Black Swan Rising

by Lisa Brackmann

  She hadn’t expected Kendrick, and at first, she figured his being there was a bonus. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to quote him for the record, but they couldn’t stop her from saying that she’d met with the FBI as well as SDPD.

  But she sure wasn’t getting much material out of this. A bunch of nonresponses and boilerplates, uttered by a man who clearly wasn’t all that interested in what she had to say.

  Helton and Kendrick were both white guys, Kendrick in his forties, Helton maybe a few years younger. Kendrick had a tight haircut and a crisp white shirt stretched across his gut, his face freshly scraped and smelling of aftershave. Helton was rangy, his hair a little longer, with the kind of faded-tan face that came from spending a lot of time outside, just not lately. His eyes were gray and dark-circled. She liked him better than Kendrick, and not just because of his sad eyes. He wasn’t being a dick.

  She’d gone through everything that had happened: The interview with Helen Scott, finding the comic in Alan Jay’s bedroom, the encounter with Lucas Derry, his tattoo. The visit to Derry’s workplace and apartment. The stories in those comics. The hashtags and the threats.

  “We’re familiar with the material,” Agent Kendrick said. He seemed bored. “And of course we take the threats against you seriously and we will be investigating them thoroughly.” He inclined his head a fraction in Helton’s direction. “Detective Helton will be your point person for that, given that he’s local. I know he’s got some recommendations for you about managing your personal safety.”

  Helton nodded slowly.

  Kendrick rose from his chair. “I need to get to my next interview, but thank you again for your time. Please do call us if you run into anything else.”

  There was a moment of silence as Kendrick headed for the door.

  “We came in separate vehicles,” Helton said, leaning back in his chair as Kendrick’s hand twisted the doorknob.

  If Kendrick heard him, he didn’t acknowledge it. The door closed behind him.

  “About your concerns for Casey’s safety,” Mika said. “We’d really like to hear your take on it.”

  Of course Mika would, Casey thought. Probably concerned about the station’s liability if they put her in a situation that could potentially expose her to danger above and beyond the normal expectations of her job.

  “Well, there’s still a lot we don’t know,” Helton said. “Though we do know our boy Lucas harbored some hostility toward her.”

  I’m right here, Casey was tempted to say. “How do you know that?” she asked instead.

  Helton reached into his suit’s breast pocket and got out his phone. He pressed his thumb to unlock it, swiped a few times, then pushed it across the table to her. “That’s inside Lucas Derry’s apartment.”

  Casey took the phone and looked.

  Of course, she thought. Lucas had to have one of those Walls of Crazy—photos, clippings, stickers with white power slogans, all of it taped and tacked to a dingy beige wall.

  “Swipe to the next one,” Helton said.

  She did. A close-up of a section of the wall. Her photo, her head and torso. She was holding a mic, smiling, against a background of blue sky and beach and palm trees. A station promo shot.

  Lucas had graffitied it with red pen. A penis and balls, the tip of the cock touching her lips. An explosion of red on her chest.

  “He’s not much of an artist, is he?” she said lightly. She pushed the phone back to Helton.

  “No, not so much.”

  “What is it?” Mika asked.

  “Lucas had a bit of a crush on me, apparently,” Casey said. “But hey, it’s not like he’s a threat to me now.”

  “That is true.” Helton took the phone, clicked to the lock screen, and put it in his pocket.

  Mika looked up from her iPad. “So in terms of Casey’s personal safety, what are you suggesting?”

  Helton turned to Casey. Making sure she was paying attention, she guessed. “We recommend that for now, you avoid scenarios that put you out there when you don’t need to be. Especially into situations where you don’t have a lot of control. Crowds. Uncontrolled access. If you’re interviewing people in a place that’s relatively secure, that’s not so much of a concern.”

  Casey smiled. “You sound like my producer.”

  “Rose? She’s a smart lady. You should listen to her.”

  She could feel herself tense up, that anger she’d been carrying around since The Event close to the surface. Don’t be stupid, she told herself. There was no point in being angry at Rose and Helton. They weren’t the ones who’d nearly killed her. That guy was dead, and his asshole buddy not much better.

  “Good advice. As long as I can still do my job.”

  “What about home security?” Mika asked, taking notes on her iPad.

  Helton turned to Casey. “What kind of housing?”

  “Condo. Secure entrance. Underground parking.”

  “Okay. That’s good. Take reasonable precautions. Watch yourself in the parking garage, those can be easy to gain entrance to. Check your car for anything that seems out of place. Practice situational awareness. They train you guys in that?”

  “We have seminars,” Mika said.

  Casey had been to one. The station did its due diligence, ever since the killings of the reporter and the cameraman on live TV a couple years ago.

  “Okay,” Helton said. “I can give you some additional pointers if you’d like.”

  “I would. I could use a review.”

  Mika swiped her finger across her iPad and flipped the cover closed. “Casey, let’s you and I schedule an ASAP meeting with Jordan and Gloria to discuss this, all right?”

  The news director and the evening news producer. Casey wasn’t sure if this was a good sign, or not. Being considered high-profile was one thing. Getting labeled a pain in the ass was another.“Will do.”

  “So,” Mika said. “I think we’re good for now. Unless there’s anything else?”

  Helton shook his head. So did Casey.

  She’d much rather talk to Helton one-on-one anyway. Casey turned to him and smiled. “Walk you to your vehicle?”

  Outside it was pleasant, with patchy clouds. Late afternoon. The June Gloom that came most late afternoons or early evenings into July didn’t always make it to Kearny Mesa, but you could feel it coming today, rolling in from the ocean, gentling the air even in the station parking lot.

  They walked as far as the first light post before Casey said, “So … about my personal safety … I’m not really that worried. I’ve had plenty of trolls since I started doing this job. I think that’s all they are. Trolls.”

  They stopped walking. Helton nodded, seeming to scan the lot for his car. Maybe he was scanning it for threats. “Odds are you’re right. But with all that’s going on, there’s nothing wrong with saving yourself some stress when you can. You gotta do what you gotta do, but if you don’t have to, don’t do it.”

  Casey nodded. It was frustrating, but he was probably right.

  He was looking at her now. Gray eyes staring out of a tanned face. Maybe he actually was a surfer. “In terms of the threats … I’ll be honest with you—this online stuff, we’re still getting a handle on it. But we take it seriously. We’ll do our best to track down the worst of these assholes. It just might take some time.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I understand this isn’t easy.”

  She thought for a moment about the interview. About Kendrick’s dismissive attitude. Why not take the chance? Maybe he’d bite.

  “Special Agent Kendrick didn’t seem to take anything I said very seriously. I suppose I could have misread him.”

  Helton cracked half a smile. “He’s a very busy, important man.”

  She half smiled back. “So … who takes the lead in an investigation like this? The SDPD or the FBI?”


  “There’s also the Capitol Police, they’re investigating as well.”

  “Capitol Police?”

  “Charged with protecting members of Congress. They’ve got a budget.” That hint of a smile again. “In answer to your question, it’s a cooperative relationship. The FBI has the national databases and we provide the on-the-ground realities.”

  “I see. So, what do you think? About those on-the-ground realities? Like the hashtags. The comic. True Men. I mean, I’ve read those comics, and well, they’re a little disturbing. In context.”

  “We did find copies of the comics in Derry’s apartment. A complete set. I’m reading them now. Never thought I’d get paid for reading comic books, but hey, this is San Diego, home of Comic-Con.”

  “And … ?”

  “We’re still working on this, but so far, the first appearance of that True Men hashtag in relation to the ‘Alan Jay Liberation Army’”—he made air quotes around that—“has been since your story was broadcast.”

  “The ones related to me.”

  “Yeah. Those. And some others not related to you.”

  They had to have been posted since lunch, the last time she’d checked Twitter. Was it just the hashtags? Or had there been incidents?

  She felt that hollow dread gathering in her chest, her gut.

  “Do you mind?” she said, indicating her phone.

  “Go right ahead.” His gaze was level. “You probably should know.”

  There were more than she would have thought.

  Some of them weren’t too bad. #TrueMen are taking back this country from globalists and banksters #AJLA. Real women prefer #TrueMen not cucks. #AJLA.

  Of course they got worse: #TrueMen will show feminist cunts there place #AJLA. Make America White again #TrueMen #AJLA.

  And there were more directed at Casey.

  Whatever. She could take it.

  But this one, this one was bad.

  The tweet linked to a news story about an attack on a mosque in Michigan that had happened an hour ago. Someone had driven by with an explosive device—a grenade, probably—pulled the pin, and thrown it into a small crowd that had gathered outside the entrance before prayers.

  #TrueMen will defend America against Islamic terror. Remember #PhoenixCinemaMassacre #AJLA.

  She looked up. Helton had unwrapped a stick of gum. He popped it in his mouth, still watching her. “You see the mosque attack?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. I mean … what’s the likelihood that this is, I don’t know, some kind of actual movement? Or if it’s just trolls attaching a trending hashtag to an unconnected incident?”

  “Too soon to say.”

  “Of course.” She swiped back to the search page.

  1 New Notification

  She didn’t want to look. She wasn’t sure if she could take it, another threat, some crude insult, 140 characters of stupidity and hate.

  She touched the link.

  We know who @RepMattCason’s little slut really is. And she will pay for what she did #TrueMen #AJLA.

  Below that, the photo of Sarah Price in the park.

  “Here’s the thing.” Helton’s voice seemed to echo in her ears. “It’s out there now, but maybe that’s because you put it out there.”

  31

  Sarah sat at her desk, frozen in place. She could hear phones ringing, people making calls in the bull pen, but with Ben gone, the cubicle next to her was empty. Still, she lowered her voice.

  “How do you know? Who are you?”

  “I’m on your side, Sarah,” Wyatt said. “Please trust me on that.”

  “Why should I?”

  “If I’d wanted to cause trouble for you, believe me, I could have. But I don’t.”

  It still sounded like a threat.

  “You’ve got the same enemies you had before, and I’m not one of them,” he said. “But when it gets out … there’ll be some blowback on the campaign. You know there will be.”

  She could feel the panic build and rise in her chest. She thought she might scream. She wanted to slam her fist against the desk, throw the phone across the room, something, anything, to get these feelings out of her body, emotions so strong they felt like they’d taken shape into solid things.

  “What do I do?” she managed.

  “I’ve been thinking about it. Running scenarios. Cason’s kind of a dog, I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now. You could feed into that whole narrative, and yeah, there’s still people out there who care about that kind of thing.”

  “I’m not … I haven’t … ”

  “Okay, Sarah, okay, I believe you. Just watch yourself. It can’t even look like you did. But if you keep your nose clean, my take is that there’s only so much it can hurt the campaign. I mean, they hate Cason anyway, obviously. It’s just going to amp that up some.”

  “‘They’?”

  “I don’t have a name for it yet. I don’t even know if there is a name, or how organized it is. The same kind of guys who hate you so much have fixated on him, like he’s the big jock screwing the cheerleader they’ve always wanted to screw. You know what I mean?”

  She nodded, though of course he couldn’t see that. But she did know what he meant. She had an idea of it, anyway. “I should just quit,” she said.

  But then who would do the work, with Ben in the hospital?

  “Your call, Sarah. If you quit, they’ll play it like something went on between you and Cason, and you had to leave. It’s gonna be a shitstorm no matter what you do.”

  She stared at the poster of the baseball player on the wall by her cubicle. They’ll know who I used to be, she thought. Was it worth it, trying to stay here and fight, having to face their stares, their pity? Their judgment?

  The humiliation, all over again. It would never end, no matter what she did, no matter who she became.

  “Either way, you need to look out for yourself. What’s going on now, it’s unpredictable. Chaotic. I don’t like the way it feels.” That last sentence he seemed to be saying to himself, not her.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  A long silence. “You know what a black swan is, Sarah?”

  “An unpredictable event that has a massive impact.”

  He laughed. “Should have figured you’d know. I’m not sure I agree with the theory, totally. Me, I think sometimes what seems like an unpredictable event is something that, well, we should have seen that coming. It all makes sense, in retrospect. We just couldn’t see the pattern, the consequences, at the time. You know what I mean?”

  “That’s part of what a black swan is,” Sarah heard herself say. “The event is inappropriately rationalized after the fact.”

  Wyatt laughed. “Okay, you win.” She heard him sigh. Was that ice clinking in a glass? “People do some pretty unethical things to get power. To keep it.” A snort. “Bet you’re shocked to hear that.”

  “I’m not,” she said.

  “I know you think you’re not. Hey, when I was younger, I thought I was pretty cynical. Turns out I was naïve. I still participated in the process. I thought I knew how things worked, but I didn’t.”

  A long silence.

  “You were talking about people doing unethical things,” Sarah finally said.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I was. Well, some people, what they do to keep power is they feed people’s anger. They make all kinds of promises they don’t intend to keep, but if they keep people angry enough, most of them will accept any bullshit excuse if that excuse feeds their anger too. Just blame it on something they’re afraid of. Or they hate. Tell them somebody’s taking what’s rightfully theirs. Appeal to their rage. There’s a whole big infrastructure out there, ginning up rage. Does a bang-up job of it too.”

  Maybe he was drunk, she thought. He sounded drunk, now that she thought about it, the words t
umbling out of his mouth a little looser, a little louder than usual.

  “Wyatt,” she said, “I was a poly-sci major and I have a master’s in public policy. I know the kinds of politics you’re talking about. We studied them. The Southern Strategy. Rustbelt Resentment.”

  He laughed. “Okay. So maybe you do. But here’s what you need to understand. Sometimes what happens is, they really fuck up. They open up a crack, and it’s not the light that gets in, it’s something dark they can’t control. Or contain. That’s what sets the black swans loose. And once those black swans start flying … you don’t know what’s coming home to roost.”

  32

  Matt’s good hand clutched a beer bottle. His wounded hand rested in its cast on a stack of pillows on the couch. The cast would only stay on for three more days—they liked to get the casts off quickly with hand injuries and start therapy, Dr. Parviz had told them, before the bones could calcify and the hand stiffen.

  The Padres were on, an away game in Washington, DC. It was the top of the third, and they were winning by five runs with two men on and one out. Thank god, Lindsey thought, because Matt was in a shitty mood—the Padres winning took a little bit of the edge off.

  You can’t blame him for that, she told herself. He had every right to be angry and depressed and traumatized and … whatever else he was. His bad moods were deep and layered; a lot of the time she only excavated the first few levels.

  This was different. It wasn’t the annoyance of making fundraising phone calls, it wasn’t the fights over how he looked at other women, or the way he checked out when he didn’t want to deal with something difficult or boring.

  She thought about what happened in the park. People dead. Matt’s face. The blood everywhere.

  Somebody tried to kill him. I should have been there.

  And it wasn’t over. The Capitol Police had assigned a “protective security specialist”—a tall, thick man with a shaved head named Morgan whose job it was to accompany Matt wherever he went and who currently was sleeping at the Best Western on Clairemont Drive. (“Sorry, I don’t want him in our guestroom,” Matt had snapped.) There was a squad car parked in front of their house, where it would remain “until we get a more complete threat assessment.” The police had even suggested a hotel, but Matt had refused. “We have an alarm system and a high wall,” he’d said. “And I’ve got a gun.”