Kitty took over. “Then Nicole and Scott started meeting outside the bar. I would ask him where they went and what they did, but he told me it was none of my business. Fine, I thought. He’s right. But then he started talking about leaving Chicago. Just like he did when he first came home. ‘Living off the grid’ is what he kept saying. Maybe even up here.” She waved a hand to indicate Sand Lake, the cabin, everything. “To be honest, I was relieved. Meanwhile, Purdy and I got—um—close, and we were starting to think the same thing.”
Georgia jumped in. “And so you bought him the yurt as an incentive to get him—maybe all of you—out of Chicago.”
“I didn’t buy it.”
“But Betsy Start called me about a yurt delivered after you left. I saw it. And when I checked I found out a woman bought it with him.”
“Exactly. A couple of weeks after he died, I got the papers for a yurt with a note that said, ‘Thanks for buying at Camping Unlimited. I know you and your wife were in a hurry, but there are lots of options you can add on to make it even more homey. Please call us if you need anything.’ Except that ‘wife’ wasn’t me.”
Georgia frowned. “Nicole?”
“Had to be.”
“What’s her last name?”
“She told me once. I think it was Harris or something. But it wasn’t on the receipt for the yurt.”
Georgia raised her eyebrows. “You looked.”
“Scott was my brother. The only family I have—had—left.”
“Got it.” Georgia stood and rubbed her hands together. The icehouse might be tolerable, but spending time in one wasn’t on her bucket list. Yet the trip north had been well worth it. The case was coming together.
There was just one more thing. “You sent Erica Baldwin the email, didn’t you?” She looked at Purdy. “Because you knew how to delete the account.”
Kitty and Purdy exchanged another glance.
“As a warning,” Georgia added.
Kitty swallowed. “I was freaked-out after Scott died. Because of what you said. It played out exactly the way Beef Jerky described the Perfect Kill. Except that Scott wasn’t supposed to die.”
“And you think Beef Jerky had nothing to do with it?” Georgia said in her skeptical voice.
“I didn’t know for sure. And I didn’t much care. I took time off. It was when I was ready to go back to work that I heard about Jerky’s OD. Something didn’t add up. The fact that he was selling dope for years, and all of a sudden he ODs? It was . . . what do you say . . . quite a coincidence.”
“Too much of one.”
“Right. Plus the FBI was putting heat on me even though I didn’t have any answers. I freaked out.”
“So you ran. And then sent Erica the email.”
She nodded. “It was the only thing I could think of that might help. I didn’t know if it would change anything, but I just wanted people to know Scott wouldn’t have killed himself like that. He had a plan. He was looking forward to it. And . . . ” She swallowed. “I know he shot that girl, but he wasn’t the villain they made him out to be.”
“You think he was on a mission. Carrying out someone else’s orders.”
“Exactly.”
“I understand.” She stuck out her hand. “Hey, thanks for talking to me. You’ve been a tremendous help.” She paused. “Even though you were damn hard to find.”
“But you did.” Kitty smiled. “Which means you must be damn good at your job.”
“I need to get back to Chicago. I have a lot of work to do.”
Kitty pulled her jacket close around her. “Look. There’s something else.”
Georgia tipped her head to the side. “More?”
“Something kept nagging me after Scott met Nicole. But I couldn’t figure it out until we got up here and I was thinking straight again.”
“What’s that?”
“I always thought Nicole looked familiar. I couldn’t place her. Then all of a sudden it came to me. About six months ago this girl came into the bar with a friend. The girl was pretty. And sexy. I could tell Scott was interested. But she was wasted, and she started throwing shade at Scott and Jerky and the rest of the boys. In fact, she was cruel. She humiliated Scott for being in the military. Said he wasted his time fighting for a fascist country.”
A queasy feeling start to roil Georgia’s gut.
Kitty confirmed it. “It was the girl who was killed. And the friend with her? Who came back to the bar two months later? That was Nicole.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The Present
By the time Georgia’s cell service returned, there were two calls from Vanna and one from Jimmy. They were all now at Children’s, waiting for the spinal tap. She called Jimmy.
“What’s the prognosis?”
“They can’t be sure it’s not meningitis without doing the spinal.”
“Oh God. Poor Charlie. Poor Vanna.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Heading back to the Duluth airport. The last flight out leaves tonight around nine. I’ll be on it.”
“How was the trip?”
“I found her.”
“The sister.”
“We talked. I have a lot of work to do. But it’s all good. I know a lot more now.”
“You are relentless, you know that?”
She smiled. “Hey, I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Have you ever been ice fishing? Like on Lake Geneva?”
“Not on your life. My family’s Greek, not Nordic.”
“Wonderful. Let’s keep it that way.”
• • •
During the flight back to Midway, Georgia pieced together what she’d learned. Ruth had met Jarvis. As Nicole, she had wormed her way into his life in a casual but persistent fashion. That was something Dena herself might have done, Georgia mused. But not as subtly as Ruth. Ruth had gone out of her way to groom him, by trying to fit in with his friends, offering him comfort and support, and above all, buying him a yurt, which likely depleted her savings, all with the promise of a life away from it all. Was she planning to join him? And if she was, why hadn’t they gone off into the sunset together once the yurt was delivered? Was she waiting for him to kill Dena? If so, how did she convince him to do it?
Then there was the shooting itself. If Ruth/Nicole had persuaded him to shoot Dena, something must have gone wrong. Ruth had been wounded, and Jarvis himself killed. Why? Had Jarvis changed his mind at the last minute? Did he realize Ruth/Nicole was using him and tried to kill her too? Or was there some other possibility? She had the bones of the case, but she was still missing the flesh.
Chapter Sixty
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.
Chapter Sixty-One
Dim lighting muted the brightly painted butterflies and clouds in the lobby of Children’s Hospital in downtown Chicago. Recently relocated and entirely reconstructed, the hospital was now the Ann and Robert H. Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago, but everyone still called it Children’s. Whatever its name, it remained the best hospital, perhaps in the country, but certainly in the Midwest, for sick children. It was after eleven when Georgia raced past the entrance to the emergency care unit, where, again, a display of giant colorful sculptures of underwater corals—although one of them looked like carrots to Georgia—had been positioned.
When she arrived at the infant care center, the night shift was in high gear. The overhead corridor lights were off, but sconces on the walls gave out a muted gold light. Nurses in blue scrubs swished down the hall in hushed tones, but Georgia could still hear one or two children wailing. She hoped Charlie wasn’t one of them. With her heart on her sleeve, she asked one of the nurses where Charlie’s room was. The nurse pointed to the end of the hall, where, through an open door, she saw Vanna, Jimmy, and JoBeth, all with face masks, leaning over a cradle.
Georgia took a face mask from a dispenser near the door and tiptoed in. When Vanna saw her, her relief was palpable, and she fell into Georgia’s arms. Georgia put her arms around her sister and whispered, “You are such a brave mama; I know he’s going to be okay.”
Vanna’s eyes filled. She hugged her sister back.
Jimmy’s eyes softened and he went to them, spreading his arms around both women. The three of them stood for a moment, hugging one another.
“Is he asleep?” Georgia whispered.
“Off and on,” Vanna said.
“The spinal tap?”
“Still waiting.”
“All day?”
“They did a bunch of other tests first. They still don’t know. They let me feed him, though.”
Georgia peeked into the cradle. Charlie was clothed only in a diaper. His face was red, and the whole of his little body flushed. She straightened up and looked into the eyes of her mother. JoBeth met her gaze with one of the saddest expressions Georgia had ever seen. She dipped her head toward her mother. JoBeth returned it then looked back at Charlie. Georgia saw a tear in her mother’s eye.
Ten minutes later a nurse came in. “We’re just about ready. It won’t be long.”
“Can we stay with him?”
The nurse looked at them all in turn. “Only the mother.”
“That’s her.” Georgia pointed to Vanna.
But Vanna shook her head. “Please, can my sister come too?”
The nurse hesitated, then nodded. “But you can’t get closer than about six feet. And you need to wear gloves and masks. Let’s move him to the procedure room, okay? The doctor is already there.”
“Have you met him before?” Georgia asked Vanna.
“Her, and yes,” Vanna replied.
“Well, let’s go,” Georgia said. “Wish us luck.”
Jimmy kissed Georgia, then Vanna on the cheek. “I’ll stay with JoBeth.”
The nurse released a brake on Charlie’s cradle and wheeled him out of the room.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Georgia and Vanna followed the nurse and Charlie into what could have been an operating room but was nighttime dim. Georgia could just make out cartoonish animals on the walls. The animals were doing all sorts of cute things: a giraffe munched tree leaves, a cat licked her paw, and a monkey was caug
ht in mid-jump from a branch.
Charlie stirred. Vanna leaned down to coo and brush his forehead. He seemed irritable and cranky and started to fuss. Vanna looked pleadingly at the nurse. “Can I pick him up?”
The nurse shook her head. “It’s better if we handle him from here.”
Vanna swallowed, stepped back, and grabbed Georgia’s arm.
The doctor came in and gave them a warm smile. “Hello. Sorry for the delay. I’m Dr. Kumar. We’ve just been so busy today. And we had to rule out other things. But we’re ready to proceed now.” She glanced at both women. “Which one of you is the mother?”
“I am,” Vanna said.
“This isn’t going to be easy, sweetheart. He’s going to cry. A lot. Do you think you can handle being here? It’s understandable if you can’t. A lot of mothers end up stepping out.”
Georgia couldn’t see past Vanna’s mask, but she knew her sister was wavering. She draped her arm around Vanna’s shoulders. But she also knew Vanna wanted—no, needed—to be near her baby. “I’m her sister. If she has a problem, I’ll handle it.”
The doctor seemed satisfied. She went to a sink in a corner of the room, washed her hands thoroughly, and slipped on her own mask and gloves. Then she nodded to the nurses in similar garb. They lifted Charlie out of the cradle and moved him to the table, all with loving murmurs and support. But Charlie didn’t like it and started to cry.
Vanna stiffened. Georgia tightened her hold on her sister.
The doctor inspected a plastic tray on which a number of instruments and vials had been placed. “First I’ll mark the incision point.” Dr. Kumar picked up a marker and made a tiny circle on Charlie’s back, about two inches from his butt crack. Charlie’s cries intensified.
Vanna seemed to be in a daze. Georgia whispered. “Hold on, sweetheart.”
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