The Family Trade by Charles Stross Read Free Book Online Page B

bucket of ice water down her spine. I did this. I got us both fired, she began thinking, and her knees tried to turn to jelly. Then she thought, Hold on. I didn’t fire anybody! That switched on the anger again, but left her feeling distinctly shaky. Sooner or later she’d have to talk to Paulie. Sooner or—
    She hit the “next message” button again.
    Heavy breathing, then: “Bitch. We know where you live. Heard about you from our mutual friend Joe. Keep your nose out of our business or you’ll be fucking sorry”— click .
    Wide-eyed, she turned and looked over her shoulder. But the yard was empty and the front door was locked. “Bastards,” she spat. But there was no caller-ID on the message and probably not enough to get the police interested in it. Especially not if Joe’s minions at The Weatherman started mud slinging with forged fire-wall logs: They could make her look like the next Unabomber if they wanted to. For a moment, outrage blurred her vision. She forced herself to stop panting and sit down again, next to the treacherous, venomous answering machine. “Threaten me in my own home, will you? Fuck. ”
    The gravity of her situation was only just sinking in. “Better keep a gun under my pillow,” she muttered under her breath. “Bastards.” The opposite wall seemed to be pulsing slightly, a reaction to her fury. She felt her fingers clenching involuntarily. “Bastards.” Kicking her out of her job and smearing her reputation wasn’t enough for them, was it? She’d show them—
    —Something.
    After a minute she calmed down enough to face the remaining message on the answering machine. She had difficulty forcing herself to press the button. But the next message wasn’t another threat—quite the opposite. “Miriam, this is Steve from The Herald . I heard the news. Get in touch.”
    For that, she hit the “pause” button yet again, and this time frowned and scribbled a note to herself. Steve wasn’t a chatty editor, like Andy; Steve treated words like dollar bills. And he wouldn’t be getting in touch if it didn’t involve work, even freelance work. A year ago he’d tried to head-hunt her, offering a big pay raise and a higher position. Taking stock of her options—and when they were due to mature—she’d turned him down. Now she had reason to regret it.
    That was the end of her mailbox, and she hit the “erase” button hard enough to hurt her finger. Two editors talking about work, a former office mate wanting to chew over the corpse—and what sounded like a death threat. This isn’t going to go away, she realized. I’m in it up to my neck now. A stab of guilt: So is Paulie. I’ll have to talk to her. A ray of hope: For someone who’s unemployed, I sure get a lot of business calls. A conclusion: Just as long as I stay sane I should be all right.
    The living room was more hospitable right now than the chairless den, its huge french doors streaked with rain falling from a leaden sky. Miriam went through, considered building a fire in the hearth, and collapsed into the sofa instead. The combination of fear, anger, and tension had drained most of her energy. Opening her planner, she turned to a blank page and began writing:

I NEED WORK
Call Andy and Steve. Pass “Go.” Collect freelance commissions. Collect two hundred dollars. Keep up the mortgage payments.

I AM GOING CRAZY
Well, no. This isn’t schizophrenia. I’m not hearing voices, the walls aren’t going soft, and nobody is beaming orbital mind control lasers at me. Everything’s fine except I had a weird fugue moment, and the office chair is missing.

DID SOMEONE SLIP ME SOMETHING?
Don’t be silly: Who? Iris? Maybe she and Morris tripped when they were younger, but she just wouldn’t do that to me. Joe Dixon is a sleazebag with criminal connections, but he didn’t offer me a drink. And who else have I seen in the past day? Anyway, that’s not how hallucinogens work.

MAGIC
That’s silly, too, but at least it’s