Black Swan Rising Page 2

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  He laughed, one solid chuckle. “Good. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to read it. I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts.”

  I can transfer you to a better person, she wanted to say, but he hung up before she could get the words out of her mouth.

  Oh well, she thought. Odds were he wouldn’t call back. He was probably just another crank who got off on punking people. He didn’t sound like one of those, but then yesterday she’d fielded a call from a guy who’d sounded totally sane until he told her that California’s drought was caused by geoengineering.

  “Why would anyone want to do that?” she’d asked.

  “Because they want us all to starve! It’s all part of Agenda 21, don’t you get it?”

  “Right,” she’d said.

  God, people were crazy.

  2

  “Where’ve you been?”

  Sarah slipped onto the open space at the end of the bench next to Ben. “Finishing the report.”

  Giant fans blew hot air through the little brewery, one of many that occupied industrial parks like this one, behind roll-up steel doors. They’d left the ceilings open, silver ductwork and electrical lines running from one end to the other. Large metal tanks and plastic barrels and kegs lurked behind the bar and taps.

  “You need a beer,” Ben said. There was a small goblet-style glass in front of him. The beer that was left in it was a deep, thick caramel, like maple syrup. “Belgium quad. It’s really good. You want to try it?”

  “I … that’s okay. I’ll just get something light.”

  “They do great Belgiums here. Good sours too. And the IPAs are awesome, but this is San Diego, you have to do a good IPA.”

  He was talking a little fast, a little loud, three fingers of one hand tapping out an arpeggio on the base of his glass. Probably not his first beer, Sarah thought.

  She didn’t drink much when she went out. Of course, she didn’t go out much anymore either. Sometimes she’d buy a bottle of wine and take it home and open it up in front of the TV. Drink more of it than maybe she should. She drank a whole bottle the first night she slept in her new apartment. But she was safe at home, at least.

  “Maybe the saison—good fruit, nice spice, not too strong—”

  “Why don’t you share mine?”

  It took her a moment to recognize him. The congressman—Matt—stood there, holding a long paddle-like board with small glasses stuck in a line of holes. He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, which was so out of context that she hadn’t been able to place him at first.

  He didn’t have to ask. Ben slid over to make room for him. She hesitated for a moment, then shifted to the outside of the bench. Better to have Matt in the middle. It would make Ben happy. She wasn’t sure she wanted to sit between the two of them anyway. Matt and Ben would either talk over her or she’d be the focus of too much attention.

  As soon as he sat, Matt turned to her. “I just got here too. I really needed to change.”

  He was wearing a faded T-shirt, like Ben. But not advertising a brewery. It was for the Padres, the baseball team, and it looked like a cheap shirt that had gotten a lot of wear.

  “How goes the CaliBaja mega-region?”

  No doubt this time, he was smirking.

  Or maybe it was just a smile. Like it was their own private joke.

  “I’m working on it,” she said. “Trying to get it to pop.”

  Was that a strange thing to say? Did he get that she was joking back?

  “I’m sure it will,” he said.

  She still couldn’t tell.

  Matt lifted up the first glass in his rack. “So this is supposed to be their flagship IPA. I’ve had it before. Have you tried it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Here.” He held out the glass.

  Don’t. You never take a drink, ever, from a stranger.

  Or even from a friend.

  He was staring at her, smiling, all that intensity aimed at her, and if she hesitated a moment longer, it was going to look strange, awkward. He might ask questions.

  The beer was fine, she told herself.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling back.

  She took a sip. An explosion of citrus and pine supported by a bitter bite.

  “What do you think?” Matt asked.

  “It’s good,” she said. “I mean, I like it.”

  “It is good. They won an award for it.”

  “Mosaic and Simcoe hops,” Ben blurted.

  Matt smiled at him. “So how many breweries do you think you’ve hit in San Diego?”

  “I think it’s eighty-three.”

  Ben’s turn. Good. She’d have a little time to think about what she wanted to say to him. To Matt. It was always best to ask a question. Take the attention off yourself. People were usually flattered when you asked them questions.

  Something about his legislative priorities for the next term, maybe?

  Maybe he really was interested in promoting cross-border economic development. That one was tricky. If you weren’t careful how you said it, people thought you were shipping their jobs to Mexico. Which sometimes you were.

  “San Diego is majority minority, just like every other big city in California,” Ben had told her. “But there’s a strong nativist sentiment here. There’s people who hate living on the border. All they care about is building higher walls. They’ll tell you it’s to keep the illegals and the drugs out.” He’d laughed at that.

  “Which is your favorite so far?” Matt asked.

  Sarah turned her head. “What?”

  “The beers. Which one do you like best?”

  She still clutched the first glass he’d given her, nearly finishing it without thinking. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just drank this one.”

  For the first time, something in his eyes looked different. Like he’d turned off the high-beams for once. Maybe he actually saw her.

  “Don’t feel bad. It’s a great beer. Let me get you another one.”

  It’s okay, she told herself. It’s just a beer.

  She watched Matt wind his way through the barrel tables, someone in a Padres cap stopping him on the way, a huge smile on his face as he recognized Matt. The two clasped hands.

  She couldn’t see Matt’s face, but she knew the lights were back to bright.

  “So what do you think?”

  She looked at Ben. He was just raising his glass to his lips.

  “About what?”

  The campaign? The beer? The CaliBaja mega-region?

  Ben swallowed hard. Wiped his index finger along his lips. “Matt. What do you think about him?” His voice sounded nervous around the edges.

  Was this some kind of test?

  “I think he’s great. That’s why I’m working for him.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, me too.” Ben lifted up his goblet and took a slug of beer, sweat beading on his forehead. Swallowed. “He likes you,” he said, his voice flat.

  She shivered a little. Managed a smile. “I think he likes everybody.”

  But she didn’t think that was what Ben had meant.

  “Hey, looks like Lindsey’s entered the building,” Ben muttered.

  Lindsey, the finance director. Matt’s wife.

  She stood just past the entrance of the brewery, backlit by the early evening sun. But her figure was unmistakable: a little taller than average, long-limbed, with an athletic build. She played some sport in college, but Sarah couldn’t remember what. Soccer, maybe? She looked like someone who spent a lot of time running up and down a field, anyway. Her head swiveled from side to side, scanning the room.

  Matt had finally made his way back to the table, two beers in hand. “Here you go,” he said, handing one to Sarah.


  Behind Matt’s back, Lindsey approached their table. “Hey,” she said, giving Matt’s shoulder a squeeze.

  He flinched, turned, and smiled. “Hey.” They briefly hugged, with a quick kiss on the lips.

  Was it real, the affection? Sarah couldn’t tell.

  “Lindsey, I know you’ve met Ben,” Matt said. “This is Sarah. She’s also in Communications.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sarah.” Lindsey smiled and extended her hand. Sarah took it. A hard grip, for a woman. She held on a moment. Sarah took in her hair, its layers and highlights, carefully styled to look natural, her face, slightly long and angular like the rest of her, a light sheen of makeup covering skin that had spent a lot of time in the sun.

  Lindsey let go of her hand.

  “You want a beer, Linds?” Matt asked, starting to rise.

  “I’ll go get one,” she said. “I need to check out the menu.”

  So fucking typical.

  “This would be a good time to roll a few calls,” she’d said.

  He’d flopped on the couch with a wave of his hand. “Let’s not. It’s late.”

  “It’s eight fifteen.”

  “It’s late. I’m tired. And I’ve had a few beers.”

  “Just three calls. They want to talk to you.”

  “Look, I’ve raised my quota for today, okay?”

  And Matt had turned away, picked up the remote, and put on the baseball game.

  “God dammit.”

  Lindsey didn’t think he heard her over the TV. “Padres lead the Mets, bottom of the fourth, with an add-on run just waiting out there on third … ”

  The TV took up half the living room wall. Matt had wanted it. One of their compromises. Funny, she couldn’t remember what she’d gotten out of the deal.

  She didn’t want a fight, not now. But there was some sick part of her that couldn’t help it. She stepped around the side of the couch, where he’d see her.

  He looked up and muted the TV.

  “That girl. That intern.”

  “Oh come on, Linds.” He sounded tired. “I just met her. I don’t even know her.”

  “Don’t fuck this up, Matt.”

  She’d seen the body that girl tried to hide, beneath her Gap blazer and white blouse.

  NEIGHBOR2NEIGHBOR/CLAIREMONT/NEWS_FEED

  George Morales, Bay Park Morena

  Gunshots fired? 3 min. ago?

  George Morales, Bay Park Morena

  Anybody hear gunshots? Like a bunch maybe a dozen? I’m south close to Old Morena.

  Reilly James, Clairemont Village

  Dude its firecrackers lol

  Kate Czerny, Bay Park Western Hills

  Agree its gunfire

  George Morales, Bay Park Morena

  Hearing copters and sirens now

  Jessica McDonald, Overlook Heights

  Me too, a bunch of police cars just headed down the hill.

  Reilly James, Clairemont Village

  Long as their not shooting at you its not serious

  Sarah heard the helicopters first, then the sirens. They seemed to be coming from different directions, converging down the hill from her. She grabbed her iPhone and opened Twitter.

  She’d started following San Diego–related accounts when she’d first become interested in Matt: his account, of course, then the accounts of other local politicians, news outlets, government agencies, tourist attractions like the San Diego Zoo. By the time she actually moved here, she’d added restaurants and breweries, sports teams, local influencers. That last category was the hardest to compile, but she thought she’d done a pretty good job, and she added new names every day.

  If something was going on down the hill, it would turn up in her feed.

  Hop Head @HopHead

  Im at @CrookedArrowBeer someone is on a roof shooting people outside

  Brett Untamed @BrettUntamed

  We were going to our car and a girl got shot in the head right in front of us and this guy tried to help an he got shot

  Hop Head @HopHead

  There’s 1 girl hurt pretty bad in here she got shot by the door and we carry her in and are

  appling pressure 2 slo bleeding pls send help

  News 9 San Diego @News9SanDiego

  Active shooter on Morena Blvd.; multiple fatalities reported.

  Now a hashtag—#MorenaShooter

  A couple of photos by Hop Head and Brett Untamed: Barrels stacked against the double doors, bloody towels pressed against a woman’s stomach, blood staining the pressing hands. Now a few photos from outside, flashing blue and red police lights, what looked like a body lying in the street. It was hard to make it out, in the dark.

  Who would be crazy enough to take pictures with someone out there shooting?

  She opened Campaigner, clicked on the New Post box, titled it “Morena Shooter.” Wrote: There’s an active shooting incident going on not far from my apartment, down on Morena Blvd, near the Crooked Arrow Brewery. Supposedly there are several fatalities. The hashtag is #MorenaShooter.

  She copied the links of a few of the best tweets. Pasted them in the post. Hesitated a moment, her finger hovering over the Priority box.

  Some people probably knew about it already. They must. But no one had posted about it yet.

  Has to be Code Red, she thought. It’s a mass shooting, in his own district.

  She labeled it Red and hit Send.

  It never hurt to be first either.

  A video from @CaseyChengNews9:

  “We’re told the shooter is on the roof of a building behind me.” The reporter—a slight, pretty Asian woman with long, glossy hair—seemed very calm, her face pixilating and then coming back into focus. “The police have instructed us to take cover, and my photographer and I are crouched behind a car right now. You can hear gunfire in the background. We’ve had reports of multiple fatalities but have not been able to confirm—”

  A sharp metallic spat. The reporter flinched. “That was close.”

  A male voice in the background. “We’d better move.” The video panned to the cameraman briefly, a big Latino guy, then back to the reporter. She was the one taking this video, Sarah realized, holding the phone or the camera or whatever she was using in her hand, her arm stretched out enough to show the street behind her, beams of red and blue light sweeping over it.

  “All right,” the reporter said. “We’ll keep you posted with the very latest on News 9 at eleven.”

  Sarah sipped a glass of the beer she’d brought home in a small growler from the brewery. Ben had bought it for her, “Since you didn’t get to try the saison.” It tasted pretty good, but she liked the IPA Matt had given her better. She flipped through the local channels on her TV. Two of them were doing live coverage of the shootings. The others were late to the show.

  “The suspect has taken position on that roof, and the police have asked us to stay back, they say he is armed with a high-powered rifle, and unfortunately that’s making it very difficult for paramedics to reach the injured—”

  While she watched, she checked Campaigner. There were several replies to her post now: This is horrific. Praying for the victims.

  And then Angus: Assume Matt will be making a statement.

  Presley: Yes but suggest we wait until there’s a resolution.

  Jane: Agree.

  She checked the Seen button. Most of the staff had checked in, with two notable exceptions: Matt and Lindsey.

  There was a stream of new tweets with the #MorenaShooter hashtag.

  One of them, from @Haraguro93, caught her attention. My POV, it said. Good night for hunting Chads and Stacys.

  Below that, a nighttime photo, it looked like. A photo of a rifle, looking down the barrel to a street below.

  Hahah, dream on beta faggot, someo
ne replied.

  Hope you get a high score, wrote another.

  Total shitpost your stupidity gives me asspain

  Reeeeeeeee

  Go cry about it on /r9k/ faggot

  Haraguro93 @Haraguro93

  Hahaha fuck off normie cucks wish I could kill more of you #MorenaShooter

  PacManButt @PacManButt

  Don’t joke about this shit the libcucks already trying to disarm us don’t give them more ammo

  Haraguro93 @Haraguro93

  Not joking asshole just watch time 2 rise & shine

  She nearly dropped her phone when the trumpet fanfare that announced a Campaigner alert went off, and a black banner dropped over her screen.

  Thanks Sarah for being on top of this. Matt.

  She felt a brief flush of gratification that she’d done a good job, that it had been recognized. That she’d been seen, by Matt. The thought of what was happening on her Twitter feed quickly pulled her out of that mood, but she couldn’t tell what she was feeling now, whether it was anticipation or dread.

  What if Haraguro93 was for real?

  He’s probably full of shit, she thought.

  She clicked out of Campaigner and went back to Twitter.

  There was a new tweet from Haraguro93. A video. #MorenaShooter.

  Her heart thudded hard. She almost didn’t want to press play. What if … ?

  But of course she did.

  That same shot of the rifle again. Except now, you could hear things. Some kind of loud, pulsing motor—a helicopter? Indistinct shouting. And there were lights. Blue and red lights that swept over the scene, almost lazily.

  The shot panned around to a face.

  “Hey, robots.”

  Young. Thin. Pale. The changing colors lighting up his features and then receding, leaving them shadowed.

  “This is the best thing I ever did,” he said. “I just wish I’d gotten closer, so I could’ve seen their faces.”

  The video ended. Sarah realized she’d been holding her breath.

  3

  Fucker, Lindsey thought, as her foot hit the pavement. Asshole.

  Don’t land so hard on your heels. You’re being sloppy.

  She made herself slow down. Let her strides even out. Started to feel like her feet were pushing off from the ground rather than pounding against it.