Black Swan Rising

by Lisa Brackmann

  It wasn’t like she had some kind of death wish.

  “You know, your little story really disrupted my life. Though I suppose I should thank you.”

  “I’m sorry?” Focus, she told herself. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  They walked along the path that bordered the trolley tracks to one side and the Petco parking lot to the other. There were still plenty of people here, going in and out of the fair in the lot, heading up the street toward the Petco entrance for whatever event was inside the ballpark. The parking lot was lit up with LEDs and floodlights and colored gels. But Drake was leading her away from those crowds, towards the pedestrian bridge that arched over the tracks, and past that, darkness.

  It’s fine, she told herself.

  “Well, there was the visit from the FBI,” Drake said. “That was a bit disconcerting. It bordered on harassment. I had the impression they suspected I might actually be part of some … conspiracy?” He chuckled. “Utterly ridiculous. A bunch of kids trolling on Twitter and spinning their wish-fulfillment fantasies on 4chan or Reddit or wherever it is they hang out these days.”

  “Well, there was Alan Jay Chastain and Lucas Derry,” Casey said. “They weren’t exactly trolling.”

  “Of course not. I don’t mean to make light of what they did. But this idea that my work might have inspired them? That it’s somehow responsible for what they did? That’s like blaming Catcher in the Rye for John Lennon’s assassination.”

  “On the one hand, that’s a fair point. On the other … ” Casey hesitated. They’d reached the other end of the parking lot. Drake gestured up the street that ran perpendicular to their path. A small group of men stood in the shadows there—not convention goers. Homeless, Casey guessed.

  “Your work is more explicitly political than Catcher in the Rye. Wouldn’t you agree that’s an accurate assessment?”

  “I suppose. Though I prefer to think of it as social realism. I’m describing. Not advocating.”

  They headed up the street. Casey’s back and leg had started hurting, the sciatic pain starting to spark. She wasn’t going to show him that if she could help it. A brewery off to the right in an old redbrick building. No open businesses other than that, at least that she could see.

  “But what you’re describing,” she finally said. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Drake. I’ve read the True Men series. You exclude women and gays and people of color from participating in any kind of positive way. They’re villains or victims, if they’re in your stories at all.”

  “And you object to that.”

  “As a woman and as a person of color? Let’s just say I don’t relate.”

  He shrugged. “And you don’t have to. Maybe my work isn’t meant for you. You’re not obligated to read it. And I’m not obligated to create a vision that pleases you.”

  “Except that your work has become news.”

  “Through no fault of my own.”

  “You can’t pretend what you write is value neutral.”

  He laughed. “I suspect you have a great deal of contempt for my values.”

  She wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

  The street on which they walked was lined with makeshift tents, shopping carts full of things she mostly couldn’t make out, though she spotted cans and bottles in grimy plastic bags. Homeless people gathered there, drinking from paper bags, some already hunkered in their tiny shelters, others sitting on stools in front of their belongings.

  “For all that you disapprove, we lose a great deal when we reject traditional American values,” he finally said. “For example”—and now he looked directly at her, casting his gaze down to make up for their difference in height—“don’t you feel safer walking through a neighborhood like this with a man?”

  “It depends on the man.”

  “Oh,” he said, smiling, “please tell me you aren’t one of those feminists who thinks all men are potential rapists.”

  “I’m cautious of men I don’t know,” she said.

  “Good men are protectors. Good women elicit that response in us.”

  “And if a woman isn’t ‘good’?”

  “Then she shouldn’t expect to be protected.”

  She caught a strong whiff of piss and shit. Not surprising, with all these homeless people and no toilets.

  “I expect you’re the sort of woman who resents the need for male protection,” Drake said.

  That was a little too close. “So does that make me a bad woman?”

  “Just an unrealistic one.”

  I’ve got to get control of this conversation, Casey thought. Rose was right, this guy was a manipulator. She still wasn’t sure what game he was playing.

  “Evening, miss. Spare a dollar so I can get something to eat?” A black man wearing a coat and stocking hat in this weather, so grimy and faded that it was hard to say what the original colors were.

  “Ignore him,” Drake said. He kept walking.

  Fuck you, Casey thought, loudly. She wore a light safari-style jacket, mainly for the pockets. She reached into one now, pulled out several bills she’d stashed there, and handed them to the man. His hand was so callused and cracked it felt like old leather.

  “God bless,” he said.

  Drake was already a half a block ahead. Was he just going to ditch her now? She struggled to catch up, her heart beating fast, the nerve pain pinging harder now.

  Diego is behind us somewhere, she reminded herself. No need to panic.

  Finally, Drake halted until she reached him. “You’re not helping him with your handouts, you know,” he said. “He’s made the choice to be here. His life won’t improve until he makes a different choice.”

  “Or he’s mentally ill and isn’t capable of choosing.”

  “How condescending. I prefer to think that men have free will.”

  Don’t even argue with him, Casey told herself. It’s pointless. And all of this is off the record anyway.

  The homeless encampment stretched on for blocks. The gentrification of downtown San Diego was spotty here, with construction sites in the middle of old warehouses and industrial buildings, a few auto shops, stacks of tires and corrugated tin siding and barbed wire in a jumble on one corner.

  Maybe I can get this back on some kind of track, she thought.

  “Mr. Drake, what was it you wanted to speak to me about that needed privacy? Was it about the FBI visit?”

  “In part. Mostly I just wanted to get to know you better.”

  Great, Casey thought. She didn’t think she was imagining the flirtatious note in his voice. This guy could turn on a dime.

  “I see,” she said.

  “Do you? You know, you’ve really added a lot of stress to my life. I haven’t been able to write; I can’t decide how the whole thing should end. Now I’m late on my deadline. I resent that, Casey. I really do.”

  It had gotten dark, and it was hard for her to see his expression clearly, except that he showed his teeth again, and it didn’t seem like a real smile.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “But honestly, isn’t it your choice?”

  Drake stopped walking. “Oh, very good,” he said. “You’re smart, aren’t you? I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting that from a pretty TV reporter. I thought your job was primarily looking good on camera.”

  Now Casey smiled at him. “A lot of people make that mistake.”

  “Maybe we’re both underestimated. A lot of people don’t take those of us who write graphic novels seriously either.” He started walking again. “You know, it’s funny. If I really were some sort of criminal mastermind … well, first, I’d prefer to call myself a revolutionary, in the traditional American sense of the word.”

  “Okay. For the sake of argument, let’s say you are. A traditional American revolutionary.”

  “But one with
both feet in the modern world. This whole idea that I’d order people to do things … that’s so old-fashioned. There’s no need for it in the social media age. Just as an example … say I was very angry at you. Say I wanted to get rid of you. There are all kinds of ways to approach that. I’m bigger and stronger than you are. I could easily overpower you.”

  “Physical evidence,” Casey said, the words sticking in her throat. “Not worth the risk.”

  “Exactly.” He lifted the edge of his brocaded vest. The butt of a pistol just showed there, peeking above the waistband of his pants. “I could use a gun. One that was obtained illegally. Toss it when I was through.”

  “Witnesses,” she managed, thinking, Diego is watching me, he isn’t far, this is a bluff, some kind of sick mind game.

  Drake laughed. “These people? The mentally ill, as you put it? Drunks? On drugs? Hardly credible witnesses. But I agree with you, it would be unnecessarily risky. It would be preferable to have someone else do it. For example, one of these homeless people. But they’re too unreliable. Instead why not use one of my so-called acolytes? Have him waiting here for us. Have him pull out a gun and shoot you dead. It would be over so quickly, and I’d have no time to react. No time to protect you. A terrible tragedy, but what can you expect, allowing garbage like this to pile up on the street?”

  Third time’s a charm, bitch.

  Her heart was beating hard now, the sweat prickling on her back. Fight or flight. But you can’t run, she told herself. You can’t show weakness. It’s a game.

  “You have an interesting way of getting to know someone,” she said.

  He smiled at her. The charming version. “I’m a writer. It’s in our nature to spin out fictional scenarios. We really can’t help it.” He gestured up the street. “Almost there.”

  Thank god, Casey thought.

  “Of course, my preferred scenario would be none of those things,” he said abruptly.

  “Oh? What would it be, then?”

  “As I said, I may believe in traditional values, but I’m a realist about the world we’re living in. Until recently, True Men was almost an underground phenomenon. Admirers of the work found each other in chat rooms, on social media. Now, it’s a hashtag. A meme.” He snorted. “The popularity of the books has grown thanks to that. And I must say, thanks to you. That’s the upside of notoriety. It’s brought me a whole new set of fans. Several solid offers for film and television options, in fact. Though I doubt if anything will come of those. Too controversial.”

  “You’re welcome,” Casey said.

  Drake grinned. “I’m still not sure the trade-off is worth it. But I do have more power, more influence, than I ever did before. And that’s what I’d use.”

  Up ahead was what looked like an old warehouse that had been given fresh paint and some exterior planters. An LED sign read MUG with two mugs of foaming beer flashing below the word. A short line of people waited by the door, a doorman checking their names on an iPad. A sign on a post read Closed for Private Event.

  “There are so many lost young men looking for missions,” Drake said. “So many Alan Chastains and Lucas Derrys. They just need direction. It would be easy to provide. I would just have to make the suggestion.” He turned to her. Stared down at her, meeting her eyes, daring her to look away. “‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?’” he asked softly. Then he gently clasped her elbow. “Here we are.”

  44

  “So what did he want?”

  Rose had gotten there first and had grabbed a booth in the back of the dimly lit bar.

  Casey shook her head, her heart still hammering. She badly wanted a drink. Would anyone care if she had one? She used Trusty to ease herself into the seat opposite Rose.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He was all over the place. But you’re right, he’s a narcissistic jerk. He’s gotten a little taste of power, and he’s drunk on it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, that he could get one of his followers to kill me if he wanted.”

  She’d tried to keep her tone light, but from the look on Rose’s face, she hadn’t exactly succeeded.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Also that he thinks of himself as a traditional American revolutionary.”

  “We need to call Detective Helton. Or that FBI guy.”

  “What’s the point?” Casey was suddenly exhausted, feeling an ache deep in her bones. “He’ll just say he was ‘spinning fictional scenarios.’ And odds are that’s all he was doing. He’s pissed off I complicated his life, and he wanted to show me he has the power.”

  “Hey guys.”

  Diego had arrived, and he was carrying three small mugs of beer. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said.

  “Oh thank god.” Casey grabbed her mug and drank deeply. A very strong IPA. She could taste the alcohol in it.

  “He sure took the scenic route to get here,” Diego said. “We could have walked up Tony Gwynn and along J and missed all the crusties.”

  “Intimidation,” Rose said. “He threatened her.”

  “Seriously?”

  Casey nodded, scribbling notes in her pad, wanting to get as much of the conversation with Drake on paper as she could before she could forget any of it. Too bad it’s off the record, she thought. But there might be some way to use it, depending …

  Depending on what George Drake did next.

  Right now he made his way around the long wooden tables, stopping to exchange a few words and shake hands with his fans. Inside the place was about what Casey would have expected from the exterior, showing exposed beams and heater vents, some brewing tanks and wooden barrels. From the size, Casey thought it only took up about a quarter of the building at most. By now the space was pretty full, the seats filled, the overflow lined up around the bar and at the back of the room.

  “Notice anything about this crowd?” Rose said in a low voice. “Pale and male.”

  She was right, Casey realized. Most of the people here were white men, mostly young white men. A lot of them had buzzed haircuts and wore plain white T-shirts, black jeans, boots. She shivered. There were a few hard-looking guys with muscle, but most of them didn’t seem formidable or scary, taken individually. Some acne-spotted faces. Chubby guts hanging over their belts.

  Baby fat.

  “Let’s see if we can get some quotes,” Casey said. “What do you think about those guys over there?”

  “Hang on. Looks like Drake’s going to speak.”

  George Drake had stepped up onto a tiny black stage at one end of the bar. A microphone on a stand was already set up there. Diego had his camera ready. The light wasn’t the best, but it would do. They hadn’t asked for permission to film here, but then, no one was telling them no, either. Casey and Rose stood up as well, Rose with the GoPro.

  A few preliminary squeals from the microphone, and then Drake began. “Hello! And good evening.”

  A round of applause and cheers.

  “I’m not going to make a lengthy speech. That’s not what tonight is about. Tonight is about you, a chance for us to gather together, in meatspace for a change. I know that many of you came a considerable distance to get here. I can’t tell you how deeply honored I am by that. Most of you couldn’t even get tickets to Comic-Con, am I right?”

  “Too expensive!”

  “Sold out!”

  Laughter.

  Drake laughed back. “Don’t I know it. They have to save all those tickets for the Hollywood elites that have taken over what used to be an event for fans. Fans like you! They’ve tried to shut you out! They don’t care about you.”

  A murmur of assent.

  “Well, we don’t have to care about them. We have each other. We are strong as long as we are one.”

  “Megalomaniac, much?” Rose whispered in Casey’s ear.

>   Casey nodded. But she had to give Drake credit—he was much better at this than she would have expected from a comic book writer. Or graphic novelist, rather.

  “See, here’s the thing. Those Hollywood elites? The political elites that run nanny states like California? They are out of touch with real Americans. With real American values. They’ve forgotten about men like you. But you know what they’ll tell you? That you’re privileged. Privileged! Come on, is that fair? Do you feel privileged, any of you? What do you have to say? Let’s hear it!”

  A roar of “No!” from the crowd.

  “I’ll tell you what, I’ve worked hard. I’ve worked hard all my life for what I have now. I bet you have too, I bet you’ve worked your heart out, but they make it difficult, don’t they? All those liberals telling you to check your privilege.” He snorted. “Assuming I did have it, what makes them think I’m just going to give it up? Why should I? Why should you? Men like you and I built this country. And we’re going to take it back. America belongs to us.”

  Drake looked to the back of the room, to where Casey, Rose, and Diego sat.

  “We’ve got some guests here tonight. Members of the media. Casey Cheng’s here. You know about Casey Cheng?” He pointed directly at her, smiling his toothy smile. “There she is! One of Alan Jay’s targets, but she’s recovered nicely. She’s been doing quite a job, I’ll tell you. Quite a job, reporting on Alan Jay and Lucas Derry and my work. Right, Casey? Why don’t you say hello to everybody? I for one am really glad you’re here.”

  Most of the heads in the room turned to stare at her. And suddenly it didn’t matter that they were young, that they were chubby and had pimples.

  Casey lifted her hand in a wave. Pushed up her cheeks in an imitation smile.

  They would want her to smile.

  “I don’t like where this is going,” Rose whispered harshly. “We should get out of here.”

  Casey shook her head. If they left now …

  Drake was a bully. Bullies preyed on the fearful.

  She got out her iPhone and opened up Periscope. Get the whole thing out live. That way if something happened …