Untangling the Black Web

by T. F. Jacobs

  I grab a glass of water, then take it to the couch.

  I need a distraction.

  I grab the remote and press the button to turn on the television.

  The remote blinks, but the television remains off.

  I try again.

  Nothing.

  I look down at the remote to confirm it blinks when I press buttons, which I think means it works. Then I get up and walk closer to the television to try again. Still nothing.

  I press the button on the bottom of the screen.

  It turns on and the settings screen pops up.

  What the . . . ?

  I scan through the settings, one at a time.

  Power options.

  Internet connection.

  Then smart settings: apps, camera.

  An image displays on screen, and my eyes go wide.

  I’m staring at myself. When I move, the image of me does too.

  My eyes drift to the camera, then my heart flutters. When Lexi and I got the smart TV, we put a piece of tape on the camera because we weren’t comfortable with the fact our TV could be watching us, even though we knew we were probably paranoid. We’d heard of hackers who work their way into home cameras and just wanted to be safe.

  But the piece of tape is gone—nowhere to be found.

  I turn the television off as my eyes dart around the room.

  I’ve stopped breathing.

  Someone has been here.

  I continue to scan the room, and my eyes drift to the fridge. Adrenaline spikes as I notice something.

  The angle of the fridge is off.

  The last time I moved the fridge was to hide the newest thumb drive behind it, but I remember being careful about putting the fridge back in place exactly as it had been. I wouldn’t have left it at an off angle.

  I stand and walk toward it slowly, my heart working harder to keep up with my fluttering anxiety.

  Then I pull the fridge farther away from the wall.

  Shifting the massive weight of the bulky box takes all my strength, but gradually it rolls.

  When the fridge is pulled completely out from the wall, I look over the space it normally sits in.

  My eyes scan the back-right corner where I set the flash drives, but the only thing visible is the dust I’ve neglected to sweep up over the years.

  This can’t be happening.

  I get on my knees and peek under the fridge. Maybe they got stuck underneath when I pulled it out.

  But nothing is there either.

  And now my nerves leap into a panic.

  The flash drives with all the information we’ve collected on American True Care, the congressmen, and the senator are gone.

  I get up and scan the apartment, looking for anything out of place.

  I check my keychain to ensure both of my keys are there, and they are.

  Was the door locked when I came in?

  Yes. Of course it was.

  I glance back to the television and the missing tape.

  There’s no doubt someone has been in my apartment. But who?

  My mind immediately lands on Brit. The pictures on Stan’s Facebook. She’s the one who gave me the flash drives in the first place. Maybe she took them to add new files? But why take the piece of tape off my TV?

  I pull out the burner and dial her number.

  It doesn’t ring. Instead, it immediately disconnects.

  I try again, but again it disconnects.

  What is going on?

  Something feels very wrong.

  I scan the room for anything else out of place.

  Pictures.

  Stereo.

  Lights.

  Everything inside my apartment looks right, but I can feel it, someone has been inside. Someone touched my things. Took my flash drives. Removed the tape on the TV.

  They’re watching me.

  A shiver runs down my back, sending goosebumps up my arms. Adrenaline begins to take hold, coursing through my veins and awakening my vision and sharpening my hearing.

  I grab my keys and head for my car.

  I need to find the others. But I don’t have anyone’s number besides Brit’s.

  Wait. Actually I have Aly’s.

  I dial it.

  Two rings.

  “David?”

  “Aly, have you heard from Brit?” I ask. No time for small talk.

  “No, why?”

  “Not over the phone. Where are you?”

  “The hospital. I’m working.”

  “When are you off?”

  “Half hour. What’s going on, David?” There’s worry in her voice. Probably in mine too for that matter.

  “I need to meet.”

  The other end is silent.

  “Okay,” she finally says. “Meet you outside the lobby.”

  I hang up, then put the car into drive.

  I take Grand to the 210 Freeway. Before I know it, I’m going ninety.

  I taper my speed and exit at Pennsylvania Avenue.

  When I park at the back of the half-mile lot, I hustle past dozens of others either looking for treatment or looking to visit those being treated. Hundreds of cars for the hundreds of people affected by the system. Many probably with similar situations to Lexi’s. Situations where doctors pump false hope into patients, spouses, friends, and family in exchange for thousands of dollars in bills. Endless overinflated and minimally regulated bills.

  Night has fallen, but the hospital isn’t any emptier. I make my way to the entrance of the twelve-story building, nurses and doctors working their way in and out of the lobby.

  I scan the crowd, then stop when I notice an Asian woman sitting on a bench out front. She’s wearing aqua scrubs and white tennis shoes, her jet-black hair pulled back into a loose pony tail. Her rosy cheeks and almond-shaped eyes are pretty in a subtle sort of way, but she looks tired.

  She sees me and smiles in recognition.

  “Hey,” she says, hints of sleepiness in her voice.

  “Hey.”

  “So what’s this all about? Your call worried me.”

  I glance at the automatic doors at the entrance of the lobby as they open. I wait to make sure the passersby aren’t within earshot.

  I lean in closer, then keep my voice hushed. “My flash drives are gone. I think someone broke into my apartment. I think they also might have bugged my place.”

  Her eyes widen. “Who would do that?”

  “I don’t know, but I have a hunch.”

  “Brit?”

  I nod.

  “But why?”

  “I can’t tell you, but things aren’t adding up. Some pictures she gave me to blackmail my old boss leaked. Then he killed himself. And when I got home a piece of tape I had covering the camera on my TV was gone, and my flash drives are missing. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but these don’t feel like coincidences. When I tried calling Brit, the phone didn’t even ring.”

  She studies me.

  Reaches into her purse.

  “What are you doing?”

  She holds a crappy silver phone to her ear.

  “Calling her.”

  Before even a second can pass by, she pulls it away and stares at the screen.

  “Crap.”

  “Disconnected?”

  “Yeah. But why would Brit do all of that? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s what I want to know. Do you have any of the others’ phone numbers? The only contact I have for them is through Facebook, and we’ve learned that isn’t secure.”

  She looks down, thinking.

  “No. I’ve really only talked to you and Brit . . .” She trails off.

  “Where are your flash drives?”

  “My apartment. You don’t think mine could be gone too?”

  “I think we should check, just to be safe.”

  She contemplates it. I’m guessing it’s because she isn’t comfortable with me seeing her apartment.

  “Okay. I guess we can at least double check
.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  We make our way to her apartment in Koreatown, where there’s not a parking spot in sight. Horns blare as I try to slow around turns, keeping my eyes peeled for a spot.

  We find one six blocks away and trek to her building.

  First we pass a hole-in-the-wall Korean barbeque joint.

  Then a ghetto laundromat, a rundown liquor store, and a shitty apartment building.

  Finally, we make it to another shitty apartment building—this one is hers. We climb up three flights of stained, green-carpeted stairs to an old wooden door straight out of the sixties.

  She’s shy when she fumbles with her keys, clearly embarrassed.

  “It’s not as nice as that hotel in DC. It’s hard to afford rent anywhere in LA on one income,” she warns.

  “Nowhere is as nice as that. I’m not here to critique your apartment. Don’t worry.”

  She slips the key into the door, but stops when the handle turns without resistance.

  She looks up, eyes wide open. All signs of sleep gone.

  “It’s unlocked. I never leave it unlocked.”

  This doesn’t feel right.

  She pushes the door in, and we both stare into the blackness.

  “Hello?” she calls.

  Silence.

  She reaches her hand along the inside and flips on a light. A burgundy carpeted hallway leads into what looks to be a linoleum-floored kitchen ahead.

  She walks in slowly. I clutch the keys in my hand to ensure I can use them as a weapon if need be.

  “Hello?” I shout.

  The kitchen is empty. Outdated, but spotless. I turn to the right to see a white couch, black coffee table, and small flat-screen television sitting against the wall. Modest would be a nice way of putting it.

  “Is anything missing? Out of place?”

  She studies the room, looking for irregularities.

  “No. But something’s off.”

  I’ve never set foot in her apartment before, but I feel it too. It’s the lingering presence of someone having been here only moments ago.

  “Stay here. I’m going to look for the flash drives.”

  I take a seat on the wooden bar stool and take in the apartment. I notice a picture on the wall across from me. It’s a Japanese couple with dark graying hair and aged eyes. Probably in their forties. Her parents, maybe? I remember her saying something about them both having passed away. That she had no real family left. For a moment I feel a great sadness for the woman. She’s someone I can relate to—we’ve both lost so much.

  There’s a rattling and rustling of papers and boxes coming from the other room.

  I survey the space around me. The apartment is smaller than mine. It’s old, but it also looks like Aly just moved in. There’s a cardboard box in the corner.

  “Find it?” I call.

  No answer.

  More shuffling and rustling.

  I stand, then walk slowly down the hallway.

  “Aly?”

  I reach the door to her room and stand at the entry. She’s bent over on her knees, searching under the bed. Papers and boxes are scattered everywhere.

  She turns to look back at me.

  “They’re gone. I’ve looked through everything. They were here a few days ago when Brit dropped off the latest copy.”

  This isn’t good.

  I reach into my pocket for the burner phone and I try Brit again.

  No answer.

  “Shit!”

  “Someone has been inside my home. Inside my bedroom.”

  Her eyes scour the room, searching.

  “We need to call the police,” she says.

  “The police? What are they going to do? Open an investigation so that we can file the claim with our insurance companies? Plus, the information on the drives wasn’t exactly obtained legally. We need to find the others.”

  She gets to her feet, hands trembling. I can see fear in her face.

  “But how? We don’t have their numbers or addresses.”

  “Wait. Maybe we can work this out. Rob works for the Post. Do they have an office out here? Or maybe at least we can contact their headquarters for his information. And Dominique works at the cemetery.”

  Aly nods. “Okay. Fine.”

  She grabs her keys and we walk toward the door. She locks her apartment on the way out, and we set off toward the cemetery.

  There’s a feeling in the pit of my stomach gnawing away at my calm. First the photos of Stan and that poor boy, then my flash drives are gone and my house is bugged, then Brit is unreachable, and now Aly’s drives are missing as well. There are too many coincidences for them not to be connected.

  Chapter 13

  We’re back at the place it all started. The cemetery.

  We get out of my Volvo and make our way to the office at the entrance. A van sits next to a red pickup truck.

  A light is on, but it looks dark. A couple dozen stars are shining through the wispy gray clouds overhead.

  On our way over, Aly left a message for the Post, but as expected they were already closed for the day. We will have to track Rob down another way if we want to get in touch with him tonight. I’m guessing he’s got an e-mail address listed at the bottom of his articles, or at least a Twitter handle. I don’t want to resort to social media, but if I have to, I will.

  I stare out over the grassy plains, headstones visible as far as the eye can see. People who lived. People who died. Thousands of rotting bodies in expensive caskets buried six feet under. And somewhere out there is Lexi. Fresh dirt resting above her as she lies alone and lifeless for me to never see her face again.

  The dilapidated building has to be at least seventy years old, and it shows.

  An ugly brown sedan passes us as we make our way down the driveway.

  I hold back any tears on the verge of leaking out and knock hard on the office door, Aly at my side.

  We listen for movement, but there is only silence.

  I wait another moment, then grab the handle.

  I twist it open, then peer inside.

  “Dominique?” I call.

  At first glance I see a desk with two computers, some filing cabinets, and a couch. The room is small.

  A pungent metallic smell fills my nostrils. There’s a warm humidity to the air that feels heavy and out of place.

  The door swings open farther, and my heart skips a beat when I see it.

  The floor is covered in red.

  There are dark wet splotches along the entire stretch of the floor. And there in the corner are what appear to be feet sticking out from behind the desk.

  “Is that blood?” Aly shrieks.

  I gag and force the acid back down my throat. My stomach heaves.

  My hands tremble, and my heart struggles.

  Keeping my feet in place, I peer around the desk, hoping it won’t be Dominique.

  But it is.

  She’s barefoot, wearing a black dress soaked in blood. Her muscular arms protrude from each side. Her eyes are shut, and her braided pigtails are splayed across the floor.

  She’s dead.

  I have a quick flashback of the Dominique I talked to on Facebook, the woman so ready to get involved. The Dominique who played a pivotal role in getting Connelly’s files, all because she wanted to stand up for what was right. The sassy, spunky, confident, and flirtatious woman that I brought into this mess. And it hits me that she’s actually dead. I have to wonder if it’s because of me, but I also can’t even begin to think about what that would mean.

  There’s something very surreal about seeing a dead body. There’s something even more surreal about seeing a body that’s been murdered. There’s a primal fear that’s been buried deep inside. A genetic trait that’s been passed on for generations for survival. One that awakens every sense in our bodies and keeps us on the lookout for danger.

  And right now I sense the danger.

  “We need to get out of here,” I say.


  “Wait, what? We can’t just leave her.”

  Aly lunges toward the blood, but I grab for her arm, stopping her before she can reach it.

  “Aly, we need to go. We aren’t safe.”

  She looks at me, baffled.

  “David, she’s dead! We need to call the police!”

  “And how will we explain this? We need to find the others, before it’s too late. Something is very wrong here. Can’t you see that?”

  She looks back down at the puddle of ruby-red blood. Her breathing is fast and violent.

  “We need to call the police. This is insane.”

  I’m about to rebut her argument when I feel something vibrating in my pocket.

  I reach in and pull out the burner phone.

  My eyes are glaring at the unknown number listed on the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “David, it’s Alex. You know, the pharmacist?”

  “Alex?”

  Aly’s eyes are locked on mine, and she’s trying to hear what Alex is saying.

  “Where are you? I can’t talk about it on the phone, you know, but I need to meet.” He’s breathing too heavily for me to make out every word.

  “I’ll come to you. Aly is with me.”

  “Oh good, good. Come to the doctor’s office I work at. Hurry.”

  He gives me the address, and I take it down in my personal phone.

  “He’s in trouble,” I say to Aly as I hang up.

  “David—” she starts.

  “Aly, we are in danger. Something is very wrong. Dominique is dead, for Christ’s sake!”

  She shakes her head. “We need to call the police. I didn’t sign up for this.”

  There’s a noise outside the building, and immediately both of our heads are drawn to it.

  “What’s that?” she whispers.

  Rustling leaves? No, it’s too loud. Bigger than that.

  “Aly, we need to go.”

  She looks down at the puddle of blood and then, clearly torn, takes a long inhalation. I feel it too: a deep sadness for the woman, so charismatic and so full of spunk, willing to do whatever it took to help. Now gone. I also think about Dominique’s one ask—a promise that she wouldn’t die if she got involved. An overwhelming sense of guilt weighs down on me. I failed. But I have to push it away and focus on getting out of here.