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. [email protected] 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.”