Black Swan Rising

by Lisa Brackmann

  Don’t you dare, she thought.

  “I want this story to mean something,” she said.

  “I hear you. I’ll see what we can do.”

  God, I sounded utterly unhinged, Casey thought. It’s just a story on a local news show. She wasn’t going to change the world with it. She wasn’t going to make much of a difference at all.

  None of this means anything.

  Don’t go down that road, she told herself. Just don’t. Do the work, and stop acting crazy.

  If none of it meant anything, she still needed to do something. And she was only going to get so much mileage for being one of the little fucker’s victims.

  Rose called back fifteen minutes later.

  “He’s not there. He called in sick this morning.” Her voice sounded … strange. Casey couldn’t pinpoint the emotion in it.

  “Did you get a home address? A last name?”

  “No. The guy I talked to was not into sharing data.”

  “But if we go there, to the store? Do you think … ?”

  “I don’t know.” Rose managed a slight chuckle. “You’ve got me thinking all kinds of things. Like, should we call the police?”

  “The police? What, and tell them about a comic book and a tattoo?”

  “That a friend of Alan Chastain’s has changed his routine and called in sick. Because that’s what they do before they go off.”

  Casey felt something crawl up her spine. No, she told herself, that’s just your fear. It’s not real.

  “Or he has a cold. Or food poisoning.”

  “It’s not like this guy is a source. We have no obligation to protect him. If he’s … if he’s up to something, arguably we have a moral duty to report it.”

  “And if he’s not up to something? We want to screw up his life by reporting him to law enforcement?”

  “I don’t know,” Rose repeated. “Look, you’re the one who said you thought there was something off about him and he gave you the creeps.”

  “We’re gonna get laughed out of the cop shop if we call this in. You think they’re going to listen to my feelings? Nobody cares about that.” She knew she sounded angry. She was angry.

  “I listened,” Rose said. “I’m going to talk to Jordan.”

  “Fine. And after that, what we should be doing is trying to find this guy. How’s about that for moral duty?”

  “I’ll call you back,” Rose said, and hung up.

  “Shit!”

  Casey stared at her phone for a moment, then chucked it against a couch cushion.

  You need to stop acting crazy, remember?

  But she wasn’t proposing that they do anything dangerous. Just go to the store. Get his last name. See if they could find an address, or a phone number. Talk to the guy.

  What was the point of giving a totally sketchy tip to the police, who probably wouldn’t do anything about it anyway? The point was to get the story.

  They were right. It wasn’t so hard when you knew you were doing the right thing.

  He’d picked that nigger and that piece of white trash because no one would give a shit if they got popped. He’d seen them around, he knew what they were like. Sitting out there for hours by the barbecue pit, vaping weed and drinking tallboys. Playing music so loud in the beater pickup the white guy owned that his windows rattled when it drove by.

  Not all blacks were niggers; he didn’t think that. Some were good, hardworking people. Christians. But a nigger was a nigger, and he knew one when he saw one. And that white guy? A nigger-lover. Even worse.

  They weren’t adding anything to the world.

  13

  They were back, and they weren’t going to leave her alone.

  We’re cuming for you you fat cunt and when we find you we will put a bag on your pig-face & fuck you with a bat till you split open and bleed to death you stupid cow

  Change the email. She couldn’t take the chance. She’d be okay as long as they didn’t find out her new name. If that happened …

  Don’t think about it. Just lift.

  The little gym was roughly halfway between the campaign office and her apartment. Sarah had taken a midafternoon break, because she knew by the time she got done working tonight, it would be too late for a good workout.

  The gym was basic, but it had everything she needed, and not much in the way of attitudes. A nice neighborhood place with a range of ages and fitness activities. There were treadmills, cycles, and stair-steppers. An activity room offered yoga and Zumba classes, but she didn’t care about those. She cared about the two power cages, the hex bar, and the benches.

  She was doing bench presses. Her favorite lift. Five reps at 95 pounds. Her PR on the bench was 120, but she wasn’t going anywhere near that kind of weight without a spotter.

  She finished her fifth rep and placed the bar on the rack. Slid out from under it and sat up. She needed water.

  “Hey.”

  She looked up. Matt Cason stood there, in one of his faded Padres T-shirts, patches of sweat staining the neckline and underarms. He looked her up and down. “I didn’t know you lifted.”

  How would you? she thought. But she didn’t say that. Instead she just nodded and said, “I like it.”

  “Me too.”

  She could tell he lifted, looking at him now. His triceps and delts were cut. She’d already known his abs and glutes were tight from the way his suits fit.

  He gestured at the rack. “You still have sets?”

  “Just two short ones.”

  “Going up in weight?”

  “Yes.” She managed a smile. “That’s the plan.”

  “Need a spotter?”

  She almost said no. She wasn’t comfortable with that, with him.

  It’s just a spot, she told herself. And you want him to pay attention to you. To like you.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  She added five-pound weights to each side. 105 pounds, three reps. Lay back down on the bench as he positioned himself behind her. Knew that his crotch was right above her head.

  “You want me to hand you the bar?” he asked.

  “Not for this weight.”

  She placed her gloved hands on the bar, just where she liked them. Took in a deep breath, let it out, tightened up her abs and her glutes and her quads, and took in another breath. Lifted the bar off the rack, set her shoulders, and held it there for a moment. Brought it down.

  One. Two. Her arms trembled.

  Three.

  Rack it.

  Behind her, Matt snorted a laugh. “You made that look easy!”

  Was he being condescending? She didn’t think so. He sounded like he actually meant it.

  “Thanks. It wasn’t too hard.” She sat up and sipped water from her bottle. Matt came out from behind the bench and stood at her side.

  “What’s your PR?”

  “One twenty. Two reps.”

  “I bet you could do one twenty-five.”

  “Maybe.”

  He grinned. “You wanna try?” Matt slid a ten-pound weight onto his end of the bar. Sarah loaded hers on the other. Grabbed a clip and jimmied it onto the bar to hold the weights in place.

  “You don’t need clips,” Matt said. “I’m spotting you, you’re not going to dump the weights.”

  She felt angry, then embarrassed, or maybe it was the other way around. “I like using them.”

  Matt shrugged and smiled. “Better safe, yeah. You’re right.”

  Then a flood of gratitude. Just for being listened to.

  You’re so stupid, she thought.

  She positioned herself on the bench. Placed her hands on the bar. Squared her shoulders. She could feel Matt’s presence behind her, the heat of his body, smell a slight tang of sweat.

  Focus, she told herself. Focus.

&nbs
p; She tried to boost the bar off the rack. It didn’t seem to budge, almost like it had stuck on the rubber. Crazy that just five pounds more than her max felt so much heavier.

  “You want me to hand it to you?”

  She hesitated. “Okay,” she said.

  Matt put his palms under the bar and lifted it up. She could see his face above hers. He was smiling, his forehead damp with sweat. She placed her hands on the bar, his hands bracketing hers.

  Deep breath. Tuck your shoulder blades in your back pocket. Abs and glutes tight. She nodded. Matt let go of the bar.

  She held it there a moment. Brought it slowly down. Pushed up, as hard as she could, still seeing Matt’s face above hers, even when she closed her eyes.

  Her arms shook. She could not straighten them, and they shook harder. She felt her arms start to collapse. She was going to lose the weight.

  Matt grabbed the bar.

  “You okay?”

  She kept her eyes squeezed shut. “Yeah. Fine. Just didn’t have it.”

  “You want to try again?”

  No, she thought, I don’t. I just want to go away. Hide someplace. Never come out.

  But fuck it, first she’d try to lift this weight.

  She huffed a couple of fast, deep breaths. Positioned herself. Hands on the bar. Shoulders, abs, glutes, quads.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  He let go. She locked her arms, squared her shoulders. Lowered the bar. Started to raise it, her arms wobbling.

  “Come on, come on, you got this! You got this, Sarah!”

  Fuck it, she thought. Fuck it! Get the fucking bar up.

  With one last push she locked out her elbows. Held the bar a moment. Started to rack it and hit the rubber bumpers. Matt’s hands appeared again on either side of hers. Steered the bar into the rack.

  “That was awesome!”

  She sat up. He clapped her on the shoulder. “Man, you are strong. How long you been lifting?”

  “Over two years.”

  “I bet you can get to a hundred fifty on this within a year, no problem.”

  She managed a smile. “Maybe. I’ll keep trying, anyway.”

  If he’d seen her two years ago …

  She hadn’t been fat. She had to keep telling herself that. She’d been round. A little chubby. With large breasts that had made her blouses gape and her T-shirts cling to her in a way that had brought stares and catcalls ever since she was fourteen. She knew some girls liked that attention, but it had always made her uncomfortable. She’d been a bookworm, a nerd. When strange men would tell her to smile, most of the time they’d startle her because she’d been thinking about something else, unaware they’d been watching her.

  She learned. By her junior year in high school, she’d adapted. She bought clothes that hugged her curves and told herself to be happy when men stared. Told herself to remember to smile.

  Like she was smiling now.

  Matt was staring at her.

  “You coming to the fair tomorrow?” he asked. Matt was supposed to make at least an hour and a half of it, presenting community commendations, meeting constituents, and shaking hands. They’d pushed out another round of emails, tweets, and posts about it this morning.

  She shook her head. “Probably not. There’s a lot of work to do at the office.”

  “Come on, you should come. Tell them I need you for social media. Which I do.”

  She hesitated. Ben wouldn’t like it. Ben was planning on going himself. She was supposed to hold down the fort.

  But Matt was the boss, wasn’t he? The person who had the last word.

  “Okay,” she said. “Sure. I’ll tell them.”

  “Well, Jordan agrees with you. He doesn’t feel that what we have warrants going to the police.”

  Casey had been trying to pace while she waited for Rose’s call. She really liked pacing when she was angry or just pent-up. But she couldn’t really pace since The Event. Instead, she had to focus on walking twelve steps. A slow pivot. Twelve more steps. Then side-steps the length of her living room to the picture window, and back to the bar that separated her living room from the kitchen.

  Look, Ma, no cane!

  “Good to know,” she said. “So I’m going to Quik By?”

  “We are going to Quik By. Google says I’ll be at your place in twenty-two minutes. Can you get ready that fast?”

  “Yeah, Rose. I can get ready that fast.”

  Bitch, she thought, tossing the phone against the couch cushion.

  Five minutes into her ride with Rose in the station Prius, Casey needed to break the silence.

  “I have to apologize to you,” she said. “I know I’m … ” She struggled to find the words. She was angry, that’s what she was, swinging from anger to a kind of hollow despair and looking for some safe landing in between. But she couldn’t say that. “My emotions are running a little high. I appreciate your concern, I really do. And your help with this. I know it’s above and beyond.”

  Rose chuffed out a sigh. “Look … Casey … you’re being a trooper here. You haven’t complained about how you’re feeling once. And Jordan’s got some enthusiasm for it, he really does. But you need to understand … ” She shook her head, keeping her eyes on the road. “From his perspective, you have celebrity because of what happened. He thinks there’s viewer interest because of that. But it has an expiration date. People do move on, just like you said in your pitch. They’ll move on from this and they’ll move on from you. I’m sorry to be so blunt.”

  Casey wanted to shrug. It was nice of Rose to be honest, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t known this already.

  “That’s why I’m impatient,” she said.

  “Glad we’re on the same page.”

  “So what’s the deal? Jordan gives me this package, we see what the response is, if it’s good, we do another one, if not, we move on?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “If it tanks, will he move on from me?”

  “It’s not gonna tank.”

  “But if it does … when we’re done … you think I’ll still have a job?”

  Rose hesitated. “I don’t know how this kind of thing works in terms of HR policy,” she finally said. “I think he wants to keep you on. I don’t know what happens, eventually, if you don’t recover to the point where you can do your old job. Or if you decide that it isn’t something you want to do.”

  “Fair enough,” Casey said.

  It wasn’t fair, really. She’d been doing her job when she got hurt. But what else could she say?

  There was a single clerk at the Quik By. A guy in his thirties, black hair, brown eyes, olive complexion.

  “What’s the plan?” Rose had asked.

  “Go in, buy some cheesy snacks if there’s other customers, wait for them to clear out if we can, talk to the guy.”

  One customer waited at the checkout counter, buying lottery tickets and a bag of Doritos. Casey decided to forgo the cheesy snacks. She approached the counter with a bottle of water instead.

  “Hi,” she said brightly, giving him what she hoped was a friendly but not too broad smile.

  Don’t overplay this, she told herself.

  “Okay, that will be two nineteen.” He had an accent Casey couldn’t quite place—Turkish? Albanian?

  She handed over the money. “Thanks.” She hesitated. “So, I’m a reporter with News 9. We were hoping to speak with Lucas—I gather he isn’t here today?”

  “No. He’s not working.”

  “Maybe you can help me.”

  He pushed the register drawer shut, not meeting her eyes. Not wanting to help, that seemed clear.

  “Lucas said that he knew Alan Jay Chastain. The Morena shooter. I guess they had lunch together a few times. Did you know him too?”

  Now h
e looked up. Glanced around. Noted Rose hovering in the background. “I saw him. I didn’t know him.”

  “But Lucas said he did. Do you know if that’s true?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe they talked together a few times. I don’t know. We don’t work together much.”

  “The thing is … Lucas had said that he might be willing to talk to us about Chastain. And we’re under a deadline here. I’m wondering … is there any way you can help us get in touch with him?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t give you that information.”

  “Sure, understood, and I wouldn’t ask for that.” Which was a lie, of course. She’d asked for things that people weren’t supposed to give her plenty of times. “But would you be willing to give him a call? Drop him an email? Just to let him know we’re following up?”

  The clerk looked down at the counter. “No,” he finally said. “He wouldn’t like it if I did that.”

  There it was. A hint. A crack in the wall.

  “Look,” Casey said. “We don’t have any cameras here. No recorders. This is all just between us. I’m wondering … is there something about Lucas that concerns you? That worries you?”

  The clerk bunched his lips.

  “Do you think he might be dangerous?”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he stared at the counter. Like he’d seen a spot there. “You can’t tell him I told you this,” he mumbled.

  “We won’t. We promise.”

  He met her eyes. Then it came out in a rush: “He isn’t a nice guy. He says things sometimes. Then he says, ‘It was a joke! Can’t you take a joke?’ I don’t always think it’s a joke. I think he means it. He has a gun, he carries it all the time.”

  And he’d stood no more than two feet away from her. He could have shot her down on the street if he’d wanted to.

  Casey felt her gut hollow out. And something else.

  Score!

  “Why didn’t you report him? For carrying the gun?”

  “He said he had permission. His uncle, you know, he owns a couple of these stores. That’s why he has this job. And I better not make trouble for him, because I won’t like what happens.” The clerk shook his head. “I don’t know what’s true. I don’t know if any of it is. I just know he’s an angry guy.”