Black Swan Rising

by Lisa Brackmann

  “Any explanation why, have there been any reports, any indications of plots disrupted in the planning stages?” she heard Sherrie ask.

  “Not that I know of, Sherrie. But it’s still early.”

  Maybe it won’t happen here today, she thought. Maybe we’ve already had our share.

  Mark’s voice: “Casey, you’ve been on this True Men story from the very beginning. Is what we’re seeing today the emergence of an organized effort to subvert American democracy?”

  For a moment, Casey’s mind went blank. But she was supposed to be the expert. True Men was her story. That was how News 9 had branded it: True Men, Casey Cheng reporting.

  “At this point, it’s difficult to say how organized they are. From my experience, they lack a coherent ideology or clear goals.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the police cars, at the armed guards frisking volunteers, rifling through their bags.

  “What they do have in common is rage. And the ability to disrupt. The extent to which that damages our democracy says more about us than it does about them.”

  “Wise words from Casey Cheng,” Sherrie said. “We’ve just gotten word of another attack, this time in Wisconsin.”

  “You’re out, Casey,” the director said in her ear.

  Her story. Her monster.

  You didn’t make this happen, she told herself. You didn’t. You just helped give it a name.

  “What’s the latest?” Jane asked as Angus entered the office.

  “Nineteen dead, a lot of injuries. More reports of shots fired. It’s spread to twenty-five states. Mostly assholes throwing firecrackers, thank the lord.”

  “What is this going to do to turnout?” Sarah asked.

  “Depress it, of course. People are afraid to go to the polls.” Jane sighed. “Luckily with mail-in ballots, it’s not as big a factor here as it is in a lot of other states. But still, we need every vote we can get. Polling’s good but I don’t want to count on it.”

  The campaign office was full up. Volunteers sat in every available spot at the long folding tables arranged in ranks in the bull pen, making phone calls. She could hear the hum of activity through the closed door and glass window of Jane’s office, phones ringing, a blurred murmur of people making their pitches.

  “We’ve got every volunteer we can round up doing phone calls,” Angus said. “We’ve got the phone bank here, there’s a couple being held in people’s homes, county headquarters is busy, and Tomás says so far the people he’s lined up to drive voters to the polls haven’t backed out.”

  “And Matt?” Sarah asked. “Is he still planning on going to his polling place?”

  “Of course,” Jane said. She sounded resigned.

  Just after nine o’clock was the latest plan. Originally he’d wanted to vote right when the polls opened in hopes of getting some coverage on the early morning shows, but with everything else that was going on, they’d decided to wait. A couple stations had local news at nine, including News 9 (“Your News 9 at 9”).

  He didn’t have to, Sarah knew. He could mail in his ballot instead of dropping it off in person. The mail-in ballots only had to be postmarked by today. Or he could take it to a different polling place, or to the county elections office.

  “Then I’ll go too,” she said. “To get some things for Social.”

  She wasn’t sure why she wanted to be there. It wasn’t because she wanted Matt, not anymore. It was just seeing it through. And maybe if she got some images out on Social, a short video or two, it might encourage people who were afraid.

  “I am guessing there’s no point in trying to talk you out of that,” Angus said.

  Sarah felt herself smile. “No, not really.”

  “Well, hell, I’ll go too.” He stood up and stretched. “Be nice to get some fresh air.”

  “Oh, fine,” Jane said. “Let’s all go.” She shrugged. “A show of support. I don’t know. It’ll probably be the safest polling place in San Diego, anyway.”

  “I wish we weren’t still trying to make this a horse race,” Casey said. “Because at this point, it’s truly beating a dead horse.”

  Rose snorted. “Oh my god, what I wouldn’t give to have you say that on air.”

  “Don’t tempt me. I’ll be in Bhutan for the fallout.”

  The blocks around the elementary school where Matt Cason would vote were lousy with live trucks and news vehicles: local, national, global. This was “The race that ignited the True Men movement,” and everyone wanted coverage of the ending. Police SUVs parked on the blocks leading to the school as well. Casey had counted three of them, with another sitting in the parking lot by the entrance to the elementary school auditorium that served as the polling place.

  An elementary school auditorium. Casey thought of the footage from Manassas attack, the kids’ drawings on the walls, the smiling voters sketched in crayon. Maybe they could use that shot somehow, for this segment.

  Oh god, she thought. There’s something wrong with me. There’s something wrong with all of us. How do we fix it?

  She wasn’t even sure what “it” was.

  Reporters and photographers stood clustered on the sidewalk, at times drifting into the front yards of the remodeled ranch houses, yards planted with huge, spiky succulents, bark beds with rose bushes, gravel, the occasional vegetable garden. Residents of the area had started to congregate as well, some on their way to vote, others drawn by the circus that had camped out in their neighborhood.

  Casey stared out at the bay. It was a clear, blue day, and she could see all the way to the ocean on the other side of Mission Boulevard.

  I just want this to be over, she thought.

  It wouldn’t be, though, she knew. Just because the election would be over didn’t mean that this all would end.

  “Look who’s here,” Diego said. Casey and Rose looked in the direction his camera pointed.

  Coming up the sidewalk were Sarah Price, Jane Haddad, and Angus Wheeler, followed by a knot of about a dozen people she didn’t recognize, carrying Cason for Congress signs, some wearing campaign T-shirts, several news crews in their wake.

  “Sarah, hi!” Casey called out, waving. She wanted to give Sarah a big hug, but she didn’t want to do it on camera. It might be the perfect “poignant moment” for the package, but she didn’t want to supply it. There were complaints about her objectivity as it was.

  Sarah broke away from Haddad and Wheeler and trotted over to Casey.

  “Hi, Casey. It’s good to see you.” She smiled, a real smile, and Casey thought, Oh what the hell?, and hugged her anyway.

  Sarah hugged her back. Here’s your perfect poignant moment, Casey thought, and here are some tears to make it even better, because now she was crying.

  She let go of Sarah, pressed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, and smiled shakily.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Long day already.”

  Sarah nodded and gave Casey an awkward pat on her shoulder, and Casey could see the muscles move in her throat as she swallowed hard.

  “It has been,” Sarah said. She glanced around, at the cameras and microphones now surrounding them, drawing closer, weirdly silent.

  Well, not weirdly. They wanted to hear what the two of them were saying.

  Okay, Casey thought, patting the tears on her cheeks so she wouldn’t smear her makeup. Time to get it together. Because god knows how many photographers were shooting them by now, and she was not the story. She had a job to do.

  She gestured at the crowd. “What’s going on?”

  “Just a little show of support,” Jane Haddad said from behind Sarah. “With everything that’s going on … we felt that it was important. Of course we won’t get within one hundred feet of the polling place.”

  “Of course.”

  Rose was already mingling with the group c
arrying signs and wearing Cason T-shirts, looking for likely interviews, two steps ahead of the other news teams. “Do you want to make a statement?” Casey asked Sarah.

  “Not really.” She didn’t look away. She seemed calm. Steady. “I don’t have anything new to say.” She glanced back at the Cason supporters. “You should talk to Carol—that older woman in the climate march T-shirt? She’ll give you a good bite for sure.”

  “Thanks,” Casey said. “And … thanks. It’s really good to see you too.”

  (LIVE SHOT: WESTERN BAY PARK, ON STREET NEAR EINSTEIN ELEMENTARY) CAROL OLSEN, CASON VOLUNTEER: I’m 83 years old, and if one of those little punks wants to take a shot at me, let them. I’m not afraid. I’m here to support my candidate and our democracy.

  CASEY CHENG, NEWS 9: And you, sir? As I understand it, you’re not a Cason supporter.

  MIKE KELLEY, AREA RESIDENT (49 YEARS OLD, WEARING USMC T-SHIRT): No, ma’am, I am not. I’m pretty conservative, to tell you the truth. I already voted for Kim Tegan. But my feeling is, people should be able to vote without being scared. So I just thought, maybe I could help keep an eye on things (GESTURES AT THE PEOPLE LINING THE SIDEWALK). I think a lot of us are feeling that way.

  “Is that Cason?”

  A black SUV with tinted windows cruised slowly down the street, heading toward them. It looked like the SUV that had ferried Cason around for the precinct walk, but Casey wasn’t sure.

  Jane and Angus started clapping, Angus waving at the Cason volunteers, who began to cheer. Sarah held up her iPhone.

  It had to be him.

  The black SUV slowed, then stopped just a few yards in front of them. Matt Cason hopped out, followed by Lindsey. He wore a navy suit today with an open-necked light blue shirt. Lindsey was dressed in a pantsuit, cream, with a chocolate brown blouse.

  “Wow, look at this!” he said. He approached the volunteers. Diego was on it, grabbing the spot with the best angle, even as two other photographers jostled for position.

  Matt shook hands, gave hugs. “I wasn’t going to just drive by without stopping to say hello,” Casey heard him say. “And to thank all of you, for all your work, for being here … this is just … ” He seemed to choke up. He pressed his index and middle finger against his forehead, his eyes closed. “It’s pretty overwhelming.”

  Casey pushed her way to the front of the scrum. “Representative Cason—Matt—”

  “Hey, Casey.” He was smiling again.

  “Matt, how does it feel to be here, coming to vote, after everything that has happened on this campaign, with all that’s going on in the rest of the country right now?”

  “That’s a tough one.”

  They stood close together now, nearly toe to toe, close enough for Casey to see that he wore something under his blue shirt. Not an undershirt. A light Kevlar vest.

  “I’m angry. I’m … sad. And I’m really grateful.” He gestured at the volunteers holding up signs, at the people who’d come out of their houses and now lined the sidewalks. “These are the people I’m doing this for. And the fact that they’re out here, today … you know, our democracy is under attack. I mean, literally. But this is the defense. Right here.”

  Abruptly, he turned away. His hand found Lindsey’s. The black SUV, which had been waiting behind them, engine running, pulled up and the driver’s window rolled down.

  “Representative Cason?” the driver called out.

  “That’s okay, Morgan,” Matt said. “We’ll walk.”

  Matt and Lindsey started down the street, toward the school. The cameras followed alongside. So did Sarah. She held up her phone, staring at the image of Matt and Lindsey on its screen.

  Casey watched them head down the block to the auditorium, stopping along the way to shake hands with people on the sidewalk. She’d need to reposition herself down there as well. She started walking, passing two police cruisers, the officers standing by them, watching. A helicopter circled overhead, the circles increasingly smaller, the blades sounding oddly like beaters against the side of a metal mixing bowl.

  For a moment, the noise and the crowds receded, and she saw only the school, the American and California state flags fluttering from a tall mast, the asphalt parking lot, the chain link fence that surrounded the playground.

  Everything looked normal, if you just looked straight ahead.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing acknowledgments is always stressful for me because I know I will forget someone. And I really want to thank everyone who helped me with this book, both directly and in terms of being amazingly supportive of me while I was writing it. This was not an easy book to write, and I needed all the help I could get.

  First, many thanks to all the folks at Midnight Ink who have ushered this book out into the world, especially acquiring editor Terri Bischoff, editor Nicole Nugent, and cover designer Shira Atakpu (I love this cover so much!). Thank you for believing in this project. Your fearlessness and support mean a great deal to me.

  My deep appreciation to my agent, Katherine Fausset. Publishing is not an easy business, and I could not ask for a better person to have in my corner. Always supportive, always kind, and always battling for a better deal. Thanks as well to all the other hard-working folks at Curtis Brown, in particular Holly Frederick, Kelly D’Agostino, Sarah Gerton, and Olivia Simpkins.

  Huge thanks go out to author Tom Abrahams, who gave so generously of his time and expertise in broadcast journalism. He patiently answered all my questions, even the stupid ones, with a writer’s understanding of what I needed to know and why I needed to know it. Meeting people like Tom made me want to create a character like Casey, who cares deeply about her job and about doing it right. Any mistakes I made (and I’m sure I made a few) are the result of my own incompetence, not from any errors on his part.

  The same goes for the San Diego political experts/campaign workers who talked me through the nuts and bolts of local elections. We tend to be very cynical about politics in today’s United States, with some reason. But at the same time, in my experience there are many dedicated people working in politics who care passionately about the potential of our system to do good and to accomplish good work. This book is in large part an appreciation of all the elected officials, campaign staff, and volunteers who work so hard to do the right thing. (That includes the Squirrels. You know who you are!)

  As always, special thanks to my family, especially Bill, Dana, and Dave. Have I mentioned how awesome it is to have writers for a sister and brother-in-law? I’m probably going to have to thank them twice. Gratitude as well to my cousins Jill and Sandy.

  Speaking of writers, I am truly blessed with a fine circle of writer friends. Thanks especially to Dana Fredsti, Allie Larkin, Jo Perry, Catherine McKenzie, Kim Fay, and Richard Burger for their beta reads; Bryn Greenwood and David Fitzgerald for their general support; along with the Fiction Author’s Co-op, Purgatory, and so many wonderful folks in the crime fiction community that I couldn’t begin to list them all. I’m convinced that crime fiction writers must get all their demons out on the page, because they are such an incredibly nice group of people.

  And where would I be without Billy Brackenridge, my partner in sushi, wine, and fine conversation? Far poorer in the things that really count: experience and friendship.

  Finally, to everyone at two of my locals, Amplified Aleworks and Dan Diego’s. Writing can be an isolating profession. At the end of a long day where I mostly talked to my screen and to my cat, I can’t tell you how much I appreciated being able to go have some great food, fine beer, and good times. You all rock.

 

 

 
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