Black Swan Rising

by Lisa Brackmann

  Casey watched them all on her laptop, sitting on her couch at home, a place where she felt safe.

  In one you saw the young man’s face clearly; in another, it was easier to see the gun. One captured the bullets tearing into Kim Tegan’s torso. The reputable news sources blurred that part, but you could find the unedited video on the web if you searched for it.

  Then comes a point where the streams diverge. Two cameras hit the ground, the photographers taking cover the way they’d been instructed in their risk-management seminars. One manages to resume taping, a blur of feet and bodies, shots and screams. One does not, but the other camera captures what he does: crawls to Tegan’s side, tries to comfort her, because there’s nothing else to be done, you can see the blood pooling around her body, and there’s too much of it.

  The third camera captures what happens to the gunman after Tegan is shot. This one was operated by Charlie from News 12, who doesn’t take cover, who remains upright, because he worked in Afghanistan and Iraq and is known to be a little crazy. One of Tegan’s security staff comes briefly into frame, a big man with a shaved head and gym-built shoulders, his weapon clasped in both hands the way professionals are taught to hold a pistol, and he pops off two quick shots, and the gunman spins and drops.

  The gunman was 22-year-old Jeremy Evan McIntyre, who’d come to San Diego from Phoenix less than a month ago, specifically to volunteer on Tegan’s campaign.

  “We never suspected a thing,” tearful staffers said. “He was a nice, quiet young man who seemed like he just wanted to help.”

  His family and friends paint a more troubling picture, of a young man who as a college sophomore had been treated for suicidal ideation and paranoid hallucinations, but who was nonetheless able to buy a gun in Phoenix two years later and take it with him west to San Diego.

  He’d been obsessed with the Phoenix cinema massacre, according to several witnesses, and he mentioned wanting to work for Tegan because she promised to do something about terrorists.

  He’d bought the gun “for self-defense.”

  “We were concerned when he left home but thought he was finally getting on track in a new city,” his family said. “We didn’t know about the gun.”

  As to what McIntyre thought he was doing, why he decided that Kim Tegan needed to die, the best anyone can do is guess. McIntyre left few clues, and he is not alive to answer.

  57

  RIP #KimTegan That cowardly murderer was not #TrueMen. You will have justice #RememberKimT

  LOL u dumb cucks, #KimTegan pwned U she was so busy blowing matt cason because theyre on the same side it was all a show #TrueMen

  #KimTegan wasn’t perfect but she was on OUR side, she wanted a pure America and to kick out the trash #TrueMen #RememberKimT

  #KimTegan is just a traitorous bitch who sold us out, walking with Cason, saying we’re not

  enemies, polishing cason’s knob #TrueMen

  This is what they want, they’re trying to divide us.

  McIntyre wasn’t #TrueMen. #KimTegan killing was #FalseFlag

  Agree was #FalseFlag. Shit’s gonna hit the fan now. They will get what they deserve #RememberKimT #TrueMen #TrueMenWillRise #ElectionDay

  They will get what they deserve #KimTegan #FalseFlag #TrueMen #TrueMenWillRise #ElectionDay

  58

  “Dead candidates have a pretty good track record. Just sayin’.”

  Jane let out a moan. “Thanks for that, Angus. Please let’s not say it outside this room.”

  “There’s five that died, their names stayed on the ballot, and they got elected to Congress,” Angus said. “I checked.”

  Presley lifted his hands. “We’re ahead in every poll. Thresher is fading. I don’t think Tegan’s death changes the essential dynamics of the race.”

  “Five for five. If you’re dead and on the ballot, you win.”

  Presley shrugged. “Well, worst-case scenario, she wins, there’s a special election and we get another crack at it.”

  “No.” Jane slapped her hands on the desk. “No, no, no. We are not doing this again. I have a baby I want to play with. We’re winning tomorrow. End of story.” She rose. “It’s eight fifty. Matt and Lindsey will be here in about fifteen minutes. Let’s shut down the phone bank and get the party started.”

  The volunteers deserved a party, Sarah thought, making her way to her desk. Not that she’d interacted with any of them much, other than Joshua, the intern helping her with Social. But she recognized some of the faces. What motivated them, she wondered, the mostly middle-aged and older women who kept showing up, after everything that had happened, submitting to bag searches and pat-downs, dealing with bomb threats and vandalism and murders?

  In light of Tegan’s death ten days ago, they weren’t planning anything crazy for the party. No group sing-alongs or dancing. She could just see how something like that would look on social media. So the music would be mellow, Angus would turn on his “mood lighting,” and they’d load up a couple long tables with drinks and snacks, which they’d spent a little more on than usual. Some of the volunteers had brought potluck too, and from the dishes now appearing on the tables, it looked like there would be more than enough food for the hundred or so people expected to show up.

  She made her way to her cubicle. It was quiet over there. One last check of the social feeds, she thought, before the party gets started.

  “Hey.”

  Sarah jumped, but the voice was familiar. Ben. She turned.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  He looked better than he had the last time she’d seen him. Still a little thin but not as pale. He didn’t have a walker or a cane, so his leg must have healed well. Just in time for the election, like he’d said.

  “Okay. It’s been … ” How to even describe it? “Busy.”

  He snorted a laugh. “I bet.”

  I don’t have anything to say to you, she thought. And you don’t have anything to say to me. Why are we pretending?

  “You look … like you’re feeling better.”

  Now he shifted a bit from foot to foot. “Yeah. I feel pretty good.”

  “It’s nice to see you,” she said, and then she turned back to her desk.

  “Wait a sec,” he said. “I just … ” He stood there, not quite looking at her, his hands balled into fists, knuckles of one hand pressed against the knuckles of the other. “I wanted to apologize. For being an asshole when you came over to visit me. I want you to know … ” He shook his head, smiled in a way that was more of a grimace, tilted his head to look at the ceiling for a moment before meeting her eyes.

  “I think you’re great,” he said. “I’ve thought that since we started working together. Here’s this smart, beautiful girl, and I didn’t want to say anything, or do anything, I wanted to keep it professional, and … ” He looked away again. “I didn’t think you were interested.”

  “Oh.” She thought he was telling the truth. The way he’d been during the campaign, sometimes she’d thought he was interested and other times she was certain that he didn’t even like her.

  And she’d done her best to keep him—everyone—at arm’s length.

  “Then why … ? When I came over … ”

  He let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, man. Look, if we’re being honest? I’ve seen the way you looked at Matt. I don’t blame you, a lot of people look at him like that. But … I can’t compete, you know? He’s Matt. I’m the loser who’s having a hard time leaving the house right now.”

  Ben swallowed hard, his eyes glistening. “That night you came over … I figured you just felt sorry for me.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” she finally managed. Because it was true, what he said.

  But Matt was a fantasy. Ben was real.

  “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted apologize, that’s all.” He turned to leave.


  “Ben,” she heard herself say. “We could go out for a beer later. When you’re feeling better.”

  For a moment he stood there, his back to her, and she thought, well, I tried.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. Flashed a quick smile. “That’d be great. After tomorrow. Let’s do it.”

  She watched his retreating back as he made his way over to Jane’s office. Would they really see each other after tomorrow? She realized that she wanted to. Just to see what they might be like together, outside the campaign.

  But she didn’t know what she was going to do when the campaign ended. Whether there would be a job for her, whether she even wanted to take it if there were.

  Wait until after tomorrow, she told herself. Wait till this is over, and then you can figure it out.

  As she approached her desk, the phone rang—the Communications trill. A direct call, not one that had been transferred—Natalie had already sent the main line over to voicemail.

  Not that many people had her direct line, and most of the people who did were already at the headquarters.

  She had a pretty good guess as to who it was.

  “Sarah?”

  “Hi, Wyatt.”

  “I saw you on the news, of course. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

  Sarah felt a rush of irritation. “Then why didn’t you?” Not that she really cared that he hadn’t called, but she was tired of people being sorry for things they could have easily avoided.

  “Well … ” A pause. “I feel responsible for some of what’s happened to you.”

  “Why should you? You’re not.”

  At least, she didn’t think so. But how could she know for sure? Maybe he was the one who outed her. He’d obviously known who she was, who she’d been. But what reason would he have for doing that?

  “You were taking those documents to Casey Cheng in the park that day, weren’t you? I assume that’s what you were doing, anyway.”

  So what if I was? she wanted to snap, but instead she remained silent. He hadn’t told her what to do with the papers. What she’d done with them had been up to her.

  “Which is fine,” he added. “That was a smart way to handle it.”

  She didn’t know what to say. If she agreed, that was an admission she’d done it. And even though logically he’d know she had—how else had Casey Cheng gotten that information?—there was no need to put herself on the record about it.

  “Well, the election’s tomorrow,” she said. Just to make conversation.

  “Yes. Have you voted?”

  “The day I got my ballot.” After what had happened in the park with Casey Cheng, filling out her ballot and mailing it in as quickly as she could had seemed like an imperative.

  “Good.” A pause. “Listen. I promised you I’d tell you if I heard any chatter.”

  Sarah felt a cold shiver and then a prickle of sweat. “What have you heard?”

  “Nothing specifically about your boss, or you. But in terms of the big picture … the pattern analysis points to a high likelihood of incidents with the intention of disrupting the election.”

  “What kind of incidents?”

  “Violent ones.”

  There was a sudden swell of cheers and clapping over the ambient jazz. Sarah turned her head.

  Matt and Lindsey had arrived. They were dressed much the same way as they had the day of the precinct walk, Matt in khaki chinos and white shirt, Lindsey dressed in a bright blouse and capris.

  They looked beautiful, she thought.

  “Hey!” Matt called out. “Great to see all of you here!” He saw Sarah and waved. She smiled and waved back, pointing at the phone.

  “Hang on a second,” Sarah said to Wyatt. “Can you … ? There’s … it’s loud in here.”

  “I’ll hang on.”

  Someone, Angus probably, turned off the music. “Don’t stop the music on my account,” Matt said quickly. “No speeches tonight. No speeches. Just … a thank you. Thanks for everything you’ve done. Thanks for being here.”

  More cheers. The music came back on.

  “I’m back,” Sarah said.

  “That Cason?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just tell him to be careful. Okay? You’ve got security there, right?”

  “Yes. Even more since Tegan.”

  “Good.”

  She took in a deep breath, and then another. She wanted to scream. This was supposed to be over. “The boy who killed Tegan was crazy. These True Men, they can’t even decide who the enemy is now. And we got the one who killed Rachel. Casey and I did. We beat them! Why do you think it’s going to get worse?”

  “Sarah, every time one of these guys goes after a high-value target and misses, it makes them even angrier. And what you and Casey did? They could accept what happened to Lucas more easily than that.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. Lucas was taken down by a former soldier. A man. But Brandon Gates? Beat up by a couple of girls? And sure, some of them will deflect by making fun of him, but don’t you think for a minute they aren’t enraged. And the more furious they get, the more likely some of them are going to pick up guns, or Molotov cocktails, do whatever they can think of to do some damage. That’s where we are now.”

  It can’t be, she thought. Things can’t keep going on this way. Matt was going to win tomorrow, and then it was going to be over.

  But she knew in her gut he was right.

  “Okay,” she said. “Thanks. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “You’ll be okay, Sarah. You’re smart. You’re talented. I know you’ll go far. But be careful out there. I just don’t know if it’s going to be safe.”

  Sarah almost laughed. When had it ever been safe?

  “I will,” she said.

  With all the things she didn’t know about Wyatt, she could only think of one thing that she really needed to ask right now.

  “Are we going to win?”

  A pause. “Yeah, I think so. I’m actually pretty sure.”

  Then it’s going to be okay, she thought.

  We’re going to win, and it’s going to be okay.

  “Oh, by the way … ” Wyatt said. “That invasion board. The one that’s been after you. I hear it’s been shut down. I gather the guys behind it are going to be a lot more careful about how they conduct themselves online in the future. At least that’s one thing you won’t have to worry about right now.”

  59

  Pipe Bomb in Manassas Polling Place Kills 2, Injures 7

  Casey stared at the alert on the lock screen of her phone. “Well, that’s not good,” she said.

  4:19 a.m.

  Election Day was going to be brutal.

  She lay back down on her pillow. Her alarm was set for 6:45 a.m.—earlier than she usually worked, but they wanted her to cover Matt Cason going to vote this morning, scheduled for around nine. Her last hit would be after the polls closed, at his victory party downtown, preferably after there was a projected winner and a speech. Odds were good that would be on the early side. Polling showed Cason comfortably ahead. Which was good when your opponents were a dead woman and a third-party TV star.

  Sleep, she told herself. Another couple of hours wouldn’t be enough, but it would help. She closed her eyes.

  Another alert on her phone.

  Maybe I should put it on Do Not Disturb, she thought. She just hadn’t wanted to risk missing anything important, not today.

  Drive-By Shooting Kills Three, Wounds Five, at Georgia Church Serving as Polling Place.

  “Shit.” Her heart started to pound.

  When the third alert came in fifteen minutes later, she was wide awake.

  Grenade Attack Destroys Cars in Parking Lot of Scranton Polling Place.

  Casey threw off the covers and swung her le
gs over the side of the bed. Too quickly—the sudden movement sent a shot of pain from her lower back down to her calf and back again. “Shit!”

  She took a few deep breaths, pushed herself to her feet with Trusty—getting out of bed in the morning was the one time she still really needed the cane—and hobbled into the kitchen to make coffee. No point in trying to sleep.

  Video came in on the Manassas attack while she poured water over her beans.

  Smartphone footage. It must have been shot right after the explosion; you could still see smoke, hear screams and moans from the victims. An elementary school auditorium. Construction-paper cut-outs on one wall, children’s drawings of flags and smiling people holding ballots.

  A crying toddler sitting next to a bloodied woman sprawled on the ground.

  Casey stared at the images.

  The station called a minute later.

  “Casey?” It was the morning show producer. “Can you get down here ASAP?”

  She was surprised it had taken them that long.

  She did her live shot as a stand-up in front of Cason headquarters, hitting at 6:09, right after the morning anchors, Mark and Sherrie, ran down what they knew about the Election Day violence—“Death at the Polls” was the bumper. She waited while they ran video that had just come in of a firebombing in Dallas, then a cut to a long shot of Cason headquarters in the gray dawn, several police cars parked in front, Sherrie’s voice in her ear saying, “Casey Cheng is live at Matt Cason campaign headquarters,” and then she was in the box.

  “All appears calm here as Cason campaign workers and volunteers prepare for a long day of getting out the vote,” she said, gesturing behind her, at the knot of people waiting to be searched by the armed guards at the door, “and as you can see, it’s already pretty busy.”

  Calm. That was a poor choice of words.

  “And by calm, I mean that so far today in San Diego, we have not experienced any of the violence that is affecting so many other places in the country.”