Three Months Before the Demonstration
It wasn’t a tough job, once she made up her mind. She’d always been “a smart cookie” as her father had told her. And resourceful; she’d had to be. Her family didn’t have money like Dena’s. They didn’t parade around pretending they were royalty. Ruth’s father worked for the gas company and her mother was a salesgirl at Goldblatt’s. It took plenty of midnight shifts and overtime to cobble together enough for a tiny ranch house in Bolingbrook. Ruth decided to become a teacher, figuring that would take her far away from Bolingbrook.
It wasn’t far enough. The cost of living kept going up. Her salary didn’t. She worked harder, taking on a second job tutoring private school brats on the North Shore who didn’t understand algebra and didn’t give a damn. As long as they got into the Ivy League school their parents went to. Ruth was offended by their attitude—not that they didn’t understand math, but that they didn’t see its precision, beauty, and genius once they did. They just didn’t care.
After the election she went through what she learned later were the stages of grief encountered when a loved one dies. Denial, check. Her family were Chicago blue-collar union Democrats who worked hard and expected a fair deal in return. She refused to believe the election had been stolen from under them. Then again, no one else did either.
Anger came next, and there was plenty of that. That’s when she joined ResistanceUSA, vowing to kick that cretin out of the Oval Office. Forty thousand outraged people could be a powerful force.
Bargaining and depression followed. She’d had to make concessions. The leader of the group, Dena Baldwin, could have been one of the entitled North Shore brats she tutored. Except she did care, and she demonstrated it every day. Ruth had to concede that, on the whole, Dena was doing a pretty good job heading up the group. If Ruth wanted to rise through the ranks, she’d have to work harder. Do the tedious, routine tasks no one else wanted. She could do that. She was used to working hard.
Over time she became Dena’s second-in-command, her aide-de-camp. But Ruth had her own ideas about how the group should be run, and it was difficult to remain second-best. She knew she could do a better job. But Dena had the final say.
Acceptance, the fifth stage of grief? Ruth wasn’t there yet, and she wasn’t sure she would be. Because now it was becoming untenable. Not politically. The Resistance was having an effect. The new administration was doing everything wrong, there were dozens of investigations, and the drumroll of opposition, of which they were a part, was growing larger and louder. Eventually—no one knew how long; that was the infuriating thing—he would be indicted or impeached and thrown out.
What was untenable was Dena. She’d started to make rash decisions. She was launching into virtual affairs with group members who weren’t vetted. Like Willie Remson and who knew who else. She was stumbling into vet bars wasted and making a fool of herself. Ruth wanted to feel pity for Curt Dixon—he was in love with Dena despite her roving eye—but she couldn’t. A submissive guy, he’d been seduced by her charm and charisma. Dena was using him, just like she used Ruth and everyone else with whom she came into contact.
In fact, Dena’s behavior was becoming dangerous. Ruth recalled how she’d had to drag Dena out of that military bar, the Barracks. If she hadn’t acted when she did, Dena might still be recovering from a shiner, maybe a couple of broken bones. And the demonstration they were planning? Ruth was doing the work, but Dena was taking the credit.
Acceptance? No way.
Dena knew it, too. Their relationship had become fraught. Quick-tempered and judgmental, they started to snap at each other. Ruth wasn’t perfect by any means; why should she care whom Dena flirted or slept with? Still, it rankled. Dena chose lovers with the carelessness of a hurried shopper choosing fruit in the supermarket. The only criterion was that they were anti-administration.
But then to have that right-wing vet go all goggle-eyed over her too? It was too much. Ruth couldn’t take any more. But she was smart enough to realize that if she felt that way about Dena, Dena probably felt the same about her. Dena had the power. She could kick Ruth out of the group anytime she wanted. Like the way she made Remson disappear when she was finished with him.
That wasn’t going to happen to Ruth. She started to formulate a plan, mulling it over that fall when she wasn’t teaching or organizing or placating Dena. Ironically, it was Dena who sparked the idea. The incident at the vet bar turned out to be a catalyst, and Ruth decided to explore it. She bought a sexy top, changed her hair, put on makeup, and went back to the Barracks. Several times. Which was where she met Jarvis and Beef Jerky and his followers. It was a tough slog; she was still trying to perfect the plan. But then God intervened when Beef Jerky revealed his Perfect Kill video game.
It just might work. Of course, she made a few modifications. It had to look like the act of a right-wing nutcase. A domestic terrorist acting alone. The catch was that the shooter couldn’t survive. That was key. Afterward, Ruth would publicly dedicate herself to avenging Dena’s killer.
She’d have to be careful to cover her tracks. She needed to rig an IED to a timer or a tripwire to destroy the evidence and make it look like Jarvis took his own life. She started to research the mechanics of doing that at the library on the library’s computers, rather than her own. She quickly realized the research would involve a trip down to the hotel to check out the roof, and she’d probably need to take Jarvis with her. How could she do that without being spotted or remembered for making such an unusual request? She came up with a solution.
No matter how careful she was, she knew she would be one of the suspects. She wasn’t family, but she was considered to be Dena’s closest friend. To deflect suspicion from herself, she came to an unpleasant conclusion. Distasteful as it was, she had to make herself a victim of the attack.