Black Swan Rising

by Lisa Brackmann

  “You think it’s a ratfuck?” Ben asked. A little too eager. Sarah was starting to notice that about him now, that maybe he wasn’t as confident as she’d first assumed.

  “I think it would be easier to vet this if we had the purview,” Jane said. “As it is … ” She sighed. “It’s the kind of thing I wish had gone to one of our surrogates.”

  “We could show it to Henry,” Angus said. “Let him run with it.”

  “The problem is, things like this always find their way back. Always. If we leak it, we’re going to have to own it.” Jane took off her reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I need to think about this.”

  “She’s not gonna use it. Not unless we’re really in a hole.”

  Sarah nodded. She understood why, or she thought she did. Still, a part of her was disappointed. A chance to have an impact, and it wasn’t going to happen. “I guess we should hold fire unless we need it,” she said. Be positive, she told herself. Show that you just want to contribute.

  “Yeah. Hopefully, we won’t.” Ben drained the last of his saison. “Latino vote projections are way up as it is. Tegan’s not popular with that community when they find out some of her positions, and Tomás is out there busting his ass making sure they do.”

  Sarah sipped her IPA. She’d drunk one to Ben’s two, and the remains were getting warm.

  “You want another beer?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  She’d surprised herself, agreeing to go out for a beer with Ben after work. The meeting in Jane’s office had left her both drained and on edge. She’d thought about going to the gym, working out. That always helped. But when Ben asked if she wanted to go to the brewery down the block, she’d hesitated and then said, “Sure. Thanks for asking.”

  Maybe talking to him would be good. Maybe he’d have something else to say about the video, something he wouldn’t say in front of Jane.

  And maybe it’s better that they don’t use it, she thought. There’s no way I can get into trouble if they don’t use it.

  “It’s too bad though,” Ben said after he returned with the beers. “I could just see the commercial.” He spread his hands and made expansive finger quotes. “‘Too extreme for this district. Too extreme for San Diego.’”

  “What if we found out where it was from?”

  Ben shrugged. “It would help, but I don’t see how we can.”

  “If he calls again, I’ll ask.”

  “What makes you think he’ll call again?”

  Ben stared at her across his beer. Was he suspicious? She felt herself flush.

  “I don’t know, I mean … he said he wanted to help. Maybe he has other information.”

  “If he does, let me talk to him. I’ll see if I can pin him down.”

  He won’t talk to you, she wanted to say. But of course she couldn’t say that.

  Her car wouldn’t start, and Ben’s jumper cables didn’t work.

  They’d walked back to the headquarters’ parking lot just after nine p.m. She’d thanked him for the beer and said goodnight, already looking forward to home and the local news.

  Instead, the ignition clicked.

  Ben rocked back on his heels. “Shit. Sorry. Must be something other than the battery. Or the battery’s just totally dead.”

  “I guess.” Her Hyundai wasn’t new but it wasn’t old either—less than five years.

  “Want me to drop you home? So you can deal with it tomorrow?”

  Her heart started pounding. She could feel the beat in her throat. “That’s okay. I’ll just call Auto Club. I wouldn’t feel comfortable not having my car.”

  He shrugged a little. “Yeah, but if they can’t start it, then you’ve just wasted the time. It’s not like you can tow it anyplace tonight.”

  She hesitated. But he was right, she knew. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Still, she wished she’d just told him to leave, taken her chances with the tow truck. This area was deserted this time of night, but it didn’t feel dangerous. Just empty.

  It wasn’t just the ones you didn’t know that you had to worry about.

  “Cool little area,” Ben said. “I didn’t know this was here.”

  Her neighborhood was tucked away off the steep slope section of Clairemont Drive that led down to Mission Bay and the freeway—a series of hills and canyons, cul-de-sacs and dead-ends, quiet and easy to miss. She liked that.

  “Oh? Where do you live?”

  “Not in the district. I’m in Normal Heights.”

  “Oh. I guess that’s … probably more interesting than here.”

  Normal Heights was an older area of San Diego, near Kensington and North Park, with a lot of restaurants and an art house theater close by.

  “There’s more stuff to walk to there. That’s the big problem with Clairemont and Kearny Mesa. They were designed for cars. It’s hard to walk anywhere. I really like being able to walk to places.”

  His voice sounded tight. Nervous.

  “Turn right here, then left. I’m on the left in two blocks.”

  The street where she lived had a few small apartment buildings and single-family homes that hadn’t been updated and looked comfortably run-down. You didn’t hear the freeway noise so much up here. Hardly any traffic. Just birdsong, blowing leaves, and the occasional helicopter.

  “That’s me.” She pointed at one of the apartment buildings on the left, a row of cubes with wood slat and stucco facades, done in various shades of cream, beige, and tan.

  Ben pulled his Corolla into the driveway, backed out, turned, and nudged the tires into the curb. “I can swing by and pick you up in the morning.”

  “That’s okay, I can take a Lyft. This is out of your way.”

  “It’s just a few minutes.” He stared at her for a moment, and she thought, You’re not going to, are you?

  They were too close together. She could feel the heat radiating from him.

  “If you change your mind, give me a call,” Ben said. He sounded normal now. Maybe she’d been imagining things.

  “Thanks,” she said, opening the car door. “Thanks for the ride.”

  There was an email from her mother. Except that it wasn’t.

  Just checking in, the subject line said.

  Hey beth, how’s it going? You still like taking it up the ass? You still like it when they cum all over your pig face? Someone should milk those cow tits of yours you fat stupid cunt

  She slammed the lid of her laptop shut, breathing hard.

  After the first email, she’d switched to white-listing incoming mail. Only addresses she approved were supposed to get in.

  How were they doing this? If they could spoof her mom’s email address … did they have other email addresses? From her relatives? Her friends?

  “Shit!” She grabbed her laptop, shook it, raised it up to throw it across the room.

  But you can’t do that, she told herself. You need it.

  She stood there, trembling with rage. Waited for the anger to drain out of her, then gently put the laptop down on the coffee table. It needed to last.

  I can’t stand up any more, she thought. I’m going to pass out.

  The couch. Right behind her. Her hand felt for the seat. She crawled onto it. Kicked off her shoes and pulled the afghan her aunt had knitted for her up over her hips.

  Stop it, she thought. Just stop it.

  She took a Lyft and got to work early the next morning. Called Auto Club. “Yeah, you need a new battery,” the tow truck driver said an hour later. “We can have one delivered.”

  She couldn’t decide what to do about her email account. There hadn’t been any more of those emails yet, but there would be. There always were.

  Change her account again? Have her mother write to her from a different address?


  “You get your car going?” Ben asked. He’d paused by her desk on the way back from the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand.

  “Yep, all fixed.” She took a moment to meet Ben’s eyes. He really had been nice last night. He got intense sometimes, but she was starting to think that it wasn’t because of her, it was just how he was. “Thanks again for the ride.”

  “Not a problem. How’s the website update going?”

  Now he was all business.

  “Good. Just waiting for some language on the environment page.”

  “Still?” Ben chuffed. “I’ll nudge Presley. With all he’s getting paid, he could try not dicking around on shit like this. It’s not like we really need him to do it.”

  She watched his stiff, retreating back head over to Jane’s office. Not in a good mood. Had something happened?

  Her phone rang—Communications’ low trilling ringtone.

  “Communications, Sarah speaking.”

  “Sarah. How are you this morning?”

  She recognized him immediately. Wyatt Gray.

  “Hi, Mr. Gray. I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Now, I know we agreed on Mr. Gray, but I really wish you’d call me Wyatt, so we’re on the same level. This feels like I’m your teacher or something. I’m not calling you Ms. Price, am I?”

  Had she told him her last name? She couldn’t remember. “I’m okay with that,” she said.

  “Since you asked, I’m doing well,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  It was. The usual June Gloom had burned off early; it was sunny but not hot, the air gentle, the sky a muted blue.

  “So you’re in San Diego?”

  “I do a lot of traveling.”

  Which wasn’t an answer.

  “What did you think of the video?”

  “It was … definitely interesting.”

  “Useful?”

  She hesitated. Don’t tell him anything, she thought, the voice in her head so clear that she felt like she’d said it aloud.

  But … if there was some way they could use the video …

  “It would help if we knew where it came from.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  Silence on the line.

  “It was a private event,” he finally said. “That’s why your tracker wasn’t on it. And that’s really all I can tell you. You don’t expect me to burn my source now, do you?”

  “No,” she said. “Of course not.”

  So he hadn’t been the one to record it?

  “But I understand your position,” he said. “You’re careful. That’s the sign of a smart campaign.”

  Was there anything she could say to that?

  “We’re trying to stick to the issues.”

  He laughed. “Right. Well, I’ll keep an eye out for something you can use. You have a great day, okay?”

  She did a little online digging after they hung up.

  A private event. She watched the video again. With that expanse of lawn and ocean view, if this was somebody’s home, then it was somebody very rich. The event, whatever it was, looked fancy.

  Something the newspaper society pages might cover?

  She found it in the Union Tribune: a private party/fundraiser for a local cancer research center that had been held at a hotel overlooking the ocean. She scrolled through the photo gallery until she found the proof: a photo of Kimberly Tegan, wearing the same butter yellow outfit she’d had on in the video, smiling broadly for the camera, showing her bleached teeth.

  Now what?

  8

  PHOENIX (AP)—A gunman with alleged radical Islamist leanings and armed with an AR-15-style assault rifle stormed a Phoenix movie theater Friday evening in an attack that left 13 dead and scores more wounded, before he was shot and killed by police SWAT teams.

  Excerpt from Rep. Matt Cason’s statement on the House Floor, News 9 San Diego:

  “Islamist terrorism must be met with a firm response both at home and abroad. At home we need to make sure that our law enforcement agencies have the tools they need to identify the radicals in our midst. That includes building good, cooperative relationships with the communities from which these terrorists can come. It also should include closing loopholes in firearms regulations that make it far too easy for killers such as this to get their hands on military-style weapons and massive quantities of ammunition without any questions being asked, even of those on terrorist watch lists. We should also keep in mind that the worst act of mass violence in the history of my district was committed by a young white man with no discernable religious motive.”

  Statement by Kimberly Tegan, candidate for Congress, 54th District, News 9 San Diego:

  “My first priority as your Congresswoman will be to keep our country safe from the scourge of radical Islam. We will strengthen our immigration laws to keep Muslim terrorists out of our country. And we will fight the terrorists where they live, so we do not have to fight them where we live. There’s no room for jihad in America.”

  News 9 San Diego comment section:

  Tom P: The liberals will try to use this to confiscate guns. More gun-free zones, that works so well! Idiots. I have the right to defend myself and my family.

  Dennis Z: What do you expect? We should turn in local jihadists and redeem a reward for their disposal. Do what they do in Isreal, bulldoze a mosque every time they kill a Christian.

  Mary A: Pray for the victims. This is a Christian nation! Our country is flooded with Muslims. Soon we will all live under Sharia law if this keeps up!

  If there was anyone Casey had to interview for this series, it was Helen Scott.

  The mother of Alan Jay Chastain, the man who’d shot her.

  “I thought the idea was to focus on the victims,” Rose said.

  “Well, she’s a victim too, right?”

  Casey was pretty sure that Rose wasn’t exactly buying that explanation. When she was being honest with herself, she had to admit that she didn’t think of Helen Scott as a victim the same way that Mario Villa was a victim, or Darlene Fields, or Tamara Johns, or herself, for that matter.

  Helen Scott hadn’t been shot.

  But she’d suffered the loss of a family member, hadn’t she?

  Close enough, Casey thought. Helen Scott was a compelling get, and that was what really mattered. She hadn’t talked to anybody since her initial statement after the killings.

  If she could pull this off …

  Hello, local Emmy!

  Rose took the last sip of her coffee.

  “Can I get you a refill?” Casey asked.

  “I’ll get it.”

  Rose straightened up and hopped off the couch. She tended to move in bursts, Casey had noticed. She was a little chubby and wore her dyed black hair in subtle spikes, her clothes businesslike but on the edge, favoring saddle shoes and hoop earrings in double-pierced lobes. Not a person with ambitions of going on the air; Casey had once glimpsed an elaborate tattoo peeking out below her short sleeve one hot day during the afternoon meeting. Rose was shooting for assignment editor, executive producer, maybe news director at some point, Casey figured.

  She brought over the carafe and freshened Casey’s coffee.

  “Thanks for coming over, by the way,” Casey said. “Not being able to drive myself yet, it just makes things a lot easier.”

  “Not a problem. Your coffee’s a lot better than the station swill.”

  She did make good coffee. Quality beans, burr grinder, in a Chemex, poured into a Thermos.

  “You might as well enjoy the little things,” Casey said.

  Rose sat down. She didn’t pay attention to how she sat, Casey noticed, just flopped on the couch. Funny, Casey thought. She’d long had to pay attention to such things. How she sat. How she moved. What her hair looked like. God, it was tiring. Such a performance.r />
  “We’ll have to run it by Legal.”

  “Legal? Why?”

  “Because you’re involved with Helen Scott. What if you decide to sue her?”

  “How could I sue her? For what?”

  “I don’t know, say she’d supplied her son with the rifle.”

  “But she didn’t,” Casey said. “He bought it himself.”

  “But she could have encouraged him in some other way. Maybe she fed him hate literature. Maybe she encouraged him to be violent.”

  “There’s no evidence of any of that. It’s not like that kid who shot up a school with the AR-15 his mom bought him. She just … she gave birth to him.”

  Casey tried to picture it. Thought about what it was like, growing a baby in your womb, pushing him out of your body, raising the kid, cultivating him …

  There was an expression for that in Mandarin, peiyang haizi. Raise your child with good habits, with some culture.

  Maybe Alan Jay Chastain hadn’t been raised with any of that.

  “I’ll tell her I don’t want to sue her, I just want to talk to her. I’ll tell her she’s not liable for what happened to me, and I’ll sign paperwork stating that. Give her a little peace of mind.” Casey felt herself smiling. “An interview would be a small price to pay for that.”

  “Don’t even think about making this a quid pro quo,” Rose said sharply.

  “Just a joke.”

  She’d meant it as a joke. Hadn’t she?

  Rose was staring at her. “So how do you want to approach this?”

  “I’ll call her myself. If she doesn’t answer, I’ll lay it out in an email, and after that, I’ll knock on her door.”

  Rose opened her palms in lieu of a shrug, all the while shaking her head. “Why do you think she’ll talk to you? She isn’t talking to anybody, and you’re not exactly going to make her feel comfortable.”

  “I can make her feel guilty,” Casey said. It made her feel a little warm, a little happy, to say it. “And I’m kind of famous now. I can flatter her. People like her, at some point they’re going to want to tell their story.”

  “People like her?” Rose scribbled a few notes in her Moleskine. “When you say that, who do you think she is?”