In later years a team of geneticists would discover a particular DNA marker (on chromosome 15q) that was responsible for human empathy. A subsequent study would determine that successful heads of state, corporate CEOs, and avid weekend cyclists were missing this particular marker in a much higher proportion than the rest of society. Ethan, it would turn out, could be counted among their ranks.
So it was no surprise then that Ethan was not only obsessed with his bicycle but, at thirty-two years old, was the youngest man to ever hold the position of deputy executive in charge of programming for the American Television Network. ATN was the crown jewel of a media empire—comprised of television, radio, and newspaper outlets around the world—that managed to offend just about everyone, but also managed to draw record numbers of viewers, readers, and listeners year after year. A New York Times op-ed referred to ATN as a “mirror reflecting the darkest parts of the American soul.” If Ethan had bothered to think about it (he didn’t), his pragmatic side might have agreed.
What he lacked in empathy Ethan made up for in appreciation, lavishing luxurious gifts on those people who treated him well. He was feeling especially appreciative of Monique—who was, unbeknownst to Ethan, still in the bathroom crying—as he browsed eBay listings in search of the perfect gift.
He knew that Monique “simply adored” the actor Heath Ledger. Normally, he would just make a few phone calls and Ledger would appear in his office ready to take Monique out to lunch. But the guy had overdosed on drugs, so Ethan was reduced to actual shopping. Talent, he thought. They’re all the same.
There were nearly two thousand items listed on eBay, but none of them seemed right. Ethan felt that a signed photo or a piece of a movie costume that Ledger had worn was too mundane. A thought occurred to him: perhaps there was some piece of memorabilia connected to Ledger’s death. He wondered if that was too morbid but couldn’t see how it would be.
The press said Ledger’s death was an accident, but Ethan didn’t believe it; he searched for “Ledger suicide.” As he was perusing the few macabre items that the search results returned, he saw a “People who viewed this item also viewed” link. One of them had the curious tagline, “Human Life for Sale.” He clicked it.
And that was how Ethan Overbee came to see Jared’s listing.
***
Sister Benedict Joan liked the Internet. She liked it a lot.
She liked the way it helped her spread the Word of God through her blog, christscadets.blogspot.com. She liked how it allowed her to stay connected with the other warriors in Christ’s army from around the world. And, most of all, she liked how the Internet allowed her to see and fight against the never-ending stream of smut, irreverence, and blasphemy that was determined to destroy decent society. A less optimistic woman would have been overwhelmed by the pornography and violence that seemed to fuel the pulse of the World Wide Web. Not Sister Benedict; it gave her purpose.
As prioress of the Sisters of the Perpetual Adoration, she was a leader in her community, and she felt a personal responsibility to protect the nuns and novices under her care. This meant much more than providing food and shelter; it meant doing everything in her power, small though that was, to help fashion a world informed and infused by the teachings and love of Jesus Christ. You could say that the only thing Sister Benedict Joan liked more than the Internet was Christ himself.
The Sister was a throwback. Since Vatican II, most nuns had kept their given names, becoming Sister Ella, or Sister Casey, or Sister Jordyn. To Angela Marie Taggart, keeping her own name seemed anathema to true Catholicism. The nuns she idolized as a little girl—with their piety, their obedience, their almost martial beauty—had taken the names of male saints, a tradition she felt bound, at least in part, to uphold. She saw her name as both a stern and a reassuring presence for the young women of the convent, not to mention the students at Annunciation Catholic School, where she taught third grade. You just didn’t question someone named Sister Benedict.
Her earliest childhood memory was of a Catholic Mass, and she knew from that moment, as a four-year-old, she would devote herself to Christ. What she didn’t understand then, and still didn’t understand now, was why she was the only one. Week after week parishioners would line the pews of St. Mary’s Church and sit reverently beneath the high stained-glass windows, standing, sitting, and kneeling when told, and opening their wallets and hearts when asked. They would smile with visceral sincerity as they said, “Peace be with you; and also with you,” to one another. If they all believed in the Lord and in his teachings, that what was in the Bible was true, that it was God, the King of Kings, the Creator of All Creation, the Master of their collective fate they were there to celebrate, how is it that they could only be bothered to worship once a week? Shouldn’t this be a full-time job?