Chapter 7- Stop #2
“Moved on so soon I see,” she commented. Her followers jumped on the bandwagon and clicks and views soared.
“Well, we have what she wanted, Mr. Turnbull,” Helen said to Donovan as he walked over to look at the screen.
“So, we do,” he replied, watching the hateful people dogpile onto her comments. The rage was building in him and Helen watched him for a moment. They were about to create a villain who would consider himself a trumpeter for justice for every man, but she was seeing something else.
The Cranberry wasn't sure if she liked it one iota.
****
QUIETLY, TIFFANY ENTERED the kitchen with a notepad in her hand and two sheets of paper with codes written on each sheet. Helen didn't know what any of it meant. Sour Grapes called Donovan over to where Helen sat.
“How are we doing, Cranberry?”
“We are exactly where you need us to be. The target has responded, the followers are dog piling on, and the views have made it go viral in less than two hours,” Helen said. “Next steps?”
Tiffany watched the screen. “I will teach once, and then you two will work independently,” she explained.
For Cranberry, she had Helen follow her to a closet where she removed two twenty-four-inch monitors. She removed a nineteen-inch monitor and passed it to Donovan. She removed two keyboards, passing them out like they were about to head out on a hacking assignment for junior internet geeks.
“Cranberry, I'm sorry to do this, but your workstation will be your bedroom,” she said.
“To keep order and routine for Bella, to see such a setup in the primary living space.
..well, we don't want anything to disturb her routine. Mr. Donovan, there is a space in the basement my father used for a home office. It is warm and has a gas fireplace, and you will be comfortable there while we sort this matter.”
“Basement, okay,” he said, looking about the space. Helen set the monitors by the chair where she was currently seated. Tiffany hovered over her.
“First thing we want to do is look at the commenters under the stalker,” Tiffany said. “We want to identify the most vociferous, then the ones without an avatar. Those, we target first.”
Helen pointed at the screen, “Like this one, Jule336798? No image, just a grey spot. Is this a bot?”
“Right click on it to see the code,” Tiffany said, “Right there where it says inspect. That's what you want to see. Search the code, and if you see...that! Right there. This is a bot.”
Wide eyes stared at the screen. Helen asked, “What do we do now?”
“We feed it to my locusts,” Tiffany said. “However, first we need to go dark. We can enter the dark web through Tor or Ahmia, so let's do that first. Then go back into the account, find the bot again, then enter this into the source code.”
“What does your locust do?” Donovan asked.
“The same thing locusts do in the real world. It will graze and devour until it can find no other food source then hibernate until the eating is good once more,” Tiffany explained.
“This afternoon, the role for the two of you is to allow my locusts to eat the bots she's created. Mr. Turnbull, set yourself up in the basement to get started. Go back to your old postings, look for patterns. Identify the patterns and speech modulations in the postings and tackle those. Cranberry, work from your room, keep an eye on the current posts. Feed my locusts.”
“On it,” Helen said.
“Dinner is at five; be washed and cleaned up and ready to eat,” Tiffany said. “Any questions?”
“No,” they both said, gathering their toys and preparing to head to their rooms.
Donovan asked Helen, “Do you want my number on this phone?”
Her facial expression asked him in unamused black woman why would she need such a thing?
He smiled at the understanding of the non-spoken question.
“If you have a question or if I have a question, I am not authorized to climb the stairs to the sleeping quarters. You know, me knocking at your bedroom door would be unacceptable by both our standards. So, calling me, or me calling you, would be easier from our assigned work locations.”
“I guess that's logical,” she told him, using the newly activated phone to provide her number. Helen called his burner; he nodded when he got the number. “Mr. Turnbull, a wise man once told me the demon you feed is the one that stays with you.”
“I don't know what that means,” Donovan said.
“The peace you seek comes from a purpose; that’s what he told me.
Vengeance is not a purpose. Her vengeance is what got you where you are.
Retribution will only ease the pain, but the suffering comes from an inability to process the damage, acknowledge it has occurred, and find a means to move forward,” Helen told him.
“Yes, it feels good to give that bitch a bit of her own medicine but think about which demon you're feeding, Mr. Turnbull.”
“I'm feeding the one that is hungry,” he said, watching the woman. He wasn't sure what her role or thing was, but the way she looked at it made him all sorts of uncomfortable.
“There are many kinds of hunger, Mr. Turnbull.
Loneliness is the biggest appetite that is often overlooked, patronized and compromised to handle the feelings of aloneness.
Just as you shouldn't feed the wrong demon, you can't fill your belly with sweets to satisfy the sweet tooth; yes, the craving abates, but feeding the desire won't prevent tooth decay.”
Donovan squinted his eyes as he watched her. “Are you attempting to read me, Cranberry? Is that your handle?”
“You are easy to read, Mr. Turnbull. I am simply hoping at the end of this, you prove me wrong,” she said. “I'm heading up.”
Donovan Turnbull watched the black woman carry one box up the stairs.
The gentleman in him wanted to grab the other monitor to help, but he hesitated, then thought better of it.
He carried it to the top of the stairs and waited for Helen to return.
The monitor was passed to her along with the laptop she’d left behind.
He gave a nod of his head and made his way to the freezing cold basement.
He located the office space, which really was a cool man cave with a bed.
It took less than a minute to fire up the fireplace, and the room began to warm.
Yesterday, the black woman had soaked his feet in warm water to ease the pain of the frostbite.
After going out twice today, the toes ached a bit, but as soon as the room warmed, he would take off his boots.
He made another trip to the upstairs living space to retrieve his suitcase.
To his surprise, the basement had warmed considerably once he returned, and he discovered a mini fridge loaded with man drinks and a downstairs bathroom.
“Shoot, at this rate, I may not want to leave,” he said, eyeballing the shower. He needed a hot one and went to the bathroom. In the bathroom, he discovered the sauna. “Her father was a boss!”
Twenty minutes later, feeling like a new man with a new focus, he opened the monitor and set it up on the desk in the toasty living man space. He placed the laptop on the desk and connected it to the monitor. He didn't need a light ring but used the light on the new phone she'd given him.
Oddly, he went to his Instagram and logged in. Donovan went live, the fire roaring in the background, his hair damp, and leaning back in the Eames chair. “Life feels different when the woman you searched for sees you, feels you, and understands you. I feel like new money.”
He winked and logged off.