doesn’t hold much weight with you full-time career types, with a dog and all … but we’re in a marriage. Whatever goes on, it’s between us.”
“No longer.” I glared at him. “Battery’s a felony, Steve. I bust people like you.”
“Jill would never testify against me,” he said, then frowned. “Jeez, look at the time.… If you don’t mind, Lindsay, they’re expecting me down the hall.”
I got up. I didn’t know how he could act this way. We were talking about Jill. “I want to put this in a way you’ll understand,” I said. “You put one more mark on her, and the last thing you’ll have to worry about will be Jill testifying. You go out for a run, you’re in the garage late after work, you hear a noise that makes you jump …You’d better jump, Steve.”
I went to the door, barely taking my eyes off of him. Steve sat there, rocking, somewhere between speechless and inflamed. “Now, how’s that for boiling the ocean, Steve?”
Chapter 37
Cindy Thomas sat at her desk at the Chronicle, not quite feeling herself. She twisted the cap on her Fruitopia organic apricot juice and took a sip. Then Cindy opened the paper and scanned the front page. One of her bylines was in the right-hand column. Bold headlines: SECOND CEO MURDER HAS POLICE RE-EXAMINING THE FIRST.
She flipped on her computer to check her e-mail. The hunk in the bulging tank top and construction belt who acted as her screen saver came to life. Cindy clicked Internet Explorer and her e-mail came up.
Twelve new.
She noticed one from Aaron, whom she had split with four months ago. Having Pumpkinseed Smith at a recital at the church, 8:00 P.M., May 22. Can you make it? Pumpkinseed Smith was one of the best horn players around! You bet I’ll
make it, Cindy typed back. Even if it means I have to hear a sermon from you.
She scrolled down the rest quickly. A response from a researcher who was doing background on Lightower and Bengosian. That bastard had been in court, fighting forty-six class actions from policyholders who were dumped in the past two years. What a sleaze!
She was about to delete the last message from an address she didn’t know when the headline caught her eye. SLAM@ hotmail.com. It was titled, WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.
Cindy clicked on the message and prepared to send it to the ether grave of all spam. She took a swig of juice.
Don’t ask how we got your name or why we’re contacting you. If you want to do some good, you will do the right thing now.
Cindy rolled her chair closer to the screen.
The “tragic” incidents of the past week are only the tip of things to come.
The finance ministers of the world are meeting next week to carve up the last marginal remains of the “free” world economy left after Breton Woods—that which they have not already savagely consumed.
Cindy’s heart was thumping as she read on.
We are prepared to kill one prominent bloodsucking pig every three days unless they come to their senses and denounce the global virus that is the system of free enterprise, that has imprisoned helpless nations in the Great Lie that trade will make them free; that has enslaved our fellow sisters into the sweatshop bondage of the multinationals, that has stolen the savings of the American worker in a stock market that is no more than a corrupt, insider scheme.
We are no longer isolated voices.
We are an army, just as lethal and far-reaching as the vampire superpowers.
Cindy blinked disbelievingly, almost unable to move. Was this some kind of Internet hoax? Somebody’s idea of a joke?
She hit the PRINT key, clearing off her desk and cradling the phone in her neck as she read on.
The reason we have chosen you is that the normal channels of the media are as corrupt and self-serving as the global multinationals that own them. Are you part of the corruption? We’ll soon see.
We ask the important people who will meet in San Francisco next week, the G-8, to do something historic. Unlock the chains. Forgive the debt. Stand up for freedom, not profit. Set back the machines of colonization. Open the economies of the world.
Until we hear that voice, you will hear ours. Every three days, another deserving pig will die.
You know what to do with this, Ms. Thomas. Do not waste your time trying to trace it. Unless you don’t want to hear from us again.
Cindy’s mouth was dry as dust. [email protected]. Was this real? Was someone messing with her?
She scrolled a little farther to the bottom of the page. For the next few seconds, she was unable to move.
The e-mail was signed, August Spies.
Chapter 38
Back at my desk, there was a message from Chief Tracchio waiting for me, and one from Jill.
“And the Chronicle’s waiting for you,” my secretary Brenda called.
“The Chronicle?”
I looked up and saw Cindy, sitting knock-kneed on a stack of files outside my office. She pulled herself up as I approached, but I just didn’t have the time for her.
“Cindy, I can’t meet right now. I’m sorry. There’s a briefing scheduled —”
“No,” she cut in, stopping me, “I have something to show you, Lindsay. This takes precedence.”
“Is everything all right?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
We shut the door to my office behind us, and Cindy removed a piece of paper from her knapsack. It looked like e-mail.
“Sit down,” she said. She put the page in front of me and sat next to me. “Read.”
One look at Cindy’s eyes and I knew this wasn’t good.
“It came in my morning e-mail,” she explained. “I’m listed on the Chronicle website. I don’t know who it’s from. Or why they sent it to me. It’s just that I’m a little freaked right now.”
I started to read. Don’t ask how we got your name or why we’re contacting you… The more I read, the worse it got. We are prepared to kill one prominent bloodsucking pig every three days… I looked up.
“Keep reading,” Cindy said.
I looked back down and read the rest of the page. I was trying to decide if it was real. I reached the bottom, and knew that it was.
August Spies.
My chest was building up pressure. Suddenly, it was clear where all this was headed. They were holding the city hostage. This was a statement of terror. The G-8. Their target. It was scheduled for the tenth—in nine days. The finance ministers of the top industrial states around the world would be in San Francisco.
“Who knows about this?” I asked.
“You and me,” Cindy said. “And them.”
“They want you to publish their demands,” I said. “They want to use the Chronicle as a soapbox.” I was thinking of all the possible scenarios. “This is gonna make Tracchio shit.”
The countdown had already started. Every three days. Today was Thursday. I knew this e-mail had to be turned over. And once I did, I knew it would no longer be my case. But there was something I needed to do
