thought, and began to plan what weapons the Terminators should take.
BIG BEE DINER, NEW MEXICO
An hour and fifteen minutes later a plump, middle-aged man ambled into the diner and took a seat at the counter. He took a menu out of the holder and smiled politely at the waitress, who smiled back.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“You bet,” he said.
He’d checked the place out when he walked in. It was deserted except for the help and him. The only cars in the lot probably belonged to the waitress and the cook; the surroundings were bare cow-salad-bar for miles in every direction. She came back and poured a rich-smelling brew into a white mug. He took a sip and his brows went up. She grinned.
“Better’n you expected, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She leaned her arms on the counter and got comfortable. “We drink it ourselves, so we figger we might as well get the good stuff. Would you like somethin’ else? We close in a half an hour,” she said apologetically.
“How’s your apple pie?”
“Good,” she said, straightening. “Ice cream?”
“Please.” He turned to look around the deserted restaurant. “Y’know what,” he said as she placed the pie before him, “I was asked to come in and talk to some guy who called to report seeing somebody on Crimefighters.” He shook his head. “He would have been here about an hour ago.”
She placed an elbow on a napkin holder, rested her head on her fist, and looked at him like she was the tiredest woman in the world. A silent moment passed while the agent took a forkful of pie and ice cream, making a pleased “mmph!” sound. Then a little frown crinkled her forehead.
“Yeah,” she said, making up her mind. “That’d be Waylon Bridges.” Her lips drew back in a sneer. “He made a big deal about this number he’d written down, got real snarky about it.”
Lifting another forkful of pie, the agent looked at her and asked, “Know where I can find him?”
She looked away and shook her head slightly. “No. I dunno where he lives.” She chewed her lower lip, then looked at him. “But tomorrow, I think I know where he’ll be.”
She told the agent that Bridges thought of himself as a wheeler-dealer who liked to have meetings with shady characters in an out-of-the-way spot down the road. “I saw him talking to somebody in the parking lot earlier and then they drove off, so that probably means they’ll be meeting him there tomorrow night.” She shrugged. “I think he thinks it’s this big mystery nobody knows about, but everybody does. He always does the same thing.”
“How come the cops don’t pick him up?” the agent asked.
She shrugged. “No law against talkin’ to people in a parking lot or meeting up with ’em in the desert. Anyway, whatever he’s up to, I don’t think it’s very important or they would do something.”
“Could you draw me a map?” the agent asked.
“Sure.” She shrugged again, but looked a bit unhappy. “You won’t tell him I told you?”
He grinned. “It won’t even come up,” he assured her. “But even if he asks, I won’t say.”
She grinned, too, and began to draw. Serve Bridges right for being such a cheap, snarky bastard. Dud tippers never had any luck. Not if she had anything to say about it.
NEW YORK
“ . . . an organic whole,” the sculptor proclaimed. “And so I’ve named it Venus Dancing. Because with every passing day it will change, never remaining the same from sunrise to sunset.”
The audience applauded politely as Hill tugged on a cord and the silky covering slid aside to reveal a gleaming silver object over fifteen feet tall on its contrasting pedestal of bronze. The pedestal was also a circular bench, molded in such a way that it seemed to flow into the different color of the sculpture itself.
Venus Dancing was triangular in shape and pierced here and there on its surface with round holes of various sizes. Loops of the silvery substance flowed away from the sides of the sculpture in a way that suggested vibrations. As the members of the audience watched, the material—now freed from its protective shroud—reacted to the cooler air, changing shape, changing texture to become sharper-edged, the loops more angular.
