Black Swan Rising

by Lisa Brackmann

  Better.

  He was still an asshole.

  “Why do you have to pick a fight?” he’d said.

  “You think I’m picking a fight? Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what else you’d call it.”

  “How about advice?”

  “Advice? Give me a fucking break.”

  “You’re running for office.”

  “I am so sick of this shit.”

  And he’d slammed out of the room. Driven off someplace, she didn’t know where.

  So she’d put on shorts and a T-shirt and her running shoes and set off through the neighborhood, and after a rough start was finally hitting her stride.

  When the Campaigner alert went off, she didn’t stop right away. She’d just started to feel good. Everything was flowing. And it probably wasn’t important.

  Besides, if Matt didn’t care, why should she?

  But as she ran, she kept hearing the alert in her head, the trumpet fanfare playing over and over.

  “Shit.”

  She’d half stumbled on something—a slab of pavement pushed up by a tree root. A ficus. Why did people plant those things? she thought. Didn’t they know better?

  Her steps slowed without her thinking about it. She halted and stood for a moment, slightly bent, hands on her thighs, drawing in deep breaths until she felt replenished.

  Then she unstrapped her phone from her arm and tapped on the app.

  Christ. Of course it was an alert from that girl.

  Thanks Sarah for being on top of this, Matt had written.

  Asshole.

  But as she skimmed the and tweets, it was clear that Sarah had been right to send the alert. Matt would need to respond.

  You can’t be mad at her for doing the right thing, Lindsey told herself.

  She hesitated, then hit Recommend for Sarah’s post.

  Ditto, she wrote under Matt’s reply.

  Holy fuck he really did it #MorenaShooter

  Beta uprising! #MorenaShooter

  Reeeee!!! Dank Pepes for u! #MorenaShooter

  She’d drunk most of the beer in the little growler without realizing it while watching the Twitter feed, Campaigner, and the local news.

  Haraguro93 was the Morena shooter, he had to be. You couldn’t fake that video. Or you could, but not that quickly, not while it was going on.

  “We are receiving reports that the shooter has been neutralized.”

  Neutralized. That probably meant killed.

  “Police have confirmed that the shooter is among the dead tonight, in the worst mass killing in San Diego since the San Ysidro McDonald’s massacre in 1984 … ”

  Five dead, not including the gunman. Seven wounded, some with life-threatening injuries.

  Matt sat on the couch, staring at the TV. The two anchors looked stunned, one of them tapping a stack of papers against the desk, straightening the edges for no apparent reason.

  “Among the injured is News 9’s own Casey Cheng. We’re waiting for word on her condition.”

  Was he listening to the conference call at all?

  He’d come back as soon as he’d gotten the alert, he’d told her. He hadn’t gone far. “Just went to Rubio’s for some tacos.”

  Which probably meant he’d gone to the Night Owl for a beer.

  “We cannot politicize this,” Presley was saying.

  “Nobody’s suggesting that.” Angus. He’d been pushing for a statement ever since the thing had started. A levelheaded guy for the most part, but young, Lindsey thought. Every once in a while he’d get a bug up his ass about something and dig in his heels. Something he wanted Matt to do or say that wasn’t practical. Like he believed the hype.

  “We can’t bring up gun control,” Presley said.

  “Why not? Your own polling shows a shift in public opinion.”

  “It’s too soon.”

  “It’s always too soon,” Angus snapped back.

  The way Angus sounded, Lindsey was starting to wonder if this was something personal for him.

  Well, he was black. African-Americans tended to support stricter gun control, at least according to the last polls she’d seen.

  “Anyway, I wasn’t suggesting we bring it up directly. We can make a statement about working together to find ways to prevent tragedies in the future. Is that vague enough for you?”

  “That’ll work,” Presley said. His usual, cheerfully neutral self. “Just remember, right now this is coming from Matt Cason the congressman, not Matt Cason the candidate. We reference the statement coming from the congressional office, we don’t release one of our own.”

  “Agreed.” This was Jane. Lindsey could picture her nodding slowly, not so much in agreement as it was to signal that a decision had been made.

  “Are we all on the same page?” Jane asked. “Matt?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his eyes never leaving the TV screen. “Agreed.”

  “Good. Make sure somebody pings Ben as soon as we get the press release. We should put this out on Social right away.”

  Rep. Cason Statement on Mass Shooting in San Diego

  Tonight an unspeakable tragedy has struck our city. My thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families. I want to extend my deepest gratitude to the first responders who risked their lives to come to the aid of the victims and protect our community. Make no mistake, this was an attack on our community, on our sense of safety, on the enjoyment we take in assembling and participating in the life of our city. As we learn more about the circumstances surrounding this dreadful, criminal attack, I plan to work together with my colleagues in Congress and members of our communities to find ways to prevent tragedies

  like this. America has seen far too many of them.

  The office was buzzing when Sarah arrived.

  “Jesus, I go there all the time.”

  Ben seemed genuinely shaken. He was wearing a Crooked Arrow T-shirt. “I don’t know, just to show my support,” he muttered. “They’re an awesome brewery. Their Imperial Stout medaled in the Great American Beer Cup.”

  “Oh,” Sarah said. “It’s really sad,” she added.

  “Fucking MRA gun nut.”

  “Is that who he was?” Sarah asked. The coverage she’d seen this morning didn’t have much background. Just a name: Alan Jay Chastain. Age twenty-three. Resident of Clairemont.

  “Sure looks like it from his tweets. All that shit about Chads and Stacys? Libcucks? Beta uprising?” Ben rolled his eyes.

  She knew what Chads and Stacys meant; she’d spent some time on the Urban Dictionary and Know Your Meme last night checking definitions. As far as she’d been able to determine, they were the equivalent of a jock and a cheerleader: the beautiful golden couple who were having more and better sex than you. MRA she’d already known. Men’s Rights Activists with websites that told men how to get a woman to let them do what they wanted to her.

  She knew about them.

  “Normies?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m sure there’s some mental health issues, but I’m tired of people acting like being on the spectrum and not getting laid is some kind of an excuse to be a homicidal asshole.”

  His back was turned to her as he said this.

  “So … how am I supposed to handle this on Social? I mean, what should I say about Matt’s response?”

  “Let’s look for content in Matt’s record about crime and violence, and we can totally tweet out quotes from the press release. Just be careful about anything having to do with gun control directly. They’re a little nervous about that.”

  They. The Troika? Matt? Lindsey?

  She decided not to ask.

  You couldn’t get inside if you acted too eager.

  Still, it bothered her a little, not being included. She was the one who’d al
erted everyone about the Morena shooter. She’d known it was important.

  She could be doing so much more on this campaign.

  “Also, we need to talk about how we’re going to handle the Hauser thing.”

  “Hauser? You mean, Phillip Hauser?” The front-runner opposing Matt.

  Ben turned to face her. “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  He suddenly, unexpectedly grinned. “You didn’t hear?”

  She shook her head.

  He was almost laughing now. “Oh, man. It’s too good for me to try to tell you. Just go check out today’s LA Times.”

  Sarah booted up her laptop and logged on to the office network. It didn’t take her long to find the story. It was right there, under California Politics on the left-hand side of the site’s front page.

  San Diego Businessman Target of Department of Justice Probe

  Indictments expected in bribery, money-laundering case involving Phillip Hauser, current Republican front-runner in hotly contested race to unseat incumbent Congressman Matt Cason (D).

  Sarah stared at the screen.

  “Pretty good, right?”

  There was Ben, hovering over her in that way she wished he wouldn’t.

  “This looks serious,” she said.

  “Yep.” He was still grinning. Sarah realized she was smiling too.

  “You think he’ll drop out?” she asked.

  “I don’t see how he can’t. Even if he’s not guilty … defending against something like this? The big money’s gonna run from him like cockroaches in daylight.”

  “So you think it’ll be Tegan?”

  “Has to be. She’s got an enthusiastic fan base and people willing to write checks.”

  “It’s better for us, right? For Matt to be facing her instead of Hauser?”

  “I think so. Tegan’s too extreme for this district. Plus, she’s a lightweight.” He snickered. “Have you seen her? She looks like an aging cheerleader. I can’t believe anyone takes her seriously. Best case scenario, we get a majority of independents, peel off some moderate Republicans or hope they’re so disgusted by Tegan that they just stay home.”

  “And … we turn out our base.” It was the thing you always had to say, she’d read. Because it was true every election, and you never knew if it would actually happen, especially for a midterm election like this one.

  “Yeah. We don’t do that, we’re fucked. Because the people who like Tegan? They’re motivated.”

  “So what do we say on Social?”

  The phone rang, a series of low trills: the ringtone for Communications.

  It was probably for Ben; it usually was, unless it was a random caller who somehow had gotten directed their way. But Sarah had a feeling that Ben liked it when she picked up. Like he had someone answering the phones for him.

  “You want me to get it?”

  Ben glanced at the Caller ID screen. No name, no number. “Sure, thanks.”

  She picked up. “Cason for Congress, this is Communications.”

  “Sarah. How are you doing this morning?”

  A man’s voice. Not young, not old.

  She responded automatically. Politely. “Fine, thank you.”

  “You have a chance to look at the LA Times yet?”

  The man who’d called yesterday. The one she’d figured was either crazy or punking her.

  Check the LA Times tomorrow. There’s going to be a story in it you’ll like.

  There were all kinds of ways he could have known about it. He could have been a source for the story. He might even work for the paper.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I read it.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “It was … very interesting.”

  A chuckle. “That’s one way of putting it. Your guy would’ve had a tough time against Hauser. The path’s a little easier for you now, don’t you think?”

  “I couldn’t really say. It’s not my area.”

  “You’re careful. That’s smart.”

  Ben mimed a phone at his ear and pointed to himself. A question: Should I take it?

  She shook her head and waved him off. The man had called for her, hadn’t he? She’d find out who he was, what he wanted. Then she’d have a better idea of what to do with him.

  “Just doing my job, Mister … I’m sorry, what was your name?”

  A pause. “Mr. Gray will do. Wyatt, if you want to skip the Mister. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  Not his real name? That seemed to be what he hinted at.

  “Mr. Gray. Would you mind telling me … how did you know about that story?”

  “I’m not really comfortable discussing that.”

  “Okay.” She thought for a moment. If she couldn’t find out who he was … “How about … why? Why did you call?”

  He laughed. “I like your candidate. I want to see him do well.”

  “Oh. Well. We’re grateful for your support.”

  Silence. She filled it. “Look, it’s been nice talking to you, but I … I’d better get back to work.”

  “Sure thing, Sarah. I don’t want to keep you from it.”

  “All right, then. I hope you have a great day.”

  “I’m planning on it.”

  Just as she was about to hang up, he said, “You know, I have access to a lot of information. Information that can help your guy. Would you be interested in a tip now and then?”

  “Of course,” she said, without thinking. And then thought maybe that wasn’t the smart thing to say. She had no idea who he was. It could be some kind of trick. Some kind of ratfucking from the opposition. She’d read about things like that.

  “But … I’m really not the best person for you to talk to. I do social media, mostly. I can put you through to somebody else, somebody who handles this kind of thing.”

  A pause.

  “You know, I don’t think I want to talk to anybody else. I think I’d rather talk to you. You’re a good listener.” She heard him exhale, like he’d suddenly moved closer to the receiver. “I can help you, Sarah. If I give you information, that makes you valuable. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being valuable?”

  Her heart was thudding hard in her chest. Of course she would. But she knew she shouldn’t admit it.

  “I’d like to help the campaign,” she said.

  “I promise you, you’ll be helping the campaign a lot. But you’ll need to keep this just between the two of us for now. Can I trust you to do that?”

  She nodded before she realized that he couldn’t see that. “I … yes. I guess that would be okay.”

  “Good. I’ll give you a call in a couple of weeks, after the June primary. I should have something for you by then.”

  “That sounds great,” she said. “Looking forward to it.”

  “Me too, Sarah. Me too. Just remember, this is between us. Okay?”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  “Good. We’ll talk soon.”

  After he hung up, she sat there, staring at the poster of the baseball player, not ready to look at her computer, not ready to do anything, her heart still pounding, her gut feeling like she was perched at the top of a roller coaster, just beginning the plunge. She wasn’t sure how much of what she was feeling was excitement and how much was dread. Because depending on who this guy was, what he really wanted …

  She might have found a way to get noticed. To be valuable, like he said.

  Or she might have made a deal with someone who was out to sabotage the campaign.

  And getting noticed … getting noticed meant being exposed.

  If the campaign found out who she was, who she’d been …

  She hadn’t done anything wrong, but she knew that didn’t matter. She’d be a controversy. An embarrassment. An unnecessary distract
ion. No campaign wanted those.

  And if those assholes who’d ruined her old life found out about her new one …

  They won’t, she told herself. She was behind the scenes, where it was safe.

  He calls, he offers information, you can check it out and then decide what to do.

  She wasn’t going to get in trouble for this. As long as she was careful.

  4

  THEATER SHOOTER HAD HISTORY

  OF ERRATIC BEHAVIOR,

  ANTI-GOVERNMENT SENTIMENTS

  WICHITA, Kan. (AP)—“We may never know his exact motive,” police chief says.

  Not everyone was surprised when John Reynolds, 52, walked into a crowded theater lobby and opened fire, killing three women and one man.

  “Not that I figured he’d do exactly what he did,” says former neighbor Rory Murphy. “But that he’d do something, it doesn’t shock me. He was an uncomfortable guy.”

  “‘We may never know his exact motive’?” Ben laughed. He sat at the next desk over, reading the article on his iPad. “Jesus. Extremist literature at his house, a history of violence, especially towards women, and the theater he shoots up is running See You Next Tuesday, The Musical? Who are they fucking kidding?”

  Sarah looked up. Ben stared at her, like he expected something. Maybe a response?

  “Yeah. It’s pretty laughable. It’s not like anyone really cares.”

  “What?”

  She must have mumbled it. She did that sometimes when she wanted to say something but was afraid to say it.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just … it keeps happening, right? And everyone says the same thing, every time.” She shrugged. She’d run out of words to say.

  “Some people care,” Ben said. He was still staring at her, his eyes big and liquid, like he was on the verge of tears.

  What the fuck did he want, anyway?

  “Hey, listen up.” Angus had entered the bull pen. He clapped his hands. “Oppo’s Tegan compilation video is ready. You could all watch on your own, but there’s a few things everybody needs to be on the same page about.”

  “Everybody” meant Angus, Jane, Tomás the field director, Sylvia the constituent coordinator, John the tracker, and Ben and Sarah.