WhiteSpace Season One (Episodes 1-6)

by Sean Platt

  “No,” Brady said. “Did she give you any other info?”

  “No, sir.”

  “OK, Head back to the girl’s house and see if they’re there,” Brady said. “10-4”

  Brady looked up. “Katie’s mom hasn’t seen them, either. Do you have any idea where they might have gone? Is there any special place they liked to go to to get away from the world, maybe some romantic spot?”

  “I have no idea,” she said.

  “Has he been upset or anything, lately?”

  Liz stared at Brady. “His father just shot his classmates, what do you think?”

  Brady looked at Liz’s WELCOME mat. “Sorry,” he said, and then looked back up to her. “Of course he’s been upset. But do you think he’d run off? Or do you know anywhere he might go if he was afraid to come home? Any friends or relatives on the island? Or off the island, nearby?”

  “Nobody’s talking to him, except Katie. His best friend blames him for what happened, and his other friend is in a coma, and I’m pretty sure nobody else is returning his calls. And no, we don’t have any other family.”

  “OK, Mrs. Heller, I’m heading back to the station now. If Alex calls you or comes home, I need you to get him to come see me, or call me and I’ll get over here immediately.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?”

  “No, Mrs. Heller,” Brady shook his head. “I just want to talk to him, and I want to get out ahead of this before anything else happens.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know what happened today, but I think it’s a safe bet that people on the island are angry, and I want to make sure nothing else happens to you or your family.”

  “Do you think we’re in danger, Chief Brady?”

  Brady turned his head toward the Paladin guard sitting in the parked SUV, then looked back at Liz. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing you have security outside.”

  Brady reached into his shirt pocket, retrieved a couple of cards, then handed them to her.

  “Here,” he said, putting the cards in her hand. “Call me the minute you hear from Alex or Katie. Or if anything else happens.”

  Liz looked down at the cards, then back up into Brady’s kind eyes. She’d always liked the chief when he’d come into her class to talk with the kids about bullying and drug use and all the other stuff they barely paid attention to. He was always soft-spoken and kind, with a decent rapport with the kids that didn’t have him sounding like a horribly out-of-touch old fogey, like the former chief. In all the confusion and chaos, Brady broadcasted a calm, cool sense of security. Liz thought him kind, but more importantly, she found him easy to trust, and believed he had a chance to gain control of the most tense situation the island had ever seen

  Liz opened her mouth, about to tell him everything — the list she found, the flash drive, and what she’d seen on the video.

  Brady’s radio beeped to life again.

  “Chief, I need you to get back to the station. Whistler just hung himself.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Brady said. “Is he . . .?”

  “Yeah,” the officer said. “He’s dead.”

  Brady closed his eyes as if this was the absolute last thing he needed to hear right now.

  “Larry Whistler? At the church?” Liz asked. “What’s he doing in jail?”

  “You didn’t see the news?” The chief looked shocked. “About the missing girl? Emma Hughes? Daughter of Sarah?”

  “Oh my God,” Liz said. “No! What happened?”

  “Emma was staying with her grandmother and sister after Sarah died. Last night, she went missing. We arrested a suspect, Larry Whistler, and detained him, but still no word on where the girl is.”

  “Oh God,” Liz said. Sarah had brought her daughter to work several times over the years, and Liz always loved talking with her. The girl was so sweet. To think she was missing, and that Roger might be indirectly responsible, felt like another bullet to her conscience.

  “I need to get back,” Brady said, not even waiting for Liz to respond.

  Liz went back inside, and picked up her phone, to call Alex, praying he’d answer.

  **

  8:16 p.m.

  Liz wore out the carpet in front of the television, pacing back and forth, as the TV replayed the press conference from earlier, where Chief Brady discussed finding Emma Hughes. While Liz was relieved the girl was found safe, she wondered when in the hell Alex would come home.

  She wanted to go out looking for him, but couldn’t leave Aubrey, who was upstairs sleeping, alone. Nor did she have anyone to babysit. She was a prisoner in her home, forced to wait for Alex or Katie to return one of her calls or finally come home. If she didn’t hear from him soon, she might have to wake Aubrey up and head out to look. But what hope would she have in finding her son, if the police couldn’t? And what if she ran into some of the angry island residents who wished her harm?

  She had to protect her daughter at all costs.

  Maybe, she decided, she’d ask the Paladin guard to drive them around. But the last thing she wanted to do was bring attention to the family and have Alex just be out sneaking around with his girlfriend. It would only make things worse, if that were even possible.

  Katie’s mom, Terri, had called Liz two hours ago, asking if she’d heard from the kids. Terri had called Katie’s cell phone and left several messages, and she was worried sick. As they spoke, Liz couldn’t help but feel the layer of ice between them. While Terri hadn’t mentioned the shooting, it laced each sentence and lingered through every silence. Terri then said she was going so she could drive to a few spots where the kids had been known to hang out, and promised Liz she’d call back later.

  As darkness draped itself over the island, Liz grew increasingly convinced that Alex was no longer on Hamilton Island.

  He’d left. Either alive or dead.

  She couldn’t explain it, but she’d always felt a connection to Alex. She could feel when he was in the house, even if she’d not left her bedroom. She oftentimes sensed when he was coming home, just moments before he opened the door, coming in all sweaty from a night playing with his friends. As long as he’d been alive, she felt this connection with him, like some kind of parental supernatural bond or something.

  But now, she wasn’t feeling it. And it scared the hell out of her.

  She tried to put the fear to rest and deal only in the things which she knew. Alex and Katie had gotten into a fight at school. They ran off into the woods after Alex hurt one of the kids. Beyond that, there was no reason for her to think them harmed.

  He’s safe. They’re safe.

  Oh yeah? Then why isn’t he home yet?

  The poor kid must be worried sick that he killed Jake. He’s scared.

  He doesn’t know what to do.

  She tried to think what he might do, and was stunned to find that she had no idea. As close as she’d felt to him, she didn’t really know what he would do in a situation like this. This only served as a reminder of the distance growing between the family members during the past year or so. She didn’t really know Roger.

  And perhaps she didn’t really know Alex.

  She watched the replay of Brady’s press conference, again, noticing how the two Paladin officials stood behind him the entire time, as though they were running the show rather than him. Liz wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t trust Paladin at all. From their ever-increasing heavy handedness to their closed circuit cameras everywhere, to the way they tore through her house, as if looking for something in particular — like perhaps a flash drive — she was becoming increasingly wary of them. And also the man outside her house.

  If Brady is in their pocket, maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t tell him about the flash drive.

  She couldn’t trust Paladin or Brady. Not until she knew what was on the disk.

  Brady spoke again, “We’d like to thank private investigator Brock Houser for his help on this case. Mr. Houser, of Houser Investigations in California, was i
nstrumental in this happy ending. And thank you Mr. Jon Conway for bringing Mr. Houser here and footing the bill. And I would like to thank Paladin Security for working in conjunction with the Hamilton Island Police Department to locate the missing child.”

  Jon Conway?

  Why would he pay for a private investigator, especially when his family had untold billions and an entire armed security force to scour the island for the girl?

  Liz watched as Mr. Houser took the mic and thanked the police, Paladin, and the public for their help, then handed the mic back. Humble, not seeking the spotlight, like so many of these investigators Liz had seen on the news in recent years, trying to insert themselves — and their company logos — into news coverage of every tragedy they could.

  There was something about Houser that Liz implicitly trusted.

  Liz turned from the TV, the shadow of a smile twitching on her lips, then left the room with an idea.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 7 — Alex Heller Part 2

  Nighttime…

  Alex woke to the sound of whispers around him, as if others had found Katie and him in the cave as they slept. He felt vulnerable and naked, with God knows what standing above him.

  He tried to open his eyes so he could see who was in the cave with them, but he couldn’t. Nor could he move.

  Alex was paralyzed.

  Panic and fear coursed through his body, as he struggled to regain control of his movement.

  What’s happening? Why can’t I wake up?

  Am I dead? Am I in a coma?

  Who else is in here? Where is Katie?

  The whispers grew louder without getting louder at all, as though they weren’t raising their voices, but rather their number.

  Yet, Alex couldn’t make out a single syllable of what they were saying. The whispers sounded almost like a swarm, though Alex had no idea how large the swarm might be.

  Was it the police? Or perhaps Paladin guards? And why couldn’t he wake up?

  Alex wondered if perhaps he’d been stung by something poisonous, maybe a dangerous insect living in the cave.

  Alex suddenly realized he wasn’t just immobilized, he was also entirely numb. He couldn’t feel a thing. Not the cool of the cave, the wind breathing through the entrance, or the sand and rock covered ground below.

  Oh God, I’m paralyzed, or poisoned.

  Why can’t I understand what they’re saying?

  I hope they don’t think I’m dead.

  Hey! Help me! I’m alive!

  There was no help.

  The whispers grew louder, as if multiplying in tens by the second, until the entire cave was echoing in a cacophony of whispers.

  I must be dreaming. I must be dreaming.

  Wake up, Alex. Wake up!

  Suddenly, Alex felt a warm glow over his ribs, where he’d been repeatedly kicked.

  What the fuck is that?

  The warmth spread like liquid fire, or . . . internal bleeding.

  Oh God, what the hell is happening?

  Whispers turned to hum. Not one, but countless coalescing into one, growing louder, a few decibels from deafening until they faded into silence, save for the low howl of the wind.

  Alex opened his eyes to the darkness, totally alone and naked on the floor of the cave. The white glow of the moon illuminated just enough of his surroundings to see that he was alone.

  “Katie?” he said. But there was no sound other than the night.

  “Katie!!” Alex yelled, his echo mocking him off the cave walls.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 8 — Jon Conway Part 2

  Friday evening

  Jon left the Sands of Time to meet Houser, who had given an adios to the island hotel an hour earlier so he could drive Hamilton Island and “see what he could see.”

  The pair met up at Coconuts, a place that was every bit as ridiculous as Jon remembered, still decorated like a tropical island paradise, even though Hamilton was a world and a half from Hawaii. The jukebox — made to look like it was manufactured in the 50’s, even though it played audio files and every one of its ‘records’ were fake — wore the same scars it always had. The only difference Jon could see in the entire joint was that they’d changed the marquee outside from, “Free Beer, Topless Waitresses and False Advertising” to the far less charming, “Beer: Because Your Friends Just Aren’t That Interesting.”

  They were on their second basket of onion rings, and Jon on his fifth round of Heinekens when he said, “Jesus man, don’t you ever gain any weight?”

  Houser looked at Jon, grinned, then glazed his mouth with grease and shoved another matching set of onion rings into his mouth. “What sorta bitch question is that?” he asked, still chewing.

  “All I ever see you eat is garbage. And that garbage is usually deep fried.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re built like an action figure!”

  Houser laughed, shrugged, then shoved more onion rings into his still semi-full mouth. “I’ll pretend you’re not asking bitch questions, and you can pretend I didn’t just say, ‘you look just fine, Jonny Hollywood.’ And don’t act like you don’t eat the same shit I do. I’ve seen the shit you eat when you’re really hungry, when you’re not ordering bean sprouts or whatever the hell it is you Hollywood types like to ‘eat.’”

  “Yeah,” Jon said. “Difference is, if I ate like this as often as you do, I’d never get another role ever.”

  Jon nibbled from the edge of another onion ring. Houser popped a whole one in his mouth.

  “Don’t let my carefree attitude fool you,” Houser said. “I spent years getting in shape so I could eat like shit. And I still wake up three hours earlier than I want to be in the gym while you’re still banging some 18 year old super model you met the night before. You wanna look this good, you’ve gotta become a monk when it comes to self-discipline.”

  “Well, ain’t that ironic,” Jon said, laughing. “Spend so much time getting in shape and you’re unable to go out and enjoy the fruits of your labor. And in case you didn’t pick up on it before now, self-discipline has never really been ‘my thing.’”

  Houser laughed.

  Jon let Houser spend a few more minutes making fun of him and his weight concerns, real and imagined, before circling back to the personal history lesson he’d been giving Houser.

  “I want to know what happened,” he said. “But I don’t want to ask Cassidy.” Jon took another gulp of beer. He was throwing them down faster than he had in a helluva while. “Way I see it, I’ve got two choices.”

  Houser finished Jon’s thought: “You could go directly to Warren and demand the truth, or you could ask me to dip my bucket in the well and see how deep the fucker drops, right?”

  Jon swallowed, finished his bottle, then slammed it on the table harder than he meant to and slurred, “Yeah, something like that. What do you think I should do?”

  Houser took a smaller sip of his own beer, then motioned for the waitress with his eyes half on Jon and said, “Any harm in doing both?”

  The cute waitress with the pigtails Jon had been eyeing since he first sat down spoke to the private dick while stealing sideways glances at the movie star. “How can I help you?” she said. “Another bottle?”

  Jon shook his head and gave the pigtails an excuse to give him her undivided. “You have any whiskey?”

  “Sure,” she said. “What kind?”

  “I don’t care,” he said. “Surprise me.” Jon laughed, and Pigtails laughed along with him, stealing another few seconds before slipping off toward the bar.

  “You are the only asshole I would ever drink who hogs all the attention from the ladies. That makes you less fun to hang with, just so you know.”

  “Bullshit,” Jon said. “Makes me more interesting. And you say the word, and we can party back at the hotel with two or three more just like her.”

  “Ha,” Houser took another swallow. “As enticing as that offer is, I’ll have to decline. Something tells me you�
�ll just wind up regretting it once the ladies see what I’m packing, and leave you sitting in the corner pulling your own pud while I rock all their worlds.”

  “Remind me to fire you tomorrow,” Jon said, laughing as he took another drink. “Oh wait, you just found my daughter. Guess I have to keep you on a bit, right? By the way, thank you for that, man. I owe you.”

  Jon felt like he was getting to that emotional drunk stage where he started telling people how much he loved them.

  Maybe I should slow it down.

  “I’m just glad we found her,” Houser said. “But back to your question — I think you should ask your brother. No one’s gonna know his vibe better than you. Stare him in the eye and don’t let him look away. You’ll be able to grab the lie if it’s there. I’ll ask around, too, see what I can dig up. Sound good?”

  Jon stared at the pair of pigtails bouncing against the waitress’s shoulders as she made her way back to their table. “You looked like you wanted two,” she said, setting a set of shot glasses on the table, the coconut decal nearly faded from one, and brand new on the other. “If you didn’t, well then the second one’s on the house.” She smiled.

  Well, fuck slowing down.

  He laughed, downed the first shot, then said, “Are you kidding me? I feel like saying ‘I love you.’” Jon flashed the waitress the same magic smile that had won him box office dollars and more than his share of critical praise. “In fact, why don’t you bring me the bottle.”

  “Sure thing,” she said, then disappeared.

  “Might want to watch it there, cowboy,” Houser said when she left.

  “Thanks, Mommy,” Jon poured the second shot down his throat.

  “You can drink the whole bottle, asshole. I don’t give a shit. At least I’m at the same table tonight, so I know I won’t get a phone call at 3-A-FUCKING-M that will send me driving from Orillas to the top of OC.”

  “Here ya’ go, gentleman.” The waitress stepped awkwardly into their exchange, smiling as she set the bottle on the table, then slipped off toward the back of the bar.