T2 Rising Storm, page 35
part #2 of Terminator Series
"I need to know what you're going to do about your work," he said through clenched teeth.
"I think this is more important," Clea told him. If you only knew how much more important, human. "Once my attention is engaged like this, it's very difficult for me to concentrate on anything else."
"So you're just going to abandon the work you were brought here to do?"
"Well, actually…" She produced a disk and handed it to him with a sweet smile. "It's largely finished. I think you'll find several people here—" she named them—"can handle the remaining details. That's okay with you, isn't it?"
Tricker bit the inside of his cheek. "Sure," he said after a moment. He gave her an insincere smile. "Run along, kids. Get some work done." The sarcasm was as thick as butter.
"All in good time." Clea blew him a kiss, then engulfed Viemeister's muscular arm in a hug and looked up at him. "All in good time."
She walked off with Kurt, feeling as happy as it was possible for her to feel without Skynet whispering in her mind. She looked forward to the sex she would soon be having with Kurt. And it was good that she now had official permission to work with him on Skynet. No one on earth, with the exception of Alissa, could offer more help in developing its intelligence. As a bonus, she'd annoyed Tricker again.
Serena had regarded him as an exceptional human being. But Clea wasn't finding him to be that formidable; he hadn't even pursued her resemblance to her parent, which, frankly was a relief.
It was also a relief to know that she'd finally convinced her computer to allow her natural reactions to sex to prevail. She'd successfully argued that as she was less experienced than her predecessor, she was less able to fake her reactions. Therefore, it was reasonable to assume that someone as intelligent as Viemeister would almost certainly detect her lack of enthusiasm.
Her stomach fluttered pleasantly in anticipation. Life was good.
* * *
ROUTE 9, PARAGUAY
Wendy had somehow thought of Paraguay as a small country. She supposed that was because it looked like a peanut nestled between Brazil and Argentina. But the place was; as big as most American states and its character had changed completely since she'd passed the Brazilian border. Lush semitropical forest full of smoking clearings had given way to flat, dry grasslands where scattered cattle grazed between occasional clumps of palms. It smelled strange, too: hot in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature; dusty like spices and acrid musk. Even the smells of cattle were alien. She'd been a city girl all her life.
According to what John had told her, he was living on a farm or something just outside Villa Hayes. Sometimes it sounded like he was talking about Dogpatch, and sometimes like the Ponderosa.
She was tired, and she was hungry, and she was fighting the feeling that she was hopelessly lost, it was hot and everything that she'd brought with her was made of black velvet at Snog's insistence. She'd kill for a T-shirt and shorts right now.
Money was rapidly running out, making her want to continue to drive, not stopping for bed or food, but she could barely keep her eyes open. Besides fighting sleep, she was fighting the sneaking suspicion that John wouldn't be too happy to see her.
Should she call him, warn him that she was coming? What if he said no, he wouldn't help her? Wendy's heart beat faster at the thought, exhaustion allowing panic a footlhold.
Her ordinary sunny self-confidence was gradually eroding in the face of the sheer foreignness of her surroundings, not to mention her circumstances. She was homesick and scared and very lonely. Wendy found it disconcerting to realize just how protected she had always been until now. She'd always considered herself an independent, self-sufficient type of woman.
But I'm really just a clueless college girl on the lam. Wendy licked dry lips and decided to press on, deciding she wouldn't give John a chance to say no. After everything else she'd been through over the last few days, she was learning to take things as they came.
VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA, PARAGUAY
Epifanio Ayala, von Rossbach's overseer, watched the plume of dust approach the main house of the testancia and assumed it was yet another delivery. They had received many such in the last few days: although littie remained, for Don von Rossbach and young John had taken the accumulation away to Asuncion in the estancia's truck today. Epifanio's wife, Marietta, from whom almost no secret could be kept for long, had informed him that these things were mostly very warm winter clothing and expensive camping gear.
"Maybe they are going mountain climbing," he'd suggested.
Marietta had only shrugged and rolled her eyes expressively. But he'd known what she meant. Ever since he'd met Senora Krieger, Senor von Rossbach had been going away without warning to do who knew what.
Epifanio shook his head as he watched the dust plume grow closer. The senor was a nice man, and Senora Krieger and her son, they were nice, too. But since they'd come home, Epifanio himself was the only one involved in running the estancia. True, he was the overseer, it was his job. But not so very long ago Senor von Rossbach had taken an interest in every aspect of the ranch, riding out to check the cattle, making plans to improve the stock and the land. It was worrying to see such a change in him.
Marietta thought it was for the best. "He is much more alive," she'd insisted. And she favored the senora's presence. But that was a woman for you, always hoping for romance. To him it seemed there was never a woman more cold and businesslike than Susan Krieger. Although she, too, was neglecting her business, staying mostly at the estancia fiddling with the computer. And that bandage on her hip… He was a peaceful man, but he knew a gunshot wound when he saw it.
The dust wasn't coming from a delivery truck, it seemed, but from a small sedan, so covered with dirt that its original color was completely hidden. His brows rose. Those were Brazilian plates—common enough in Asuncion, but not in the country.
Epifanio rose from his seat on the portal and went down the steps to stand before the great house, patiently waiting for the car to arrive. No doubt it was some lost traveler, for the vehicle certainly didn't belong to anyone Ayala knew and the senor and his guests never received visitors.
He could dimly see the figure of a woman through the dirty glass of the side window as she pulled up beside him. Epifanio waved some of the swirling dust that accompanied her aside with his hat and took in details to relate to Marietta later on.
The car was new and designed for city driving; its low-slung chassis must have had a hard time on the rough roads surrounding the estancia. A very impractical vehicle, with no storage capacity to speak of and much too small for a family of any size. It seemed to be a pale blue under the dust.
The woman inside slumped behind the wheel, unmoving, and after a moment Epifanio tapped lightly on the window to get her attention. She lifted her head with a start, as though she'd fallen asleep, then she rolled down the window.
He saw that she hadn't been sleeping, but reading. It was a girl, perhaps nineteen years old and very tired looking, dressed in black velvet and sweating because of it. She glanced from him to her book and brushed a hank of sweat-soaked dark hair back from her face with one hand.
Then she told him, in terrible Spanish, that she was looking for John Krieger. Really, it was only the name that gave him a clue as to what she wanted. What a terrible accent, he thought. She probably didn't speak Spanish at all, but was parroting phrases from the book.
"Senor Krieger is not here right now," he said politely. "He will not be back for several hours, I think."
Epifanio had taken care to speak slowly so that she would understand, but the girl looked back at him with big eyes that held no more understanding than a cow's. Si. No Spanish at all. And not likely to speak Guarni, which was his only other language beyond a few words of German. She looked so tired, and so lost, that he couldn't help but take pity on her.
"Senora Krieger? Perhaps she could help you?" he offered.
Alarm flashed briefly in her eyes, then her mouth firmed and she nodded once. Opening the door, she stood, as stiff as an old lady. Then she said, "Si. Senora Krieger, por favor."
Epifanio smiled at her, pleased at their progress, and gestured toward the portal with his hat, holding out his other arm as though to herd her into the house. To his surprise she put her hand on his arm to steady herself and he instantly took her elbow to support and guide her.
Marietta was going to love this.
Sarah looked up from her work, frowning, at Epifanio's knock. Beside him was a young woman in a long-sleeved, ankle-length, and ill-fitting black dress. If her hair hadn't been purple Sarah would have thought she was a very young nun. Suddenly something about the girl clicked and Sarah said to herself, American.
"Yes?" she said aloud.
"Pardon my intrusion, senora. But the young lady"—he gestured at the girl with his hat—"is looking for your son, I think."
Sarah's eyes flicked to the girl, and if looks were bullets Wendy would have been dead before she hit the floor. Only part of it was due to the continuing dull pain in Sarah's hip. "Thank you, Epifanio," she said, rising from the desk. "I'll take care of it." Switching to English, she said to the girl, "Won't you come in?"
The girl swallowed visibly and, with a nervous glance at the overseer, tottered stiffly into the room.
Sarah frowned. "Are you ill?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. I've just been driving for a very long time." The girl gave her a nervous smile. She dropped into the chair that Sarah had indicated like a sack of potatoes.
What a wuss. "Hungry?" Sarah asked crisply.
"Yes, ma'am."
She asked Epifanio to tell his wife to bring sandwiches and fruit juice and watched him go before she sat down again. Then she looked across the desk at her—no, at John's visitor.
"You're from MIT," she stated. John's recruits had been sending reports every other day, but there had been no word in over a week. Obviously something had gone seriously wrong. Perhaps wrong enough to send a messenger. "What happened?"
It was hard, but she kept the anger out of her voice as much as she could. This child was so spooked she'd probably faint if she had any idea how close to killing mad Sarah was. She should reserve her anger for John, who had obviously given out just a little more information than he should have. Forcing herself to seem calm, Sarah leaned back and waited for the girl's explanation.
* * *
God, what a bitch, Wendy thought. It had never occurred to her that John wouldn't be home when she arrived, and she longed for him now more than she longed for sleep. If she'd thought about his mother at all it was as a distant presence to whom she would be brought after she'd explained everything to him and at least had a shower.
She hadn't felt this much like an importunate intruder since her first interview at MIT.
Well that was nothing, Wendy told herself, squaring her shoulders, and I'll get through this. After waking up to find one of her heroes blown to pieces in front of her and the police after her for the murder, one overbearing woman shouldn't be too hard to take. But, oh, how she longed for John.
She took a deep breath and rapidly gave John's mother a succinct report. By the time she finished she was slurring her words in exhaustion. Just then a motherly-looking woman came in with a tray of food.
John's mother cleared a section of the desk and said something in Spanish. The woman gave Wendy a thorough looking over and a slight smile.
Wendy could feel her color rise. She'd never felt—she'd never been so grubby in her life. She actually smelled! Tired as she was, the embarrassment she felt was almost too much. Tears welled up in her eyes and she looked down, hoping to hide this final humiliation from John's hard-assed mother.
I will not cry! she thought fiercely. I will not.
Sarah poured juice into the glasses, glancing at Wendy from under her lashes. The kid looked like she was going to break down and bawl at any moment. My God, what a wuss! What did John see in her?
She handed Wendy a glass of juice and the girl took it with an almost inaudible "thank you."
Sarah sat down and took a sip from her own glass, watching Wendy take careful sips of the juice. "Not thirsty?" she asked. "You don't have to drink it."
The girl glanced up, then looked down again. Yes, her eyes were red and her eyelashes moist, a real crybaby.
"I haven't eaten or drunk anything for a while," Wendy said at last, her voice sounding surprisingly strong. "And I'm nervous, so I'm just being careful." One corner of her mouth lifted and she raised her eyes to meet Sarah's. "I wouldn't want to be sick all over your parquet floor."
"Thank you," Sarah said, her chin resting on her fist. "It's not my floor, but I appreciate the thought." She straightened up and crossed her legs, taking a sip of her juice. "What I don't appreciate is that you're here, and why."
Wendy dropped her gaze to her drink and went absolutely still as once again, color flooded her cheeks. She tipped her head to one side. "I guess"—her eyes met Sarah's—"that we thought you might be able to tell me what to do."
"Because of being unjustly accused and all?" Sarah asked with a wave of her hand.
Wendy nodded, her gaze unwavering; something in her eyes told Sarah that she had caught the sarcasm and didn't like it.
"To be honest," Sarah said, picking a speck of lint from her skirt and smoothing down the fabric, "I don't think I've ever been unjustly accused."
She grinned at Wendy's undisguised astonishment. "I've done it all." she said breezily. "I've bombed, I've run guns, I've smuggled drugs. Extortion, bribery, destruction of property- assault and battery." She ticked her crimes off on her fingers. "I'm guilty, guilty, guilty. I've never killed anybody—anybody human— I've never been involved in a kidnapping—not that I didn't have opportunities—and I've never sold myself. But other than that…" She shrugged, watching for the girl's reaction.
"Even better," Wendy said after a moment's pause. "If you're guilty of all that and you're still not in jail, you could probably write a book on the subject."
Sarah was taken by surprise. So, maybe the kid does have a spine, she thought. She hoped so if John was in any way involved with her. Still, she'd come here in trouble and so possibly dragging trouble behind her. "One of the ways we've stayed out of jail is by not allowing people being chased by the police to come directly to our door," she said pointedly.
"Nobody knows where I am," Wendy said. "The closest anyone could trace me is Sao Paulo."
"That's closer than I like," Sarah snapped.
"Look," Wendy said carefully, "I didn't stop driving once I left Sao Paulo. I bought a bunch of food, which ran out the day before yesterday, and juice, which ran out last night. I haven't stopped or spoken to anybody since I left the border except three times to buy gas. And since I got lost twice on lonely roads with no human beings around for as far as the eye could see, and since from here that's pretty far, I seriously doubt I was followed. Okay?"
Sarah felt herself relax marginally. She chose a sandwich and started to nibble. To her amusement the girl seemed to take it as a signal that she, too, could begin eating and chose one for herself. Well, I suppose she's right. I don't approve of her being here after all.
"Nonstop?" Sarah said, raising her brows. "All the way from Brazil?"
"Yes."
"Quite a drive," Sarah commented.
"Especially if you get lost," Wendy agreed, nibbling delicately at the home-baked bread.
"Did you have to ask for directions?" Sarah asked casually. Wendy looked up at her, impatience briefly plain on her face. "No," she said carefully. "I worked it out by myself." She put the sandwich down and then looked Sarah full in the he face. "I would never do anything that might cause John the slightest risk."
The two women locked gazes and Sarah felt a sinking feeling in her middle. No doubt this is how every mother feels when her son gets his first serious girlfriend. And, if anything, Wendy, here, appeared deadly serious. I wonder how John feels about her? Was he going to be thrilled to see her, or was he going to react as though she was a stalker."
That thought sent another spasm of uncertainty through her gut. After all, she had only Wendy's word that she'd been framed. And do I know anything about her? Nooo. John had barely mentioned her name. She waggled her foot thoughtfully. He could be shy about confiding in his mother about it, or he might be as surprised and dismayed as she was to find out that he had a girlfriend. And… there was a time when I was a student with a part-time job, too. And then my world fell apart.
Well, she'd find out when he got home. In the meantime…
"You look exhausted," she said. Wendy looked up at her. "Why don't we take this"—she stood, wincing slightly at the pull of the healing wound, and picked up the tray—"upstairs. I'll show you your room for tonight. There's a bathroom en suite, so you can have some privacy. Just leave the tray outside the door when you're finished."
Wendy stood, still a little wobbly. "Thank you."
Sarah glanced at her. The kid was dead on her feet. I know what that feels like. She'd felt that way often at the end of a hard trip. We'll see, she thought, and turned to lead the way upstairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
VON ROSSBACH ESTANCIA
Wendy couldn't sleep. She had, perhaps, dozed a bit, but for the most part she had simply lain still, too tired to move, too wide-awake to truly rest. Her cramped body felt as though she was still in motion. Very distracting.
She had heard people moving about downstairs for some time, and an occasional voice speaking Spanish. But things had quieted down now that darkness had fallen.
I wonder what time it is. Not late, she thought, perhaps nine o'clock. But for farm people that must be the same as midnight. They had to be up with the sun, didn't they? She listened carefully and heard no human voice, though the night was alive with the sound of insects. Different insects from the ones she was familiar with. The air smelled different, too, dusty and spicy, kind of like a kiln did when baking pots.
