WhiteSpace Season One (Episodes 1-6)

by Sean Platt

  “No, Mr. Jurgen, not at all.” Houser shook his head, then looked down at his notes, flipping back a page for effect, then looked back up at the monster. “Odd thing was that your neighbor said the garage light was out, just like the light in your car.”

  “So, what of it?” the man said, fear in his voice starting to smother the calm. “I can see well enough with the street lights. I can see you just fine, right?”

  Bet both balls in the sack, this is our asshole.

  “OK, well then Mr. Jurgen, you won’t mind if we take a quick look around,” he said, nodding to his silent partner, Chan, who was standing to Houser’s left. “Just to save us some time, so we can get on with the search and rule you out.”

  “You have a search warrant?”

  Fucker.

  “No, but based on what I do have, a warrant’s exactly one short phone call away. I was hoping that since you’ve nothing to hide, you wouldn’t mind if we took a quick look around so we can get out of your hair. We have to follow up on leads, if only to rule you out. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I know my rights,” the monster said, his voice still even. “And I’m not letting you do anything without a warrant.”

  “OK,” Houser said, pulling his boot from the doorway, then turning around and walking back to their car.

  “Motherfucker,” Houser said once he and Chan were inside the cruiser. “She’s in there. I can fucking feel it.”

  Chan put in a call to Judge Cleary seeking a warrant while Houser waited as patiently as he could, listening to Chan’s side of the conversation.

  Come on, judge, don’t fuck this one up.

  The tricky part of getting a warrant with this particular case was that the neighbor who alerted them to the suspicious activity, an old busybody named Earl Moody, had a long history of calling the cops on Jurgen for the sort of routine bullshit most neighbors handled themselves. In short, the two had bad blood, giving the judge enough cause to deny the warrant.

  Chan’s voice went up an octave, letting Houser know where the conversation was headed.

  Houser wanted to snatch the phone from his partner and rip Cleary a new one, but he was already on thin ice with Cleary, and was likely the reason the judge was giving Chan a hard time in the first place.

  “Yes, your honor. Thank you,” Chan said, hanging up. He shook his head. “No dice.”

  “Fuck!!” Houser screamed, slamming his fists into the steering wheel, then turning back to scowl at Jurgen’s house. The fucker was in his living room, peeking through his blinds at the cruiser.

  Houser turned back to Chan. “You like this guy, right? It’s not just me.”

  “Yeah, he’s hiding something, alright.”

  “OK, we need to talk to more neighbors. See if we can find something from someone who isn’t the neighborhood douchebag, then ring Cleary back.”

  Chan agreed, then suggested one of them hit the courthouse when it opened in the morning to see if they could find anything on the guy that wasn’t yet in the database. The courthouse was currently in the process — which seemed to be taking years — of moving their old records to online archives, so most of the crimes older than 10 years were still in their giant file vault.

  Houser hated combing through old files slightly less than he hated sitting on his hands while Jurgen was inside his house with time to do God knows what, flushing evidence, arming himself to the teeth, raping the hell out of the girl, or whatever it was the condemned might do before the jaws of justice clamped on their ass.

  Chan said, “Is that your way of saying you want me to go?”

  Houser turned, with his biggest smile, “Pretty please?”

  “You know I hate you, right?”

  Houser laughed. “As if anyone could hate me. But one of us has to sit on this fucker in case he decides to bolt, and to be honest, I wanna be the first one through the door to knock the fucking smile from his face. And let’s face it, I’m a helluva lot faster than you if it comes to a foot chase.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. But you owe me.”

  “Whatever you want, man. Just name it. I got dinner for the next week. OK?”

  “Week? How about two?”

  “Two? Do I look rich?”

  “Richer than me. You don’t have a wife, kids, daycare bills, or any of that shit.”

  “Wah, wah, I’m so jealous of your sexy, single life, Houser,” Houser said, mocking Chan playfully. “Alright, two fucking weeks. But you better find something we can take to Cleary!”

  **

  Chan did.

  At 8:15 a.m., 15 minutes after the courthouse opened, Houser’s cell rang.

  Chan was practically yelling into the phone. “Seems our guy got busted peeping in some windows 11 years ago. One of the windows was of a little girl. Somehow he got off with a slap on the wrist.”

  “Fuck! OK, I’ll call Cleary,” Houser said.

  “Too late,” Chan said. “I already did. Warrant has been issued.”

  “I love you, man. Three weeks! On me. OK, I’m going in. I’ve got another unit here and we’re going in.”

  “K, I’ll be over in five,” Chan said.

  “Alright, Houser called into the radio, alerting the officers camped behind Jurgen’s house, and to the side, just out of the man’s line of sight. “Let’s get this fucker!”

  **

  Houser burst through the freshly kicked-in door, stunned to see Jurgen standing right in the living room, naked, and aiming a .45 at Houser.

  Houser fired, but not before Jurgen.

  Jurgen’s shot slammed into Houser’s Kevlar vest, knocking him to the filthy carpet, and clearing the air from his body.

  Houser’s shot hit the man between the eyes, killing him instantly.

  Sgt. Combs kneeled next to Houser, “You OK?”

  Houser took a moment, sucking in air, feeling beneath his vest to make sure there was no blood, before nodding. He would be bruised as hell, but he’d live.

  Four cops, in addition to Houser, began to scour the man’s place, searching for any sign of the child. Upstairs, in an unused bedroom, Houser picked up the fresh scent of paint, and noticed that the fresh color on the wall behind a large bookcase — the same color of yellow, but brighter than the rest of the room. Drywall dusted the carpet. Houser put a finger behind the bookcase and pulled it away, yellow.

  “Get up here!” he shouted, pulling the bookcase to the floor and sending volumes pouring from the shelf and into a pile.

  A large wet paint spot barely concealed a bad plastering job, covering a wide hole in the wall. Houser knocked on the wall twice

  “Hello?”

  Houser heard a muffled cry.

  Oh God.

  His heart sped in his chest as the remaining officers poured into the room. Houser punched high where the wet spot started, straight through the quickly crumbling drywall, and began to tear a giant hole in the wall, throwing chunks of wet drywall to the ground.

  Inside the wall, he found Cecilia, hands and feet bound, mouth gagged. Dark eyes staring up at him, barely clinging to life.

  He reached into the wall and pulled her out, holding her closely. She was so tiny. And dirty, wearing the same pink, and now filthy, pajamas she’d been reported missing in.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe now,” he said laying her on the floor.

  “Get the paramedics in here!” one of the other officers shouted. Paramedics were on standby downstairs.

  Houser pulled the gag from the girl.

  “Thank you,” her tiny voice barely said as her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

  “No, no, no,” Houser said, shaking his head and hoping to God she wasn’t gonna die. Not now, just seconds after they found her.

  Two paramedics rushed into the room and began to give the girl CPR.

  Houser watched, helplessly from behind, as they attempted to revive her.

  But they couldn’t, despite an eternity of trying.

  Cecilia Ramirez was dead.
>
  Cecilia’s dying eyes and whisper of voice were immediately and forever etched into Houser’s memory.

  As the officers began collecting evidence, and the paramedics rolled the girl’s body from the house, Houser stood, went downstairs, then into the back yard for a moment alone.

  He wanted to cry.

  He wanted to scream.

  He wanted to fucking shoot something.

  But eyes were on him, cops and neighbors, and soon the media’s.

  Houser had to stand quietly, holding his rage, swallowing regret, and making silent vows that he would never, ever, let anything like this happen again. A late search warrant and overcautious judge had murdered Cecilia Ramirez, just as much as Richard Jurgen.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 2 — Liz Heller Part 1

  Hamilton Island, Washington

  Thursday

  September 7

  Afternoon…

  Liz pulled into her driveway and hopped from the car, slammed the door and raced to the side of the house. She twisted the hose faucet like it was the face of her enemy, yanking the hose by the nozzle and scattering the spool into a slithering snake as she returned to the car and pulled the trigger, spraying at the “Murderer” engraved in hate across her windshield.

  The paint, unlike the pain, had dried. But like the pain, it was impossible to wash away.

  “Damn it,” she cried, rubbing her left palm against the windshield.

  She seemed to remember reading about ways to take paint off, somewhere. Maybe with gasoline?

  Liz was about to run inside the house to look on the Internet, but remembered her house had been stripped of computers. And she never did figure out how to use her phone’s Internet browser to work worth a damn.

  She stared at the word “Murderer,” rage building inside her.

  She wondered why someone would do this to her car. Had they mistaken the car for Roger’s, which was still at the impound? Had they targeted her because she was the only vessel into which they could pour their rage? If so, how long was her family safe on the island? How long before they came after Alex? Part of her felt like she should leave, but where could she go? Roger’s family had all passed away, and she hadn’t spoken to her brother in years, nor could she turn to him for help. Her few friends were on the island. How many would be willing to step up now?

  It was only then, staring at the accusation in red, that Liz realized how truly alone she was on Hamilton Island.

  The hose fell to the ground. Liz wanted to fall down beside it, and let her harbored anguish bleed to the puddle of water spreading beneath her.

  The front door opened and Alex came running outside with Katie. His eyes locked onto the windshield, then found his mother. For a moment it seemed as if time had frozen, an unspoken truth finally screaming between them.

  Alex came to her side, and hugged her. Pain shook through her sob. Alex cried too, as Katie moved back to the front door, giving them their space and privacy.

  Alex pulled away, eyes red, and jaw clenched.

  “Who did this?”

  “I don’t know. I was at the library, and when I came out, someone had painted the window,” she said.

  Alex turned to the black SUV parked in the road outside their house, and the Paladin guard assigned to them sitting inside. He stormed over.

  “Wait!” Liz called, but Alex kept walking.

  “Why didn’t you follow her?” Alex shouted, though the guard’s tinted window was still closed.

  The window rolled down and the guard, the same man that had saved Alex from getting beaten with a baseball bat, said, “We were watching the house, sir. Your mother didn’t ask us to follow her.”

  Liz apologized for Alex’s outburst. “It’s okay, I’d rather you watch my son and daughter. I don’t need an escort, thank you.”

  She pulled Alex away from the guard and back toward the house.

  “It’ll be okay,” she said, thinking it odd that she almost believed her verbal band-aid.

  “This is bullshit!” Alex said, pointing to the car. “We didn’t do anything! It’s not our fault what Dad did!”

  Liz was surprised that Alex was now admitting what Roger had done. He’d seemed to be in denial for so long. She wondered what her son would say if he saw the list or flash drive. But no, she couldn’t show him. Couldn’t destroy the love Alex had for his father. Not when she was no longer certain whether something bigger was at play, or what Roger had stumbled onto.

  Alex picked up the hose and began spraying the windshield.

  Having no success with the water, Alex tore off his shirt, wadded it in his fist and started scrubbing the windshield.

  “Fuck!” he screamed as the paint remained on the window.

  Alex threw the hose aside, went to the garden, picked up a large gray stone and heaved it with two hands above his head.

  Liz screamed, “Put that down!” but it was too late.

  The rock flew from his hands and through the windshield, safety glass raining beneath the weight of the stone as the entire window collapsed inward.

  “All gone,” Alex said, disappearing into the house. “I’ll call the insurance company.”

  **

  Dinner was a quiet affair, with both Alex and Katie seemingly lost in their own thoughts, perhaps thinking about the fact that school was starting tomorrow. Liz was no longer certain that she wanted Alex to go back so soon. Particularly after what happened to her car.

  Katie made spaghetti and meatballs, and while Liz didn’t think she’d be hungry, her appetite surprised her. The past few days had been a diet of microwave meals and stuff poured from bags. Pasta was a welcome and delicious change. As they ate, Liz kept staring at Katie, wondering why Roger placed a bullseye on the girl, along with the other kids. Liz couldn’t imagine the aftermath if Roger had killed Katie. Alex would have been devastated even more than he already was.

  And while Sarah Hughes, someone Liz had been close to for years, wasn’t a target, but rather an accidental victim of Roger’s shootings, a small part of Liz hated him for having killed her. For taking away little Emma’s mother. If Roger had killed Katie, she imagined that her son would also feel that hate — if he didn’t already.

  Even as Liz stewed in guilt for her husband’s plans and actions, some small part of her kept returning to the video on the flash drive.

  What had he seen in the caves?

  What was it about the bodies that prompted the madness to follow?

  And what in the hell could Katie, or any of the other students, have had to do with it?

  Liz felt another twinge of guilt as she saw Katie smile at Alex. This guilt was new, tinged with suspicion.

  Was there something about Katie Liz should be worried about?

  Liz had to stop her thoughts before they plunged down the same rabbit hole of crazy Roger had fallen. She looked over at Aubrey, sucking on one hand while playing with the mess of sweet potato painting her highchair tray.

  “I’m going to school tomorrow,” Alex said, as if he’d been waiting forever to make the declaration, and was waiting for her objection.

  “Let’s talk about it later,” Liz said, not wanting to get into a heated argument in front of Katie, especially when both Liz and her son were already on edge.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Alex said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I have no reason to hide my face or take any bullshit.”

  “Alex! Not in front of Aubrey,” Liz said. “I said we’ll talk about this later.”

  “And I said there’s nothing to talk about. It’s not your choice to make. It’s mine. I’m not gonna hide in my house like I’m guilty while some security guard stands outside our house. It’s like we’re the ones being arrested for what Dad did!”

  Liz didn’t know what to say. She looked at Katie, who looked down before Alex took her hand and held it, rubbing his thumb across her palm. Alex raised his eyes to meet Liz’s.

  “I’m not afraid of these people,” he
said. “Let me go back. And prove we’re not the monsters they think we are.”

  There was no point in arguing. The more Liz resisted, the more Alex would push back. And now, more than ever, she needed him to communicate, to come to her with his thoughts. Something he wouldn’t do if she took a stand here.

  “Fine,” she said. “Tomorrow, you’ll go back.”

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 3 — Cassidy Hughes Part 1

  Friday morning

  September 8

  Cassidy looked at her mom, dipping a spoon into her soggy oatmeal, fishing for craisins from the bottom, then skimming off the top and leaving soggy lumps of semi-solid lumps down below.

  Cassidy could tell her mom’s ears were ringing from the usual migraine, the migraines that had grown alarmingly regular. Like the alcohol in her pores, the blood in Vivian’s eyes was impossible to hide. She would’ve been wearing the deep bags anyway — a bottle of Yellowtail usually made sure of that — but her eyes always looked worse with the migraines.

  And the migraines were always worse after the Yellowtail.

  Fucking drunk.

  Not like the apple fell too far from the tree.

  Cassidy smiled good morning at her mom, opened the fridge, then pulled a full carton of Donald Duck Orange Juice from the cold. She went to the cabinet, pulled out a tall glass, filled it to the rim, then started sipping, her mouth lapping at the liquid, her lips keeping busy until she figured out what she was going to say.

  Cassidy wanted to ask her mom about the night before, wanted to know what in the hell she meant by “they always bring her back,” and “the people in the sky.” Cassidy didn’t even care that she’d been mistaken for Sarah — she was used to that shit — but her mom had been so definitive, it was more than unsettling. It was an open cut in her mind she wanted to close.