Untangling the Black Web

by T. F. Jacobs

  “Okay. So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying it looked like some sort of shady-ass cover-up. Insurance denies coverage, patients don’t want to pay, so the cops take them away. Then they turn up at my cemetery with no explanation. That’s some shady-ass shit right there.”

  I’ve heard about the American True Care low-income program, but I never review those contracts. They’re prewritten. They have blanket coverage, as required by the government.

  The connection sounds far-fetched.

  “You are saying that these guys were covered, but American True Care denied them, and the cops and hospital just let them die? You know how crazy that sounds?”

  “You want to explain to me how this shit happened then?”

  I should have known that if I was going to try to blow the whistle, some crazy people with some crazy and unprovable theories would come out of the woodwork.

  I need others with stories, but I need them to be sane. This is exactly the type of thing I need to avoid if I want to be taken seriously.

  I need to end this call. It’s a pointless waste of time.

  “Dominique, I apologize, but I should really go. I’m too distraught to think straight. Can we continue this conversation another time?”

  She furrows her brows.

  “Look, you might think I’m crazy, but I ain’t. Call me when you’re ready to help me get these guys.”

  She hangs up.

  Finding people who can actually help my case is going to be tougher than I anticipated.

  Even if what she said is true, good luck proving it.

  Again I consider refilling my vodka, but think better of it.

  I’m more tired than I realized, and this is not going to be as easy as I thought. I need to come up with a plan to get credible witnesses with real information.

  . . .

  The water pouring from the showerhead turns lukewarm. The droplets beat against my head.

  My daze is interrupted when a booming knock sounds from the front door.

  Who the hell could be here so late?

  I shut off the shower, then dry off and wrap the towel around my waist.

  When I peer out the peephole, no one is there. It’s just an empty hallway.

  I open the door.

  “Hello?” I call.

  But there’s no one in sight.

  What the hell? Was I hearing things?

  I’m about to close the door when I notice a yellow padded envelope sitting on the doorstep.

  I pick it up, looking for some sort of stamp or writing, but it’s blank.

  I close the door and peel open the top.

  Inside is a gray flip phone that looks to be at least ten years old. It’s utterly unfamiliar. It looks like a cheap burner.

  I open it up and search for past calls or contacts, but the phone has no record of anything.

  Bizarre.

  I set it on the couch, then go to my bedroom to put on some clothes.

  As I’m pulling my shirt over my head, I hear something in the other room.

  Buzzing. Vibrating.

  I walk back to the couch, and sure enough, the burner phone is ringing.

  I flip it open to find that the call is from a blocked number.

  “Hello? I think I may have this phone by mistake. Do you know who it belongs to?”

  The other end stays silent for a long moment.

  “Hello?”

  A crackling fills my ears, causing me to pull back slightly. “Is this David Higgins?” asks a deep and almost robotic voice.

  “Yes, who is this? Whose phone is this?”

  “The phone is yours, David. And you needn’t concern yourself with who I am at the moment.”

  I stare out my window into the darkening night. What the hell is this?

  “What do you want then?” I ask.

  “Did you mean what you said at your wife’s funeral today? The part about vowing on your life to bring it all down?” the robotic voice continues, emotionless.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  It has to be one of the guests.

  “David, I need you to follow my instructions exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?”

  I laugh to myself. What is this? I contemplate hanging up.

  “Who is this?” I ask again.

  “As I said, that isn’t important,” the deep voice snaps.

  “Then why would I follow any instructions you give me? You are a complete stranger, and I have no idea what you want.”

  My patience is wearing thin.

  “You are looking for witnesses, right? I work for the same company you do.”

  I sit up straight. A chill runs down my spine.

  “Who are you?” I demand.

  “We can’t speak over the phone. We need to meet.”

  I contemplate it. Do I dare meet this person? Despite the risks, this could be the type of person I need. Someone who also works for American True Care and has seen the corruption firsthand.

  “Okay,” I say, surprising myself. After all, what do I have to lose?

  “Good,” the robot speaks. A crackling fills the phone again. “Exit your apartment, lock the door, and walk to the back exit of your building.”

  I must be insane taking directions from a complete stranger, one that could be out to kill me for all I know, but I’m going for it.

  “Okay,” I respond. I slip my shoes on.

  The robot breathes into the phone. “Good. Tell me when you are outside the back gate.”

  I lock my apartment door, then walk down the empty concrete hallway.

  I walk down two flights of stairs, then along the cobblestone walkway that lines the entire ground floor of the building.

  I approach the back gate and pause for a moment to survey the area. The gate is unlit. There’s a nip in the air that makes me wish I’d brought a jacket.

  The alleyway is abandoned and dark. I’m alone.

  “I’m here. Where are you?” I ask through unsteady breaths.

  The voice doesn’t answer. An eerie feeling creeps through my gut.

  Finally he speaks. “Good. Now take the alleyway straight ahead, and make the first right.”

  The asphalt alleyway sits between a six-story real estate firm to my left and a seven-story investment firm to my right. Every window in both buildings is dark.

  Soon I come to the first cross alley and take a right.

  It’s getting darker, because the moonlight is now covered by passing clouds.

  “I’m here.”

  “Good. Proceed forward, and then make a left down the next turn.”

  I follow the instructions. My loafers clatter through the walkway, and if anyone is around, they can hear me. But for now it appears I am all alone.

  The thought sends another chill down my spine, and I reach my hand into my pocket for my keys—my only weapon.

  I take the left.

  “Okay,” I announce into the phone.

  “Good. Now keep walking.”

  I do.

  There’s something at the end of the alleyway, but it’s still too dark to make it out.

  I get closer, my anxiety spiking.

  It’s a parked white van with blacked-out windows.

  It’s abandoned.

  “I’m here,” I say into the phone.

  The other end clicks, then goes silent.

  I pull the phone back to see that the call has ended.

  Something rushes at me from behind, but before I can process what is happening, I am thrown to the ground. My knees scrape against the asphalt, peeling back skin and ripping my pants.

  A burlap bag is forced over my head, then tightened. I try to pry it off, but my attacker grabs my hands, then zip-ties them behind my back so tight that the sharp edges cut into my skin.

  I lunge to my feet, but I’m thrown back down.

  Another set of feet run toward me.

  “What the fuck?” I yell.

  I feel something solid and metal p
ress into my back, and I know the feeling instantly even though I’ve never actually seen one in person.

  It’s a gun.

  “Cooperate if you don’t want to die,” an indiscernible woman says from my right.

  There’s the sound of a sliding door coming from in front of me.

  I’m lifted up, then thrown inside the van. My attacker climbs in beside me and the gun disappears from my back.

  The door slides shut, and the engine powers on.

  Chapter 4

  The gun is at my back again, and all I can think about is the fact that the trigger could be pulled at any second.

  “Who the hell are you?” I demand.

  No one answers, and I fall backward as the car accelerates forward.

  We bank a hard right.

  How many kidnappers are there? Two? Three?

  I can’t slow my heart. Fear has taken over my entire body.

  The van weaves in and out of traffic, causing me to rock back and forth.

  Minutes pass.

  Then half an hour. Still no talking.

  “I thought you were on my side,” I say to whomever is listening.

  No one replies.

  A few more minutes go by, and the van decelerates with a slight right turn.

  We must be getting off a freeway.

  I try to compute where we could be based on the turns we’ve taken, but I’m lost. We could be anywhere in Los Angeles, but we could be in Orange County too. For that matter we could even be in Riverside County, or maybe in the mountains.

  I’m guessing that’s the point of the mask; they don’t want me to know where I am.

  Several more turns blur together, and my face is sweating under the bag.

  “I need air,” I shout.

  “You’ll get some in a minute,” a new voice answers, a man’s.

  We cruise a few more minutes, then make another left.

  Suddenly, the van comes to an abrupt stop.

  I hear the swoosh of the sliding door as it opens.

  I’m lifted up and out of the van. My feet stumble while I try to find my balance.

  The gun is at my back again, and I’m being pushed forward.

  My breathing is fast and unsteady. I want to be as far away from the gun as humanly possible, knowing it could go off at any second. My entire body shivers at the thought.

  The night air is cold.

  “I’m taking your phone. Do you have any other electronics on you?” the woman asks as she slides my phone out of my pocket.

  “No.”

  They push me forward.

  The floor becomes smoother, and I’m aware of a roof over my head.

  We walk, then turn.

  Someone pushes me down, and my knees buckle against something hard, but I don’t fall. I seem to be in a chair.

  I hear a whisper—something I can’t make out.

  A sudden snap causes my hands to fly forward from where they’ve been secured behind my back. They’ve removed the zip tie, and the blood rushes back into my hands.

  A second later the bag is pulled from my head and I can see again. My eyes squint from the harsh light.

  Actually, the room is quite dark. My perception is off after being masked for so long. I look around the room to see that I am in a small, square office of some sort. Two chairs sit empty in front of me. A single light is on above. I can’t see anyone.

  I snap my head back to see who removed the bag, and I’m startled when two people enter the room.

  My heart pumps faster than it ever has before. This is fear. True fear.

  “Who are you?” I yell.

  Slowly they take their seats in front of me.

  The first figure turns, and I notice he’s wearing a disturbing silver faceless mask, with only slits for eyes. He’s tall and slender and dressed in a blue suit.

  Then the second one turns to reveal a red mask of the same menacing, faceless style. Just a smooth red plane with narrow holes for eyes. She’s wearing a black leather jacket and beat-up jeans.

  “David,” the woman says. She has an accent I can’t quite discern. British, maybe?

  My blood is pulsing even faster through my veins now. The faces of the masked captors staring at me are far creepier than anything my imagination conjured up while the bag was over my head.

  Is this some sort of demonic sacrifice ceremony?

  “Who are you?”

  “David, we don’t want to hurt you, but we will if we have to,” the man speaks. His voice sounds proper, and purposefully sinister.

  I sit up in my chair. The threat makes me want to lash out and take them on, but they have a gun.

  “David, we have a proposition for you. But first we need to learn if you can be trusted. To make sure you aren’t one of them,” the British woman says.

  None of this is making sense. “One of who?”

  “David, we don’t fuck around. We are going to give you one chance to come clean. If you are lying to us . . .” The woman trails off.

  “Who the heck do you think I am?”

  “A contractor. Private investigator. Hitman. Someone sent to lure us out. Who knows? All I know is that if you are one of those things, you are about to be in some real trouble.”

  The woman slides a pistol from under her seat and aims it squarely at my head.

  My breathing quickens.

  “Are you kidding me? This is insane. You said you saw my speech at my wife’s funeral. What more proof do you want?”

  I’m livid. Adrenaline is shooting through my veins. I want to lunge at them. Aim the gun at their heads and see how they like it. But the chances of me getting the gun out of her hands without being shot are next to none.

  And as though they know what I’m thinking, they each get to their feet and step toward me.

  Two pistols aim at my head. My breath comes in short gasps as I stare at them.

  “Last chance, David,” the British woman says. Her voice is as calm as day.

  My breaths are loud and fierce. My veins pulsate through my skin, and every muscle in my body is tense.

  “Why the hell would I be a hitman trying to kill you? Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds? You came to me.”

  The silver mask is inches from my face. The gun is held against my head.

  For what feels like an eternity, but what’s probably only seconds, neither of us move.

  My palms are sweating. Do I try to overtake them? The only chance I have is if I make a lunge at the man and knock the gun out of his hands.

  I know it’s risky, but if I want to live, it’s my only choice. I wait one more breath.

  Now.

  “Okay, okay,” the tall man says right as I’m about to attack. I freeze, heart pounding. “Let’s all just calm down.”

  The guns let up.

  My eyes dart around the room. Is one of them going to make an unexpected move? I’m ready for it, and I’ll fight back.

  “David, like I said, if you cross us, we won’t play around,” the British woman announces.

  They each sit.

  My body is alert, ready. But I can feel my muscles relax just slightly. I stay still, my fists at my sides. I don’t give them the satisfaction of a response.

  “We brought you here because it’s a safe room. No signal can transmit from inside it—no one can listen in. Now let’s cut to the chase,” the woman continues.

  “How much of what you said at your wife’s funeral are you serious about?” the man asks.

  I shake my head. “No. No more of this. I’m not going to play your game. You said you can help me, so tell me how or kill me, if that’s what you want to do, because I’ve had enough. I buried my wife today, for Christ’s sake. I don’t need this.”

  The masked figures exchange looks.

  “David, we want the same thing you do,” the British woman starts. “But we’ve been burned before, so we just want to ensure that your intentions are true. Something about you feels a bit too convenient. A lawyer inside of Ame
rican True Care with a dead wife and hundreds of thousands in medical bills just happens to deliver a speech at her funeral keen on bringing it all down. Maybe you can see why I would be hesitant to believe you.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or walk away. This is a joke.

  “We are very serious about what we stand for, David. You are on to something. And if you are planning to blow the whistle on American True Care, we want in.”

  “You said you work for American True Care. What do you know?” I ask, my eyes flitting from one mask to the other.

  “We’ll get to that, but first, I want to know what you know. Why do you think you can win a case against Big Healthcare? Companies with so much money they don’t know what to do with it. Why won’t they squash you like a bug?”

  I don’t have time for this. If they’re not going to shoot me, I’m leaving.

  I turn.

  “David, I promise you I can help. Please indulge me.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Insurance companies are pointless middlemen trying to sucker people out of money. Doesn’t matter if you look at it from the left or right. If you are leftist, you believe government should run healthcare, which would mean no need for insurance companies. On the right, people would pay cash for service with full transparency, also no need for insurance companies.”

  “True, but insurance isn’t going away, so what do you want to change?”

  “If it isn’t going away, it needs to be fixed. Starting with the shady practices of American True Care. Ninety-three percent of people don’t trust insurance companies. There’s no regulation of costs of medical services, and products and insurance companies love this because it means they can refuse certain treatments that might cost too much—the important ones. Plus, medicine is always evolving, and insurance companies refuse to pay for anything unproven—in short, the stuff that works. This all happens because we let it happen. We elect people into office that take bribes all day long from the biggest lobbyists in the country.”

  “Exactly. But what bloody proof do you have of these illegal deals? You’re just a contract reviewer.”

  “Trust me, these contracts aren’t sound. My job all day long is to take coverage away from people. I’ve got mountains of contracts as proof. Now what the hell do you have to add to it?”