AUTHOR’S NOTE:
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Kassandra
Had I been the type that believed in the providence of an omnipotent God, I would have thanked Him for my accidental stumble into Brodie’s room the week before. I would’ve thanked God that Brodie was the trusting type who left his passwords on yellow sticky notes next to his desk. And I definitely would’ve thanked God for page 164 of Manly Man of God: Reclaiming God’s Biblical Mandate for Men & Women, wherein Keith detailed a fight he’d had on RenFor, including his so-called “secret” username.
But I didn’t believe in God, nor any sort of divine plan. The universe doesn’t care about me or you or anyone. It’s plain to see—look at the people living in mansions and look at the people cleaning those mansions and know that there is little we can do to control the course of our lives. Some people are lucky, or privileged, or unhobbled by empathy and willing to exploit others. I have little privilege compared to Keith, but I have something he doesn’t have: a compulsion to bring him to justice.
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On the bus, in class, at home, even while walking, I worked my way through Keith’s odious oeuvre. And that was how I found Keith’s username: Bible_Beater. Narcissists love to tell on themselves.
I spread my treasures before me—Drexler’s memory stick, the yellow sticky note with Brodie’s username and password, and the dogeared book—before beginning the job.
Despite Drexler’s help, I was no hacker. I didn’t know how the RenFor platform operated. I suspected it would be possible for both Brodie and me to sign in on the same account on different devices, but if he saw my account activity while we were both signed in, the jig would be up.
With his username (Surfboard_Moses, password: stud1990) I logged on. A white screen opened, displaying forum threads under different headings along with options to private message and search.
Gripped by curiosity, I input Keith’s username into the search field. “Bible_Beater” popped up in yellow highlighter all over the forum and in every thread about his sermons. Of course. I clicked the entry called “Latest Sermon.”
Mod_1: Discussion thread for the week’s sermon. This week Pastor K explained the 4th commandment, “Remember the Sabbath Day by keeping it holy.” Exodus 20:8–11. Please review community discussion guidelines and remember to tell the truth in love.
There were over two hundred comments. Skimming, I realized they fell into three categories: breathless praise of everything Keith had ever done, people showing off their holiness, and a minority with genuine questions, which were generally dismissed with extreme prejudice. Bible_Beater’s nastiness surprised me, he repeatedly mocked his dissenters, calling them everything from “thickheaded” to “retarded pussies!”
More convinced than ever of the goodness of my cause, I inserted Drexler’s memory stick into the laptop. I held my breath as I extracted its only file, fighting to steady my finger on the mouse pad. In another window I opened a private message to Keith.
Surfboard_Moses: Hi Pastor,
Saw your username in a book. Hope that’s okay. Just wanted to show you what I saw today!
-Brodie
Embedding the file in the message, I took a deep breath and hit send. I’d done my part, snapping a photo of a flyer for Renewal’s upcoming rally, “The Greatest Gift of All.” Drexler had taken that photo and embedded a keylogger. If everything worked like it was supposed to, Keith would open the photo and unwittingly download the virus, which would then transmit his keystrokes to Drexler. We would capture all his data, including passwords and credit card information.
My stomach growled. When was the last time I had eaten? Probably that gas station breakfast burrito during my morning break at Fringe.
A sound echoed in my mind: the clank of a plate being set on our old kitchen table, Maria pushing it in front of me with a single finger until the scent of Easy Mac finally seized my attention from whatever I was reading. I didn’t have a father, barely had a mother, but I’d had her.
There were things I didn’t eat or drink anymore, places I didn’t go, music I didn’t listen to. It was hard enough keeping myself together without these memories clobbering me.
I dumped some Rice-a-Roni into a pot and was opening a bottle of beer when my laptop pinged. Forgetting my drink, I sprinted to the futon.
Bible_Beater: Hey Brodie, looks great! Blessings, Keith
Nearly tripping over a pile of shoes at the end of the futon, I pumped my fists, engaging in a ridiculous, silent dance. My Rice-a-Roni hissed and boiled over. I removed it from the burner, ignoring the burned bits glued to my filthy stovetop.
Logging off, I fired off a celebratory text to Drexler. “He opened it! How long will it take?”
“It depends on him,” Drexler responded.
“Please please please let me know as soon as you get anything that looks like email access.”
“Watch what you say on your phone. I’ll let you know how it goes ;)”
I rolled my eyes. Looking around my filthy apartment, I began to take stock of everything I’d been neglecting while hunting through Keith’s stupid books: the laundry, the dishes, the trash, and my studies.
Pouring myself that forgotten pot of Rice-a-Roni, I settled in to reading Marquandt’s Introduction to Database Management. Calling it dry would be the understatement of the century. SQL servers, “business intelligence,” “integrating parameters,” “what is our data optimization strategy?” I could give a shit. I was tired of hair salons, that’s all. Everyone in Seattle who had nice things seemed to work in tech.
“Optimization . . . “ Marquandt’s text stated in bold. “Visualization . . . best practices . . .”
I woke up with the textbook page stuck to my face, an undignified string of drool puddling on the slick paper. Disoriented, I tried to remember why I was here, on the futon. I grabbed for my phone. It was three a.m.
“Bingo! Pastor.Keith@renewalfellowship.org pass: 01-30-15,” Drexler texted.
Curiosity tempered my excitement. It looked like a date: January 30th, 2015. What had happened eight months ago?
I logged on to Renewal’s website and typed in Keith’s login info, crossing my fingers that they wouldn’t have two-step authentication. But Renewal didn’t seem to be very concerned with cybersecurity. Without additional fanfare I was directed to Keith’s swollen inbox.
There were hundreds of emails. I blinked the sleep from my eyes and scrolled over to the sent box. He had just sent something—the recipients were the other six pastors who made up Renewal’s board.
“We NEED an additional meeting this Monday to go over this quarter’s financials, esp THE GLOBAL FUND. THIS Mon, 11am. BE PREPARED TO DISCUSS CUTBACKS. There are no sacred cows. THIS IS MISSION CRITICAL. -K”
So Keith was writing emails in the middle of the night. Was Renewal in dire financial straits? Odd, considering how many members it boasted and Keith’s ten percent tax.
None of the other recent sent mail looked interesting. In the search field I typed “Maria.” Seven hundred emails. “Maria Hernandez”—no results. I rubbed my nose and began working my way through all the Marias, starting at the beginning. After an hour’s reading, I’d made it to 2007. No mention of my sister anywhere. Keith spoke at her funeral; surely there would be some record, some correspondence discussing the death and funeral arrangements.
My superpower was telling me something was amiss—Keith must have deleted all the emails pertaining to Maria’s death. Why? Had he admitted his culpability?
Frozen before my computer, I knew I ought to go to bed. It wasn’t good for me to forgo sleep. I’d be a wreck, but I couldn’t turn it off. I searched “suicide,” “medication,” and “funeral.” Nothing.
Maria would never kill herself; it wasn’t in her nature. She said she was going to get her degree, and so she would. Nobody at our high school was surprised that she not only graduated at the top of her class but got into UW on a full-ride. She was smart, sure, but more than that, she was tireless. Suicide didn’t make sense, but nobody else seemed to see that, not the police, not our family. To them, it was like order had been restored, the damaged daughter of a broken home died a damaged death. They didn’t know her.
On a whim, I typed “MH” into the search field. One email came up, from Pastor Mike to Pastor Keith. It was a single sentence.
“Simon’s scrubbed the sermon archives for anything related to MH. We’re clear.”
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