“What else is on here?” Marty asks.
He elbows Luke aside, but Luke doesn’t protest. She’s relieved, once again, to see how well they get along these days. The sense that they were both holding down the home front was a comfort to her while she was away, even if she suspects Luke has more mixed feelings about his role than he’s been letting on.
Marty starts clicking through a file folder with no label. More screen caps fill the laptop’s display. Most of them look like old photographs of Jordy and Lacey, chronicling their happier moments together. In all of them, they’re scantily clad, mostly on various beaches, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. They’re a rough-around-the-edges version of someone’s idea of an idealized young Southern California couple. Surfboards, open-air Jeeps, bottles of Corona they toast while making goo-goo eyes at each other.
“Oh, crap. Tell me this isn’t her personal flash drive and now we’ve gotta figure what she actually wanted you to see,” Marty asks.
“I wish I could tell you that,” Luke answers, “but I can’t.”
“Well, if that is the case, she’s certainly not working for any intelligence agencies,” Charley says.
“Given recent events, that’s good to know,” Marty says.
“Not a shock,” Luke says. “She doesn’t sound like a good candidate for anything except rehab. When Mona called her parents, she said they never wanted to speak to her again because she stole medications from her dying grandmother.”
“Addiction’s a tricky business,” Marty says. “Maybe she’s trying to do something right for a change.”
Is Marty offended? Is Luke afraid he offended Marty? Or is the sudden silence just a sign they’re all chewing over the flash drive’s contents? Charley figures it’s option three.
“Wait,” Luke barks, “what was that?”
Marty was opening pictures so fast he didn’t notice the odd one out.
It’s not a photograph of Lacey and Jordy in better days; it’s another screenshot. The background’s white, and the squares filling the screen are so small at first glance she misses their outlines.
Charley leans in to get a closer look. They’re chat boxes, clustered together. What looks like a single screen cap is actually a collage of them. Over and over again, Lacey’s cropped two exchanges from longer threads and assembled them into a collage. After a second or two of reading, Charlotte can see why; in each crop, the second text box is exactly the same, something that looks like a Bible verse.
The verse is the same every time: Their work will be shown for what it is because the day will bring it to light. It will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test the quality of each person’s work.—1 Corinthians 3:13
It’s followed by a phrase, Find your fire. Aside from being underlined, the words are set off from the rest of the post in light-blue text.
After she confirms the verse doesn’t vary, she reads some of the messages to which it was posted as a response.
Her breath catches. The skin around her neck suddenly feels tight.
NO! His work will not be REVEALED!!! We r his agents. We r his soldiers! ACTION MUST BE TAKEN, be it against the sodomites or the idolaters. Or the abortionists. TO SIT IDLY BY IS TO INVITE THE KINGDOM OF SATAN!
The other messages are similar.
DEEDS AND WORKS. No one on the threads recognizing value of WORKS and DEEDS! FAITH IS NOT ENOUGH. One must act against those who act contrary to God. MY GOD HAS A FINGER OF FIRE!
Slowly, Marty drags the chat collage to one side of the screen so it’s still visible.
But it’s obvious he’s more taken with the photos of Lacey and Jordy.
The tone of each chat exchange is basically the same. Someone with a screen name that makes no sense to her, probably because she’s never been very religious, having some sort of breakdown over gays, abortion doctors, and Muslims and the failure of society to react to the supposed evils of each group. Then, in each instance, someone with a different screen name responds with the exact same Bible verse, followed by a link.
“Find your fire?” Luke says. “It looks like a link.”
“Well, I can’t click on it because the whole thing’s a screen cap,” Marty says.
“Where does it go?” Charley asks. “A chat room? It feels like an invite, for sure.”
“To what, though?” Marty says. “Are they asking for an argument, or are they trying to get the original commenter to calm the hell down?”
“My God has a finger of fire,” Luke reads. “‘Find your fire.’ I don’t know. But it doesn’t sound good.”
“For whoever the poster’s wailing about maybe,” she says, “but the poster . . . well, they might consider it a nice offer.”
“Wait,” Marty says.
It doesn’t sound like he’s responding to what Luke just said, so she shifts her gaze to the photo he’s just opened on the right-hand side of the screen. It’s a strange one. No beach, no smiles, no sun. It’s blurry and dark.
At first she thinks it’s some close-up of a wall; then she realizes she’s looking at a man’s naked back and right arm as he sleeps. She hopes he’s sleeping. She’s not sure if it’s Jordy, but the man’s build is similar to the guy in the other photos. What sticks out is the square of lighter skin cupping his upturned shoulder. Not lighter skin, she realizes. A bandage.