by Sean Platt
Jon ignored her. “If these are suicides, or even runaways, the numbers are still big enough to make the news. In Seattle, at least.”
He looked around at all the CCTV cameras hanging from light posts, off the corners of buildings, and pretty much anywhere you could put a camera. There were enough cameras on the island to shoot the most invasive reality show ever. Cameras installed by Paladin, via his family, to keep the family safe during a time that crime was starting to rise on the island 10 years ago.
“All these damned cameras, and they can’t keep people safe?”
Another cracked laugh from Cassidy, then, “Ha, no one gives a shit about the dirt on the island.”
Words stuck in Jon’s throat as a thick, sickly mucus made its way into his mouth. He didn’t know what to say, wasn’t even sure what to think, but a creeping horror had wormed its way in his head and was now slithering through his body.
Jon held Cassidy’s eyes as the wind tousled his hair, staring into their bottomless depths with a sudden craving to know everything she knew.
“I found .50 cents!” Mrs. Lindley yelled, running toward them.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“We need to find Emma,” she said.
The gray in the sky turned black and started to pour down on them.
Jon wiped the rain from his face, then followed Cassidy and Mrs. Lindley back toward the house. As they walked, Jon couldn’t help but feel like they were being watched.
* * * *
CHAPTER 8 — Milo Anderson Part 2
4 p.m.
Milo woke up pissed.
He was angry at Alex for coming over. They would talk someday, probably, but not for a while – not before the sun had set on the horrors of what happened. When every thought of Alex made Milo think of Jessica, even the daylight was dark. Alex’s dad murdered the light.
He was also pissed about the “Cody” guy who was winding him up online, talking like he knew something and saying Manny was in danger. And then, when pressed for questions, the fucker stopped talking. Yet another online troll just looking to mess with people. It was one thing to fuck with people who deserved it, but why would you mess with grieving people. People who had lost friends, loves, family?
Asshole.
More than anything, though, Milo was pissed at himself for missing Jessica’s funeral, just like Other Mother said he would be. He supposed he knew he would be, too, somewhere deep in his heart. But the pain of seeing Jessica’s lifeless body was something he couldn’t bear.
Perhaps today he could find some closure, and pay his respects at her grave.
He looked outside his window. It looked like rain, so Milo put on a sweater, grabbed a chocolate-colored hoodie from the closet, then went downstairs and opened the garage, figuring he’d work up the courage to visit Jessica’s grave along the way.
Milo rode his mountain bike up the long and winding trail leading toward Oxley Cemetery, pumping his legs at the top of the mountain, feeling his heart gain a hundred pounds or so with every few hundred feet he pedaled closer to Jessica’s grave.
Knowing he’d turn himself coward about 500 yards before he did, Milo made a long circle around Oxley, then stopped pedaling as his bike careened dangerously fast down the hill toward the bottom, where Hamilton K-12 had sat without incident for 42 years. He pedaled past the front lawn, hating himself for being so weak.
Seeing the school was like hearing fresh gunshots. A hundred thoughts pushed him to keep moving.
Milo was surprised to see so many cars in the parking lot, and wondered what was happening inside. Maybe there were people inside still cleaning up for tomorrow’s opening. He wondered if it were even possible to get all the blood out of the classroom so quickly, or if Mr. Heller’s class would be closed off and the students shipped off to different rooms for the remainder of the year.
As he rode past the parking lot, he saw that his guess was wrong. A large blue signboard was set up at the entrance reading, “Missing & Survivor’s Group Meeting 4:30 - 6:30 p.m. Thursday.”
He thought about going inside, but only for a moment, knowing the crowd would only make him sadder.
Besides, he couldn’t stand the thought of running into Jessica’s mom. Ever since her dad had passed three years earlier, the two of them were best friends. They did everything together, from binging on old Gilmore Girls DVD’s to the dates they had to get their nails done together after school every other Tuesday.
Milo couldn’t begin to imagine what Mrs. Ruiz was going through, and if he went inside, he would have to look her in the eyes. He rode the rest of the way home hoping it wouldn’t rain, and promising himself that he would finally say goodbye to Jessica tomorrow. He owed it to her, and to himself.
He was three blocks from home when the first splatter of rain hit the back of his head. Without stopping, or even slowing, Milo reached back with his right hand and lifted the hoodie over his head.
He pulled up to his house and felt a slight chill, possibly because of the cool wind that came as the freezing rain started to splatter his back, but probably because of Beatrice’s white BMW X7 idling in the driveway, engine running, door open and lights on.
It didn’t make sense for her SUV to be there at all. She was supposed to be in Seattle with Janet and Teena. Hamilton Island was reasonably small, and not exactly the sort of place where you had to worry about getting your vehicle stolen, Beatrice was usually neurotic enough to lock her car tighter than the vault at Chase Manhattan, even if she was just going inside to “tinkle,” as she liked to say, probably to annoy him.
Milo leaned his bike against the closed garage door, then peered into the BMW’s cabin. Nothing seemed out of place. Her Maroon 5 CD was spinning like always, barely loud enough to hear outside the SUV, since Other Mom seemed allergic to listening to anything at a volume which might be mistaken for being enjoyable.
Milo looked toward the house. The front door was slightly ajar. He was probably being silly, and there was almost certainly nothing to worry about, but his heart started racing anyway.
He stepped inside the house and then into the living room, but saw no one inside.
Same for the kitchen.
He stepped into the hallway and broke the silence.
“Beatrice?” he called. Milo swallowed, then only half aware of what he was doing, yelled, “Mom!”
Still nothing.
He ambled the rest of the way down the hallway, then into his parents’ bedroom. Beatrice was standing statue-still in front of the TV, staring blankly at a screen with snow as a constant woosh of white noise filled the room.
“Mom?” he repeated, slowly approaching.
Still nothing.
Other Mother stood, as if in a trance, not seeming to realize Milo was in the room.
Great, she’s started using drugs. More shit dad can’t afford.
Milo turned to leave, but got halfway to the door before circling back. He couldn’t step into the hallway when every fiber inside him was screaming that something was wrong.
He tiptoed back toward Beatrice, suddenly terrified that maybe she’d had a stroke.
Is it possible to suffer a stroke standing on your feet?
Milo inched closer until he was standing directly in front of Beatrice.
Her pupils were large and black, and . . . empty.
He stepped back, mostly nervous, though slightly terrified.
Milo turned around and looked back at the TV, thinking that there might be some connection between the snow on the screen and the lost look in her eyes. If there was, he couldn’t see what was holding her attention, assuming she was actually aware of anything.
He turned back to Beatrice and saw again the empty in her eyes, and terror swallowed his anxiety.
“Beatrice?” he said softly, his upper lip now trembling.
She turned, just slightly, from the TV to Milo. He wasn’t sure if she was moving in slow motion or if it was merely a trick of his imagination and the surreality
of the moment.
Other Mom closed her eyes, tight, shook her head and then opened her eyes again, the dilated pupils now normal sized. She flashed her plastic smile, “Oh hi, Milo,” she said. “I didn’t see you come in. How was your day?”
“F . . . fine, I guess,” he said.
Beatrice headed toward the kitchen, opened the fridge, then started shoving sliced meat into her purse. She looked up from the fridge’s glow as though caught in a puzzle. Then her face brightened with memory.
She thrust her face back in the fridge, wrapped her hand around a large tub of whipped butter, then dropped it into her purse and smiled at Milo on her way out the door.
“Okay, see you later, honey,” she called, and went out the door.
Milo stared at the door in disbelief.
What the fuck?
* * * *
CHAPTER 9 — Cassidy Hughes Part 3
Hamilton Island, Washington
Thursday
September 7
10:20 p.m.
Cassidy and Jon had knocked on every door in their neighborhood, and searched a chunk of the woods in the area, but had come up blank.
They stood on her doorstep, exhausted.
“See you in the morning?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And thank you. I appreciate your help.”
So far, they’d avoided talking about why Emma had been kept secret and why Sarah had broken up with Jon. Cassidy hoped to keep it that way, at least until Emma was found. Once Jon knew the truth, there was a good chance he’d go ballistic, hating his family, and hating her. Right now, she needed his help, not his hate.
They’d also avoided talking about what would happen once they found Emma. Would Jon seek custody? Was there any way he’d trust her to care for his child? The odds slimmed along with the hours. That was, assuming of course, they even found Emma.
What if Emma was gone for good? What if she had wandered off and drowned in a lake or the sea? What if someone had kidnapped her and was holding her in some kinda dungeon? What if someone had taken her off the island before Paladin sent guards down to the ferry? Kids went missing every day. And many just vanished with no explanation or trace.
Just gone.
Forever.
She began to cry again and Jon took her into his arms, hugging her tight.
“We’re gonna find her,” he said, making the same promise as Chief Brady.
She wished she could believe him.
Fate had never really worked out in Cassidy’s favor. If something could go wrong, it inevitably did. Perhaps Jon’s involvement would neutralize her negative karma, however. Bad things didn’t happen to Jon, or the Conways. They were blessed. Bad things don’t happen to the children of the blessed.
Even as she thought it, she knew that was a lie.
At the moment, Cassidy would take any lie she could find, though, if it meant holding out hope.
“I’m going to meet a buddy of mine tonight,” Jon said, “and we’ll get started fresh in the morning. He’s a private eye and damned good at finding people.”
“Really?” she said, pulling from the hug and looking into Jon’s eyes.
He seemed so much kinder than usual. Gentler, even. Cassidy had always wondered why Sarah had fallen for him. Jon had always seemed more Cassidy’s type — bold, brutally honest, brash, and prone to troublemaking and bouts of excess. Perhaps Sarah had seen a layer of Jon that Cassidy had overlooked — a kind, gentle side which mirrored Sarah’s own.
Cassidy felt another wave of guilt for her role in their breakup.
Had she been clean, none of this would have happened. Jon and Sarah would still be together. Sarah would be alive. And they’d be with Emma, one big happy family.
Now, because of Cassidy’s weakness, her sister was dead, her niece missing, and Jon was alone.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Cassidy said, turning quickly before Jon could see her break down. Before she spilled her guts and told him everything.
“Goodnight,” he said, surprised, but retreating to his car without argument. “Call me if you hear anything.”
“Okay,” Cassidy said, going inside her dark house, and closing the door. Once inside, she slumped against the door, crying her eyes out in the darkness. Wanting to just close her eyes, wake up, and have the past week not happen.
The pills in her guest room called loudly.
Welcome home, Cass. We’ve been waiting for you.
She went upstairs, not strong enough to fight them any more.
As she walked toward the bathroom to wash up, she saw that her mom’s door was open, and she was sitting up in her bed, the glow of Seinfeld on the TV lighting the darkness. The way the shadows fell on her face, Cassidy couldn’t tell if her mom’s eyes were open.
“Mom, you awake?” she asked softly.
“Oh, hi, Sarah,” her mom said, voice slurred with drink.
See, everyone needs a little something to cope. Your mom drinks. You have pills.
“It’s me, Mom. Cassidy.”
“Oh, you,” she said, you dripping in disappointment. As always.
“Any word about Emma?” Cassidy asked, ignoring her mom’s drunken insult.
“Emma?” Vivian asked, as if she didn’t know the child was even missing.
“Yes, your granddaughter. She’s missing. Jesus, Mom.”
“Ah, yeah, Emma. Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. They’ll bring her back.”
Cassidy’s heart nearly froze. She wanted to flick on the light and ask her mom “Who?” but resisted the urge to shake her up and cause her to get distracted and maybe forget what she was saying.
“Who mom?” Cassidy asked as shadows danced across her mom’s face, hiding most of her features. “Who will bring her back?”
“The people in the sky. They always brought you back, Sarah. They’ll bring her back, too.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
WhiteSpace: Episode 3
by Sean Platt &
David Wright
Copyright © 2012 by Sean Platt & David Wright. All rights reserved
Cover copyright © 2012 by David W. Wright
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The authors have taken great GIGANTIC liberties with locales including the creation of fictional towns (and islands!) The authors rarely leave their home states and research is limited to whatever the spirit of Magellan tells them via Ouija Board.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
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* * * *
CHAPTER 1 — Brock Houser Part I
Ocean County, California
10 years ago...
Detective Houser knew he was staring into a set of guilty eyes the second the sleazeball peered from his side of the flimsy security chain which would pop off in an instant if Houser kicked the door in.
There is an undeniable look worn in the eyes of the guilty — a look you got to know as a cop. A look Houser had become aware of, and well-tuned to, as a child. For Houser, instinct was as accurate as any of his senses. His eyesight had failed him a few times, his instincts, at least in this area, not even once.
This was his man, sure as shit. The twisted fucker who had kidnapped six year old Cecilia Ramirez.
“Can I help you?” the man said from the shadows of his dark apartment.
“Hi, my name is Detective
Houser. We’re talking to people in the neighborhood about a missing girl. I’d like to ask if you’ve seen her?”
Houser raised the photo for the man to see, fixed on his eyes the entire time.
Recognition? Yes.
Guilt? Yes. Without a doubt.
Richard Jurgen was his man.
“Nope, haven’t seen a thing,” Richard shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
The man took a second longer glance at the photo, studying the gloss for a half-minute or so before raising his nervous eyes to meet Houser’s. “Nope, ain’t seen her.”
The monster started to close the door.
Houser slipped his boot against the bottom of the door, keeping it ajar. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask you about something one of your neighbor’s said.” Houser pretended like it was a question.
“Sure,” Jurgen said, easing his force on the door.
Houser kept his boot in place, but didn’t push on the wood.
“Someone said they saw you last Tuesday, with your hatchback backed up to the garage, late at night. They said it seemed like you were carrying something pretty heavy.”
Houser kept his eyes fixed on the monster, waiting for him to drown himself in a lie.
“I don’t remember,” he dove into the deep. “I often go out on my rounds late at night, picking up junk, looking for the furniture and stuff people leave out for trash. That’s not a crime all of a sudden is it?”
