“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 first.

“We can try and trace the address,” Cindy said. “I know a hacker —”

“It won’t lead anywhere,” I said. “Think,” I pressed her. “Why did they contact you? There are plenty of other reporters at the Chronicle. There’s got to be a good reason.”

“Maybe because my byline’s on the story. Maybe because I have roots in Berkeley. But that was ten years ago, Lindsay.”

“Could it be someone from back then? Someone you knew? That asshole Lemouz?”

We looked at each other. “What do you want me to do?” Cindy finally asked.

“I don’t know…” They had made contact. I knew killers enough to know that when they want a dialogue with you, when there’s anything you can do to put off the next grisly act, you talk.

“I think I want you to answer it,” I said.

Everything seemed to be pointing to across the bay. The sources of the Internet messages. Where the Lightower baby was found. Lemouz. Wendy Raymore’s pilfered ID. The clock was ticking. A new victim every three days …

I was tired of waiting for things to come to me. A swarm of FBI agents had descended on the Hall, tracing, dissecting, analyzing Cindy’s message. It was time to take it to them, whoever was responsible for these outrageous murders.

Jacobi and I called on Joe Santos and Phil Martelli, two Berkeley cops who headed up the Street Intel Unit. Santos had been around since the sixties—Robbery, Homicide, one of those old-line veterans who had seen it all. Martelli was younger, out of Narcotics.

“Basically, you’ve got every shit bag outfit going operating in the Free Republic,” Santos said with a shrug. He popped a Mento. “You got your BLA, IRA, Arabs, free speech, free trade. Everybody with an axe to grind—and an axe—is over here.”

“Word is,” Martelli added, “we got some nasty riffraff from Seattle drifting down here to make some mayhem for the G-8 meeting, all those big economic geniuses, those world-beaters.”

I brought out the case file, grisly photos of the Lightower town house and Bengosian. “We’re not looking for a bunch of sign wavers, Phil.”

Martelli smiled at Santos. He got it. “Other day,” he said, “we got this undercover outfit staking out some SOB who’s been creating a nuisance about PG and E.” Pacific Gas and Electric. Our utility robber barons. Since Enron, there wasn’t a person in California who didn’t feel he wasn’t being ripped off, and he was probably right.

“Everybody’s got a grudge against those bastards,” Jacobi said, “including me.”

“This individual’s doing a bit more than some casual bitching at the customer service rep. He’s been picketing headquarters, handing out leaflets urging people not to pay their bill. Free People’s Power Initiative, it was called. We got the sense,” Santos said, chuckling, “that this was a very angry individual.”

Martelli picked up the story. “Crazy bastard is always lugging around this big duffel. We figured it was filled with these leaflets of his. One day this undercover guy stops him and gets him to open the bag. Guy’s got a goddamn M49 rocket launcher in there. Next we raid his house. There’re grenades, C-4, blasting caps. The Free People’s Power Initiative. They were planning to blow up the fucking power company over their bill.”

“So, Joe,” I said, shifting the subject, “you mentioned radicals moving down here to disrupt this G-8 meeting? That’s a place to start.”

“Do better than that …” Santos popped another Mento and shrugged. “One of our undercovers told us there’s some kind of rally planned today. A B of A branch, over on Shat-tuck. Said some of the biggies’ll be around. Why don’t you come see for yourself. Welcome to our nightmare.”

Twenty minutes later, we pulled up about two blocks from the Bank of America location in Santos and Morelli’s unmarked car. About a hundred demonstrators were crowded around the entrance to the branch; most were holding crudely painted signs: A FREE MONEY SUPPLY IS THE SIGN OF A FREE PEOPLE, one read. Another, GIVE THE WTO AIDS.

An organizer in a T-shirt and torn jeans was standing on the roof of a black SUV, shouting into a microphone, “Bank of America enslaves girls before puberty into oppression. Bank of America sucks the people’s blood!”

“What the hell are these people protesting,” Jacobi asked,

“mortgages?”

“Who knows,” replied Santos. “Child labor in Guatemala, the WTO, big business, the fucking ozone layer. Half of them are probably losers they pick off the welfare line and buy with a pack of smokes. It’s the leaders I’m interested in.”

He took out a camera and started snapping shots of people in the crowd. A ring of about ten police stood between the bank and the protesters, riot clubs dangling at their sides.

Things Cindy had said began to resonate. How in the comfort of your own life, you could just turn the page when you read about the uninsured or the poor, or underdeveloped countries drowning in debt. But how some people couldn’t turn the page. A million miles away, right? Didn’t seem like that now.

Suddenly a new speaker climbed on top of the SUV. My eyes bulged. It was Lemouz. Imagine that.

The professor took the microphone and began shouting. “What comprises the World Bank? It is a group of sixteen member institutions from all parts of the world. One of them is the Bank of America. Who loaned the money to Morton Lightower? Who were the underwriters who handled his company’s IPO? The good old B of A, my friends!”

Suddenly the mood of the crowd changed. “These bastards should be blown up!” a woman shouted. A student tried to start a chant: “B of A. B of A. How many girls have you killed today?”

I saw pockets of violence begin to break out. A kid hurled a bottle at the window of the bank. At first I thought it was a Molotov, but there was no explosion.

“See what we have to deal with over here,” Santos said. “Problem is, they’re not all wrong.”

“Fuck they’re not,” contributed Jacobi.

Two police officers invaded the ranks and tried to corral the bottle thrower, but the crowd banded together, impeding their way. I saw the kid take off down the street. Then there was screaming, people on the ground. I couldn’t even tell where it all had started.

“Oh fuck.” Santos put down his camera. “This could be getting out of hand.”

One of the cops swung his stick and a long-haired kid sank to his knees. More people began to throw things. Bottles, rocks. Two of the agitators started wrestling with the police, who dragged them down, pinning them with their sticks.

Lemouz was still barking into the microphone. “See what the state must resort to—cracking heads of mothers and children.”

I had taken about as much as I could sit back and watch. “These guys need help,” I said, and went to open the door.

Martelli held me back. “We go in, we get made.”

“I’m already made,” I said, unstrapping the gun from my leg. Then I ran across the street with Martelli a few strides behind.

Cops were being shoved and pelted with debris. “Pigs! Nazis!”

I pushed my way into the throng. A woman held a cloth to her bleeding head. Another carried a baby, crying, out of harm’s way. Thank God somebody had a little common sense.

Professor Lemouz’s gaze fixed on me. “Look how the police treat the innocent voice of protest! They come with drawn guns!

“Ah, Madam Lieutenant,” he said, grinning down from his makeshift podium, “still trying to get yourself educated, I see. Tell me, what did you learn today?”