Untangling the Black Web

by T. F. Jacobs

  “How was your trip?” she asks in her throaty voice. Her tone is pleasant.

  “Not too bad. Had a good meeting with Connelly.”

  She grins.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen her smiling.

  She stands. Turns. Adjusts her dress around her butt, not trying to hide it whatsoever.

  My eyes naturally watch her do it, and I can’t help but notice the extremely flattering shape of her figure.

  She stares out over the blue skies and green country club below.

  I wait, unsure.

  She turns back to me, towering over me. She’s tall, maybe pushing six feet, and she’s wearing heels on top of that.

  “Was I not crystal clear about what we do here?” Her tone is steady and unwavering.

  She leans over her desk, her cleavage in full view.

  I keep my eyes on hers, which feel like they are looking straight into my soul.

  “You were.”

  She scoffs. Stands tall again.

  Her words are deliberately slow and loud. “Then why. The fuck. Has Connelly. Gone dark.” It’s a question, albeit a hostile one.

  Coldhearted, cutthroat bitch.

  I smile. It’s as fake as her boobs.

  I hate the way she talks to me, and a wave of confidence washes over me. “Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca.” My words are cool and calm. “Don’t worry. The bill will be put through.”

  She snaps. “Don’t you dare patronize me. I will rip your voice box from your throat and then feed it to you.”

  I keep my smile and my cool.

  I want to take her to court so badly. To humiliate her in front of her peers. To have her locked up as she should be, so that I can visit her behind bars and simply laugh.

  “I’m just playing around. The congressman should put it through by the end of the week. Don’t worry.”

  She stares.

  “Good. Because if he doesn’t, then your ass is done. And trust me when I say it won’t be a pleasant exit.”

  This is exactly what I wanted. I’ve got my phone recording in my pocket, because I had a feeling something like this might happen.

  “Get out of my office.”

  . . .

  I’ve called the congressman three times today. No returns—only an all-too-happy Sandra, who tells me she will pass on my messages. I’m sure she does, the same way she passed on the coffee.

  I’ve got one day left till the end of the week.

  I’m screwed.

  I use my burner phone to dial the number Brit gave me.

  It rings four times then disconnects. No answering machine. No answer.

  What else can I do? I hope there are some doozies in Connelly’s folder.

  The phone buzzes.

  I flip it open.

  “Hello?”

  “What have you got?” the deep mechanical voice asks.

  “Nothing. He hasn’t put the bill forward. If he doesn’t do it by tomorrow I’m done.” My response is measured and careful in case anyone is listening in.

  Silence on the other end.

  She’s thinking.

  “Do we have enough on the file?” I ask.

  “It’s big, but it’s not enough. Keep thinking. We can’t afford for you to lose this position.”

  The line goes dead.

  What was that? Pointless call.

  I can’t stop shaking my legs. The stress is eating away at my insides, turning them inside out.

  I force down a protein bar and a glass of milk.

  I search the headlines online for anything Connelly has done in the last week.

  Nothing.

  A chime draws my attention back to my pocket.

  I pluck out my personal phone to see I have a text.

  Evan: Hey bro, how you holding up? Why don’t I come up on Saturday?

  Definitely not the text I was hoping for.

  I think back to our last conversation. The funeral. When he told me I should think before quitting. It was an asshole move, but maybe he was right.

  The truth is I’ve been avoiding him. Avoiding everyone I knew from before her death. Since Lexi’s passing, I’ve been trying to leave as much of my old world behind as I can. It’s something I don’t want to face. Something I need to leave behind, because every memory of people from our past brings up memories of her.

  I ignore the text and turn on the television for the first time since her passing. I flip through a few stations before I land on a basketball game.

  Well, damn.

  The Lakers are playing the Clippers. Clippers are up.

  Evan and I used to go back and forth over which was the better LA team. I prefer the Clippers, but he prefers the Lakers. The Lakers always used to pound the living shit out of the Clippers through our high school and college years. Thank God that trend has reversed over the past few seasons.

  I pull out my phone to text him back.

  I’ll be here. See you then.

  I flip through more channels.

  CNN. Biased liberals.

  Fox News. Far more biased conservatives.

  BBC. I don’t know what the hell they are.

  Wait.

  I flip back one to Fox.

  My eyes glue to the screen, and I press the button to turn up the volume.

  “Breaking news,” says an overly tanned man without a single wrinkle across his forehead. His perfect brown hair is pressed back evenly, while he smiles a white-toothed grin for the camera. “We are reporting it as we see it, but the Washington Post has released an article alleging that Congressman Connelly, majority whip, threatened House minority leader, Congresswoman Thompson of Virginia, into voting for a controversial gun-rights bill he authored a year ago. The alleged threats indicate he would leak information about her husband’s affair with his secretary.”

  This can’t be a coincidence.

  The screen changes to show what looks to be an e-mail.

  The anchor continues: “Here is the alleged e-mail from Congressman Connelly to Congresswoman Thompson. ‘If you don’t vote for my gun rights measure and convince sixteen of your goonies to do the same, I will have to let slip what an adulterer your loyal husband is. Ask him about his assistant Daniela. Have a blessed day.’”

  The e-mail disappears from the screen, and the bronzed anchor reappears.

  “The author of the article, Rob Henderson, claims that the e-mails are ‘one hundred percent genuine.’ He will not reveal his sources, and we are yet to receive any statement from either Connelly or Thompson.”

  I spring to my phone to look up Rob Henderson. I never got his last name, but this has to be the same Rob. What other explanation could there be?

  A photo appears. And there he is. The tall, slender white male. Albeit he’s younger in the photo than in real life.

  But what does this mean?

  Obviously the e-mail had to come from the file extraction, but why release it now?

  Are Rob and Brit expecting me to call the congressman to tell him this was me? To pressure him into pushing the bill through with blackmail? That doesn’t add up. He’d come after me. He wouldn’t cooperate. If anything, he’d expose me.

  I dial the number to get in touch with Brit. I have to know what the hell is going on.

  It rings four times, then disconnects.

  I try again, desperate to know what is happening.

  No one picks up.

  Shit!

  I watch the coverage for another hour but get no closer to any answers.

  I swallow two more sleeping pills with a finger of vodka and lie on the couch. Sleeping in the bed without Lexi feels wrong tonight.

  She used to tease me every time we had any sort of argument about how I must have preferred sleeping on the couch to making love with her in the bed. She’d say that she’d have to do it all by herself.

  I’d do anything to live one of those nights over again.

  The buzz hits me hard, and sleep follows minutes behind it.

  . . .<
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  I’m sitting in my office, watching the phone on my desk. It’s eleven a.m., which is two p.m. in DC.

  They’re wrapping up their week.

  I’ve already called two more times, but today not even the smug secretary answered. I’m sure they’ve been dodging reporters from every news outlet on the planet.

  My BlackBerry rings.

  It’s an unlisted number.

  Odd.

  “This is David.”

  “David, I reviewed your proposal. I’m going to put it forward.”

  My eyes fix on the wall. I know the voice. It’s Connelly.

  “You will?”

  “I don’t know how you did it, but I’m not afraid to admit when I’ve been outplayed. And let me assure you, that doesn’t happen often.” His Texas accent is more prominent than I’ve heard it before.

  “Sir?”

  I’m lost.

  “Don’t play coy. I just want to ensure you know whom you are dealing with. You know what we can do to a congresswoman, so what’s not to say we wouldn’t do the same to you? I work for some very, very powerful people.”

  I turn to my window and look down to the parking lot below.

  It’s an indirect threat.

  I was responsible for the hack but not the leak. So why exactly does he think it was me? If I rebuke him and tell him it wasn’t me, he might take the deal off the table.

  “Congressman, let’s put whatever this is behind us.”

  “Yes. Let’s do that for now. But you better be watchin’ your back.”

  I’m not a fan of the threat, nor do I know what he means by it. But that doesn’t matter now; he’s given me what I need.

  “Congressman, can you hold for one second?”

  Silence.

  I look at my phone to make sure he’s still on the line. He is.

  I leap from my desk and rush down the hall three offices.

  Wrap hard on her door.

  “Can I help you?” Rebecca’s assistant asks.

  “It’s important. I need to speak to Rebecca.”

  Sensing the urgency in my voice, she stands, then twists the door handle.

  “Rebecca, I have the congressman on the line,” I call.

  Inside, Rebecca is on the phone. She holds her hand over the receiver.

  Her eyes narrow with a look of pure loathing.

  “This better be good,” she says.

  Her assistant moves aside to let me in, then slides out of the office.

  I hurry toward Rebecca’s desk.

  Put my phone on speaker.

  “Congressman, I want to confirm. When will you push the bill forward?”

  Rebecca’s gaze focuses on the phone. Waiting.

  He lets out an angry sigh. “Next week.”

  Rebecca’s lips tighten, then curve up. Genuine pleasure in her eyes.

  “Thank you, Congressman.”

  The line disconnects.

  Rebecca brings her phone back to her ear.

  “I’ll call you back,” she says. She sets the phone down.

  Then she stands, watching me. She’s wearing heels, a blue blouse, and skin-tight white slacks. She's showing quite a bit of cleavage. On purpose, of course.

  She moves around the desk and stops just a foot from me. Her eyes are level with mine.

  The small distance between us is uncomfortable. I want to step back, but it’s an intimidation move. If I retreat, I lose the power.

  She rests her butt on the desk and leans back. Relaxes her posture.

  “Good work, David.” Her voice is sultry.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I didn’t want to have to let you go, and it looks like you didn’t want that either.” Her words are teasing. She bats her eyes.

  “I didn’t.”

  She leans in closer. Her half-exposed chest is directly in my line of vision. She wants me to look, and it disgusts me.

  “You’re a good boy, David.”

  I know what she’s doing, and it’s part of her play. She’s sexualizing this, because she thinks she’s got something I want. She thinks by teasing me she has power over me.

  She doesn’t. I wouldn’t touch her if I was threatened with being burned at a stake.

  “Good boys get rewarded.”

  She reaches her hand toward my stomach and grabs my tie.

  She tugs on it, sending my neck toward her. Our faces are just inches apart.

  I see the specks of copper in her eyes. She doesn’t budge an inch. She’s so close I can feel the warmth of her breath.

  Every ounce of me wants to rip her hand off my tie. To shove her so that she sails into the window.

  Her mouth opens, revealing her pearly white teeth.

  “Do you want to meet a potential VP pick?” she asks in a babyish voice.

  My chest rises then falls. Heart thudding with vigor. It takes every fiber of my being to stay calm. To show her she’s not getting to me.

  “Yes.”

  She leans in closer, her nose less than a centimeter from mine.

  “Senator Ford of New York. From what I hear, he and our old lobbyist, Kevin, used to have a very good relationship. Make sure to show him a good time.”

  I can feel the moisture of her hot breath as she speaks. Smell the hints of peppermint.

  I am not sure if my breath is as pleasing to the nostrils as hers, but I don’t give a damn. I hope it’s not. That way she might let go of my tie.

  “When do I leave?” I return, my voice as steady as it’s ever been.

  She releases me and my neck springs up. Rebecca leans back on the desk with her arms behind her.

  “My assistant will get you the info. Meet him Sunday after he gets out of church.” Her eyes leave mine. She stands, then walks back around her desk. “We need this relationship locked up. If he becomes vice president of the US of A, we need him in our pocket.”

  “Will do.” That’s all I’m going to say. I’m not giving her the satisfaction of saying anything else.

  “Now run along. Good boy.” That same condescending, sultry voice.

  Bipolar, manipulative, cutthroat bitch.

  I don’t say another word as I walk through the door.

  When this thing burns down, I want her to be the first to go.

  . . .

  I open the door to my apartment, mail in hand. It has piled up over the past couple weeks.

  I flip through junk mail, tossing each envelope into the trash as I go.

  I stop as I notice one from American True Care.

  I pry it open, then scan the letter and see, in all caps:

  THIS IS NOT A BILL.

  I scan through some legal jargon at the bottom to see a coverage statement and adjusted rate for what I owe.

  After twenty percent coverage, we negotiated the rate on your behalf. Your estimated balance is $39,522.

  My behalf? It’s the statement of coverage for the surgery that killed Lexi. These blood-sucking thieves.

  I pour myself half a glass of bourbon, then take it down in one go.

  The burn awakens my senses as it trickles down my throat. My head flushes, and I welcome the sensation.

  Then I grab the glass and hurl it across the room.

  An explosive shattering bursts through the living room, sending shards of glass spewing in all directions.

  I stare at the wall, now decorated with a dent with glass specks stuck in it.

  The remnants sit on the floor.

  Forty grand to the doctor who killed my wife.

  I take a long, deep breath in.

  A chime from my phone distracts me from my rage.

  I pull it out.

  Evan: Meet at your apartment, noon tomorrow?

  Shit. I forgot. I’ll be en route to New York by that time.

  I type back.

  Sorry, man, I have a last-minute work trip. Next week instead.

  Twenty seconds later, he replies.

  No worries. Safe travels.

  Chapter 11 />
  I wait outside the cathedral for the senator. I considered going inside for Sunday service, but what’s the point? To pretend I’m just as righteous and holy as the senator? To exchange pleasantries about which Bible verses we most prefer? To pretend I’m a God-fearing man who wants to pray over the loss of his wife?

  Fuck that. Better I just meet him when he’s done.

  I glance at my watch. It’s already ten minutes over. My face is freezing. The thirty-seven-degree, clear-blue day is foreign to me. It doesn’t help that the sun is beginning to fade, with sunset right around the corner. I wish I’d brought gloves, because my fingers are growing more numb by the second.

  Even my fitted blue suit is far too thin for this weather.

  The bustle of traffic, taxis, and pedestrians is exacerbating my stress.

  I’ve never had a desire to go to New York. Neither did Lexi. Pasadena has its traffic, but in comparison, it’s almost like being at a secluded beach resort.

  I try calling Brit’s number again, but no one answers.

  The first-class flight was smooth, with more champagne and gourmet-chef-prepared meals. My hotel, just off West Broadway, is like something out of the movies. The crystal chandeliers, gold pillars, and view out into the Hudson Bay are all part of the grandiosity.

  Too bad the luxury is starting to feel lost on me. I like nice things, but maybe I’m channeling Lexi. She hated this type of stuff.

  She would have nit-picked every inch of the hotel and complained about how over the top it was. If she were forced to visit New York, she would have opted for a more artsy and cozy hotel in a quieter neighborhood. She would say the chandeliers are really nothing more than light fixtures, the pillars hold up the building, and the windows are just that, windows.

  Finally, well-dressed families emerge from the cathedral. They scatter left and right.

  I scan the crowd for the senator.

  From my research on the man, I know he’s a moderate Democrat with a national 66 percent approval rate. His picture-perfect blonde wife, Molly, and two daughters are often in the spotlight with him, which gives him a classic family man look. He led the fight for gay marriage and for legalizing marijuana. He’s worked across the aisle on tax reform, which caused a bit of backlash from far left-wingers, but in turn it gave him respect from some of the right. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s a quarter African American, which wins him the minority vote.

  He’s historically been a proponent for the majority of healthcare reform, no matter which political direction it leans. I have a pretty good inkling for why that might be.