“Well, obviously your past is something we will have to address. And people who come in and out of the office are bound to be curious. But that’s just the way it goes on campaigns. Things come up, we deal with it, and we move on. What I am concerned about is the overall security here.” She turned to Angus. “How far do we go to vet volunteers? How can we make sure none of them are moles? Or … or worse?”
“Make sure we get ID, check our database to see what their registration is, maybe do a quick search on Facebook?”
“If we’re discreet.” Jane sighed. “Bad enough they have to come in past armed security. What kind of message is that giving about participating in an election?”
“Well, not like my people haven’t had to go through that kind of shit to vote before,” Angus said, a sharp edge to his smile. “Welcome to our world.”
“Point taken.” Jane paused again, frowned, as if she was going through a checklist in her head. “We’re going to have to ask to search people’s bags if we don’t know them.”
“If you’re worried about guns, they don’t need a bag to bring one in,” Angus said.
Sarah thought about the man in the park, the gun in his hand. The shots, the ringing in her ears, a sharp, caustic smell, ammonia and sulfur.
“Pat-downs? Is that what we’ve come to?” Jane took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She looked utterly drained.
“Yeah,” Angus said. “I think we have.”
Sarah thought about the guard stationed by the door now, the one who’d smirked at her, thought about him patting people down.
“There is something I’d like,” she said. “That guard who’s outside now? I’d like him gone. He’s an asshole.”
Jane and Angus both stared at her for a moment. They seemed surprised. But then, she’d never really asserted herself here before. She’d just kept her head down and done her work.
“Okay,” Angus said. “We’ll tell the company to send somebody different. And if anyone else around here disrespects you, you come and tell us about it right away.”
Sarah nodded. “Thanks.”
Maybe she wasn’t being fair. Maybe the guard hadn’t meant anything by it. But none of this was fair, so why should she be?
Cason Campaign Responds
to Harassment of Staffer and Vandalism of Headquarters
The candidate, staff, and volunteers of Cason for Congress stand behind our staffer, Sarah Price, who
has been the target of an organized campaign of harassment and hate. It is outrageous that a past incident in which she was the victim is being used to hound and threaten her today. She is a valued member of our team, and she has our full support. We are exploring all possible legal and law enforcement avenues to bring the perpetrators to justice.
We will not be intimidated, nor will we falter. We will continue to stand up for true American values of tolerance, respect and democracy.
Hey cuck @RepMattCason dyke @jane_haddad you can’t stop all of us #TrueMen will rise and wash filth like you and slut #BethRyder away #AJLA
42
#AlanJayLiberationArmy announces halt of all extreme revolutionary action during San Diego Comic-Con to honor @George_Drake #TrueMen #AJLA
Unless we see fake geek girls then all bets are off LOL #AJLA #TrueMen
“George Drake said yes.” Rose bounced on the balls of her feet in front of Casey’s desk, iPad in hand.
Death threats or not, Casey could tell Rose was excited about the get. True Men’s creator hadn’t said much to the press since Casey’s story broke. They’d made the pitch but Casey hadn’t expected he’d agree—why would he, given the trouble their stories must have caused him. He’d been interviewed by the FBI, complaining of harassment and censorship on his website.
On the other hand, maybe he liked the attention. It had to have helped his sales.
“Awesome,” Casey said. “So where and when?”
Now Rose grimaced. “He wants us to come down to Comic-Con.”
“That’s great. Perfect. Lots of good B-roll.”
“I don’t know, Case, the security situation—”
“They do a costume weapons check on everyone who comes in.” Casey had covered that angle in one of last year’s Comic-Con stories.
The truth was, she didn’t want to think about that part of it right now. A hundred thirty thousand people attended the Con, and that number didn’t include those without tickets who came downtown for the open events or just to hang out and soak up the atmosphere. All those people in costume, crowded into the convention center and the blocks of the Gaslamp downtown … hundreds of thousands of them. People in masks, in helmets, walking around with swords and blasters … You couldn’t make that situation totally secure.
Thinking too much about that was just going to stress her out.
“Well, this is the thing,” Rose said. “He doesn’t want to meet at the convention center. He wants us to come to some event he’s hosting in East Village on Thursday.”
“A Comic-Con event?”
“It doesn’t actually say. Just an address.”
Okay, well, that’s a little creepy, Casey thought. “Tell him yes. What time?”
Rose tapped out a reply on her tablet. “He’s a strange dude. This is the email he sent.” Rose swiped up and read: “‘If she is willing to come to my territory on my terms, then I would be willing to offer an exchange of views.’ What the fuck is that?”
“Pretention? I mean, you read those comics.”
“Yeah.” Rose tapped the back of the tablet. “Frankly, I’m surprised Comic-Con didn’t cancel his appearance with everything that’s gone on.”
“They released a statement, ‘we support the airing of diverse opinions, condemn all forms of hate speech, George Drake’s work may be controversial but does not cross that threshold,’ blah blah blah. And anyway, he’s on a panel with two other writers that’s about controversy in graphic novels, so.”
A Tribble sound from Rose’s iPad. “Whoa, he replied already.” Rose tapped her iPad and read: “‘The event begins at nine p.m. Thursday. You may also attend my panel beforehand if you would like. In terms of the actual interview, a film crew would inhibit my ability to speak naturally. Miss Cheng can interview me by herself or not at all.’” Rose slapped the iPad on Casey’s desk. “No fucking way.”
“Well, now, wait a second—” Casey said, because even though she knew Rose had a point, she wanted this interview with George Drake.
“No. Look, this guy is being at best a manipulative dick. At worst?”
Casey laughed. “A murderous psychopath? Dude, he’s a comic book writer. Artist. Whatever he is.”
“Writer-artist.”
“The point being, he’s a murderous psycho in his dreams. He sits on his butt all day and gets paid for making stuff up and drawing cartoons. Look, tell him I’ll interview him all by myself, but I want you guys on the guest list, in case I need … I don’t know, equipment. Or makeup.” Casey grinned. “Tell him I need you to do my makeup. I bet he wants me to look pretty.”
“That’s a long line.”
The queue for George Drake’s panel stretched along the side of the convention hall on the second floor, all the way to the escalators.
“Well, it’s not just George Drake,” Rose said. “Rey Wan’s on that panel, and Kenny Lassiter. They’ve got followings too.” She gestured at a girl wearing a sort of red catsuit fringed with lace, thigh-high black leather boots, and a fedora. “Fire Sprite.”
“And there’s a Yumota,” Diego said, panning up the line.
“You guys really are geeks.” Casey scanned the hall, assessing her surroundings for threats, like she always did now.
The hall was crowded with people in costumes: Storm Troopers, Starfleet officers, bare-chested angels, Batmans and Wolverines and Doctor Whos. It wasn’t hot,
but the air felt stale, breathed too many times, the industrial blue and gray carpet giving off a faint scent of heated plastic fiber and chemical cleaners.
Someone could walk in here with a gun in their backpack, Casey thought. Or a bomb. They’d just need a badge.
There’s all kinds of security here we don’t even know about, she reminded herself. It’s not just costume weapons check.
“You okay, Casey?” Rose asked.
She forced a smile and swept her fingers across her forehead. “Just a little hot. It’s stuffy in here.”
George Drake grinned. He had a nice crooked-tooth smile, Casey thought, one that appeared full of amusement. Fifty-ish and stocky, his brown hair swept back from his forehead in the way she’d noticed other guys his age with a good head of hair often liked to do, showing it off. Leonine, you’d describe it. He wore a black vest with gold brocade and a chunky turquoise bolo tie.
“Look, I’m a storyteller,” he said, in a reedy tenor voice. “I’m not writing political manifestos, I’m telling stories. And people are going to respond the way they respond. Am I happy that a couple of twisted, evil individuals were fans of my work? Of course not. But I can’t choose my readers. They choose me.”
Kenny Lassiter laughed. “You’re trolling for those readers.”
The large conference room was packed. Casey had a reserved seat toward the front on the right side, with a good view of Drake, who sat at the end of the long table, with the other panelists, Rey Wan and Kenny Lassiter, in the middle and on the opposite end. The moderator, an arts and culture columnist for a local web publication, stood behind a lectern on stage right.
“And you’re not trolling for your audience?” Drake laughed again, this time not so amused. “You’re appealing to your genderqueer polyamorous cohort, right?”
You could practically see the air quotes, Casey thought.
Lassiter was tall, thin, heavily tattooed. Rey Wan also had her share of visible tats, her hair dyed a fire-engine red.
Lassiter shrugged. “I’m writing what I want to read. The fact that enough other people want to read it to where I can make half of a modest living wasn’t something I set out to do. It just happened.”
“Rey Wan, what about you?” the moderator asked. “What was the main impetus for your work? You’re engaging with some very difficult material. Where did the desire—or, perhaps more accurately, the willingness—come from to do this?”
Wan leaned forward. “Some life experience. Some observed experience.” Her voice was nearly a whisper, impossible to hear without the mic. “Important things aren’t always pleasant.”
“So would it be fair to say that you’re motivated by a sense of mission?”
Wan nodded. “That’s fair.”
The moderator turned to Drake. “So that leaves you. What is the thing that drives you to create True Men?”
“As I said, I’m a storyteller.”
“But why this story? Is it a story you want to read?”
Drake folded his arms across his belly. A defensive posture. “Look, I’m not a fascist, if that’s what you’re getting at. I am commenting on a state of reality. I am not calling on these things to happen, I am only saying that they could, given the situation in this country.” Now he smiled, showing his crooked teeth. “Consider it a cautionary tale.”
“Casey. A pleasure.”
George Drake gripped her hand firmly without trying to crush it. That was a plus, Casey thought. He was a good head taller than she was, with some heft and muscle, and she had a feeling he could be intimidating if he wanted to be.
“Likewise,” she said. “This is Rose Armitage, our producer, and Diego Marin, our photographer.”
“Lovely to meet you as well.” Drake focused his attention on them. “I hope you got some good footage of the panel. It was an interesting discussion, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. Really a lot of food for thought. Which is why we’re still hoping to talk you into a more formal interview.” Casey put on her most charming smile. At least she hoped it was. She’d gotten out of practice since The Event. “I won’t be able to do as good a job on my own, and we want to do it justice.”
Drake shook his head. “Actually, I was hoping you and I could have a little chat off the record.”
“Off the record? Mr. Drake, of course I’m interested in whatever you have to say, but—”
“I’ll still give you your interview.” He grinned, showing his teeth. “I’ll even let this gentleman film me while you ask your questions. But there are a few things I wanted to discuss with you that I’m not comfortable talking about publicly. Not yet, anyway. Maybe you’ll convince me otherwise. In any case, I think you’ll find what I have to say worthy of your time.” He pointed a thumb behind him, toward a huge atrium where there were signing tables and long lines of fans waiting to get autographs from comic book artists, authors, B-movie actors, and seventies TV stars. “After I fulfill my obligations here, I thought maybe you and I could walk over to the event.” He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on Trusty the cane. “That is, if you’re able. It’s about a fifteen-, twenty-minute walk, if you’re up to it.”
Casey swallowed her rising irritation and forced a smile. She wasn’t some delicate flower who couldn’t manage to walk a few blocks. She was up to a mile and a half on the treadmill, uphill. “Of course,” she said. “Not a problem.”
“Goddammit, Casey,” Rose said, as soon as Drake was out of earshot.
“What? I can walk that far, it’s fine.”
“He’s trying to manipulate you. And doing a pretty fucking good job of it.”
“Well, yeah. But I want to hear what he has to say.”
“How do you know it’s safe? How do you know he hasn’t planned something?”
“Oh, come on, that’s just … He’s a comic book artist, for fuck’s sake. Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid here?”
“He’s set this whole thing up, playing the prima donna, holding out a cookie for you if you do what he wants, insisting you walk through an unsafe neighborhood with him after dark—”
“This is downtown San Diego, Rose. Not a war zone. Besides, the sun won’t set for another hour.”
“Jesus Christ, Casey.” Rose’s cheeks flared red. “You know, sometimes I think you want to finish what that asshole who shot you started.”
Casey felt an ugly surge of rage so intense that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. “How dare you say that?” she managed.
“You rush in, and you always want to get too close! Look what happened the last time you did that!”
“Hey. Guys. Chill.” Diego rested a hand on Rose’s shoulder. “The Crooked Arrow was on both of us, okay? We both made that call. We both thought it was okay.”
Rose’s face was still flushed. Casey had a feeling hers was too.
“I’m sorry,” Rose finally said. “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
Casey nodded. But how could she explain to Rose how she felt? That if she ran away from anything now, she’d just keep running?
“How about you go ahead to the venue with the equipment?” Diego said to Rose. “I’ll follow Casey.”
“What if he sees you?” Rose asked.
Diego grinned. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a dark green domino mask and a green T-shirt, which he held up. Green Lantern. “No worries. No evil shall escape my sight.”
43
“Well, isn’t this something?” Drake half shouted over his shoulder.
The crowd of people crossing the trolley tracks was so thick that Casey felt like she would be swept along with it. She pushed her way past a group of Batman cosplayers—three different-era Batmans and Robins, several Jokers, a Batgirl, and a Catwoman—trying to keep up with Drake, who walked ahead of her, his bulk making his passage easier.
A band dressed up in Star Trek uniforms played “Hotel California” in the outdoor patio of the restaurant on the tracks. Religious picketers waved giant yellow signboards with black letters warning of eternal damnation and salvation through the blood of Christ. Three stilt-walkers dressed up like Uncle Sam handed out event flyers, flanked by girls in bikinis and go-go boots. Up ahead she saw what looked like an entire platoon of Storm Troopers marching down Fifth Avenue, accompanied by a few Jedi Knights and a Chewbacca. Chewie must be baking, Casey thought. It had been a sweltering mid-July day, and the temperature was only just beginning to cool. Sweat already soaked through her camera-ready silk knit T-shirt, and she wasn’t someone who sweated a lot. The shirt was black at least. Maybe the stains wouldn’t show.
“Let’s go this way,” Drake shouted, gesturing toward the ballpark. “Not so crowded.”
“Sounds good!”
There were still plenty of people walking this way, though. Comic-Con events spilled out of the convention center and into the surrounding streets, taking over several blocks of Fifth Avenue, Petco Park, and the adjacent parking lot. People lined up across the street for something, Casey couldn’t see what, and superheroes drifted in and out of the lobby of the Omni Hotel.
But there was enough room on the sidewalk for Drake and Casey to walk side by side as they headed around the ballpark.
“You know what astounds me about events like this?” Drake said. “How much is dependent on an assumption of goodwill. All these people jammed into a few blocks, in costumes no less. So many things could go wrong. It would be so easy to create chaos if one desired to do so. Just one man with a gun would be enough.” He smiled and shook his head a little. “I guess we still have a basic faith in each other, don’t we?”
“I guess we do,” she said. Don’t let him freak you out, she told herself. It’s not like you didn’t have the same thoughts earlier today. Everything is fine, and besides, Diego is following you.
Just in case.
Rose is wrong, she thought. I just want to do my job.
Black Swan Rising Page 25