WhiteSpace: Season One (Episodes 1-6 of the sci-fi horror serial) (12 page)

Jon said, “Are you
sh... sh...
sure?” Not knowing what to say turned his words to a stutter.

“Of course I’m sure. You think I
wanted
to call you?”

A pause, then, “I saw the way you were looking at Emma. You know, don’t you?”

Jon felt suddenly wobbly, as though the hard concrete of his world was getting wet beneath his feet. He choked, then said, “She’s mine, isn’t she? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Cassidy sounded surprised. “Wow, you really didn’t know?”

Jon said, “I thought Sarah left me because I slept with that model.”

Cassidy snorted. “She was madder than a fucking hatter about that, but that’s not why she left.”
 

“Then why?” Then, through gritted teeth he asked, “Did my family have something to do with her leaving me?”
 

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” Cassidy said. “Do you think they took Emma?”

“So they
do
know?”

“Like I said, don’t ask questions,” Cassidy said. Then she added, “I can’t talk about it, Jon. But yes, they knew.”

Jon wanted to scream. Wanted to punch something. Wanted to drive to the house and beat Warren to within an inch of his life until he spilled everything he knew, everything he had to do with this being kept from him.

“Jesus,” Jon said.

“Do you think they’d take her?” Cassidy asked again.

“The Conways might do a lot of evil shit, but no, they wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t have any reason. Would they?”

‘I don’t fucking know!” Cassidy whined. “I don’t know why they do half the shit they do. All I know is that Emma is missing. You’re back. And I sure as hell don’t believe in coincidences.”

“I swear to God I had nothing to do with this,” Jon said. “I wasn’t even sure Emma was mine until about two minutes ago.”

“You swear?” Cassidy asked, now sobbing on the other end.

“I swear,” Jon said calmly. “Have you called the police yet?”

“No, Vivian told me to call you first.”

Jon shook his head at the stupidity of that advice. “Listen, Cassidy, call the police right now. I’ll call Warren and see if he knows anything. Then I’ll make some more calls. We will find her, Sarah.”

A long pause, and then Cassidy said, “You called me Sarah.”

“Sorry,” Jon said.

“It’s okay,” Cassidy said. “I can’t stop thinking about her, either. I’m gonna call the police now.”

“I’ll get back to you in 10 minutes one way or another,” Jon said. “And I swear, I’m not leaving this island until we find her.”

After a long pause, Cassidy said, “Okay,” then with audible pain, as though having a tooth pulled, she added, “thank you” before hanging up.

Jon scrolled through his contacts for his brother’s number, and for the first time in his life didn’t smile as he pressed the name marked, “Asshole”

The phone rang twice, then Warren said, “Oh wow, a celebrity calling me before 8:00 in the morning. To what do I owe the honor?”

“I’m not in the mood, Warren,” Jon said. “Where is my daughter?”

“Your daughter?” Warren said. He couldn’t even make his disbelief sound believable.
 

Asshole.

“Don’t you dare pretend not to know,” Jon growled. “You lie to me right now, I will spend a fucking lifetime making sure you regret it.”

Jon could have mentioned any bits of the Conway’s dirty laundry, but went with the light touch, instead, allowing Warren’s fears do most of the intimidation.

Warren pissed off Jon further by laughing again. “You get a script writer to write that for you? And this early? Great delivery, Jon. Should’ve put that kind of emotion in your last movie. Now, you want to tell me what the hell you’re accusing me of,
Brother?
”
 

“Emma’s missing. Where is she?”

Warren laughed. “I don’t know anything about the kid, but Lord knows that dumb white trash junkie whore can’t take care of her. Call the cops. I’m sure it’s so open and shut even Barney Fife and his Beachside Goons will be able to solve it in less than 10 seconds. Hell, Cassidy probably sold her for drug money. If you want, I’ll give you the number of the Captain of Paladin. I understand that you already made quite an impression on them.”

“Fuck you,” Jon said, and hung up.

He stared out the window at the sea, trying to slow his rising anger and breath, before calling the one contact in his phone he knew he could turn to at a time like this — Brock Houser.

* * * *

CHAPTER 2 — Brock Houser Part 1

Las Orillas, California

Thursday
 

September 7

Morning…

Brock Houser sat in his car with his eyes on Bill Benedict’s house.

Benedict was a 46-year-old slip and fall case seeking a payday from the insurance company of the store where he fell. Given that Benedict was an Army vet, a loving father of a 6 year old child with autism, and had a wife who battled breast cancer the year before, he would likely clean up in front of a jury. So the adjuster was looking for anything they could get on the guy.

Which was why Houser was now working his 19th day tailing the guy, despite never seeing the Benedict do anything remotely incriminating. The man never even left his house, and the most damning evidence Houser had gathered so far was video of Benedict stepping from the front porch to collect his mail one afternoon. Other than that, he was a recluse.

Houser had exactly dick on the guy, and if he didn’t get something soon, the insurance company would have flushed $600 a day right down the drain, which was fine by Houser. He didn’t care for the adjuster assigned to the case at all. The guy, Victor Reynolds, had a hard-on for Benedict for no good reason, and Houser didn’t want to be part of screwing over a guy who hadn’t done anything wrong. So as Houser wound down his time watching Benedict, he almost found himself hoping
not to
catch the guy doing anything.

Most insurance frauds were stupidly easy to catch. People either got busted in the act of doing things a disabled person couldn’t do, or posting pictures and video to their social media websites of themselves doing things they claimed they couldn’t, or got greedy and went out and found a second job.

Benedict wasn’t doing any of these things. He used his Facebook wall to complain about the pain, depression, and not being able to work. The guy was either the real deal or the most committed faker Houser had ever seen. Houser had a good sense for these kinds of things, and he’d bet his last dollar that the guy was legit.

The other thing about insurance fraud cases, however, was that you could spin evidence any way you wanted. The adjuster didn’t need airtight evidence on Benedict, just enough to sway a jury to side with the poor embattled insurance company against the evil scammer looking for a payday on the backs of rates that the hardworking people like the ladies and gentlemen of the jury had to pay.

Houser was bored shitless. He had one eye on his iPad, flinging angry birds at green pigs and passing time, while the other stayed on the house.
 

Suddenly, he spotted movement in his rearview mirror.

Houser had his hand at his shoulder holster and fingers on the butt of his gun in seconds; prepared as always for someone seeking vengeance.
 

He watched as the figure slipped between the cars parked along the street behind him. The shadow was wearing black shirt, black jeans, and a black ski mask pulled over his face. He also had black gloves and was carrying a crowbar, headed to the front door of the house next door to Benedict’s.

Is this fucker actually wearing a ski mask in broad daylight? Doesn’t he even see me sitting here?

Houser let go of his gun, grabbed his cell with one hand and dialed 9-1-1, then waited for dispatch to answer. With his right hand, he grabbed his video camera, popped out the video he’d been using to surveil Benedict (the client insisted on video tape, not digital) then fumbled through his center console and grabbed another tape. He slid it in, pressed play to make sure he wasn’t taping over anything important, then hit record and raised the camera to catch video of the burglar.
 

A dispatch operator picked up and Houser filled her in on what was going down. His time as a cop led him straight to the point.
 

The dispatch operator, a friendly sounding woman, asked, “What’s he doing now?”

“Just broke into the house,” Houser said, staying on the line, his camera trained on the front door. “You got someone coming?”

“Officers are on the way, sir.”

The burglar popped out of the house a few minutes later, a black duffel bag bulging at the seams and slung over his shoulder.

“He’s out,” Houser said.

Houser turned the camera, following the guy as he sprinted across the yard to a car parked three behind Houser. The guy got inside, and pulled away. Houser said: “He’s in a Red Camry, heading east on 17th just north of Gardenia Drive.”

Houser looked at Benedict’s house and figured the guy wasn’t going to come outside doing gymnastics in his yard anytime soon, so he pulled from the curb and followed the burglar. Moments later, he updated the dispatcher, “He just turned south onto Greenview.”

“Are you following him?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Houser said. “Uh-oh, I think he spotted me, he’s speeding up. But don’t worry, he’s not gonna lose me.”

“Sir, do not chase him,” the dispatcher said.

“You don’t want to catch him?” Houser asked. “I’ll back off when I see some cops. Until then, I’m following.”

The dispatcher was silent. She must be new, he figured, as he sped up, pulling closer to the Camry. Houser hit 60 in a 45 to keep pace. The community was on the quiet side, without much traffic, but that could change in a heartbeat if the Camry pulled onto an artery road, headed toward the city.

“He’s going about 65, just passed Franklin,” Houser updated the dispatcher.

“Sir, I must advise you not to speed.”

Houser laughed, “Yeah, okay.”

The dispatcher repeated her warning, but Houser ignored her, lowering his right foot. The Camry turned sharply, trying to turn onto a crossroad, but instead, slid out of control, and hit a parked Audi.

“He just crashed into a parked Audi,” Houser said as he pulled up behind the guy, whose car was stalled. “He’s stalled. Should I sit here with my thumb up my ass or you got someone coming?”

“Officers are on the way,” she said.

Houser looked around, “Unless you’ve got some new invisible cops I don’t know about, I don’t see, or hear, anything close by. Uh-oh. He’s out and on foot. I’m gonna go get ‘em.”

“Sir, please let the officers handle this,” the dispatcher said.

“Sure thing . . . when they get here,” Houser said, putting the camera down, then hopping from his car.

Ski Mask turned around, eyes wide as he saw Houser giving chase. Houser was six foot five, 260 pounds of muscle, an intimidating fucker standing still, but Hell personified when charging. A white mom and black dad made Houser the perfect shade of mocha, just dark enough to intimidate most white guys when he wanted, but not so dark he had trouble getting into places where the only non-whites welcome were on the payroll.

Ski Mask dropped his duffel and reached behind his back.

Oh shit!

Ski Mask didn’t have a gun, but he did have a blade. Houser smiled. From 10 feet the blade was a kernel of corn in a pile of shit, unless Ski Mask was a ninja. Houser pulled his gun and said, “Drop the knife.”

The dispatcher spoke, “Sir, do you still have a visual on the suspect?”

“You could say that,” Houser said, “he's waving a knife around, but I’m pretty sure I can squeeze off six shots before he reaches me. What do you think?”

Houser said this for Ski mask’s benefit, not the dispatcher’s, who only answered with an uncertain sigh. Houser was pretty sure she was starting to take a shine to him. Ski Mask’s eyes were wide and terrified. He dropped the knife, then the bag.

“Good boy,” Houser said, advancing, gun still drawn, ready to drop the phone in a moment’s notice, to either chase or fight. He didn’t have to do either. A siren blurted behind him, followed by a woman’s voice over the speaker. “Put the gun down, sir.”

“I’ve gotta go now,” Houser said to the dispatcher, and set the phone on the ground beside his gun, nice and slow. As two uniformed officers approached, guns drawn on he and Ski Mask, Houser turned to explain the situation, then smiled at the familiar face of Detective Stephen Chan.

“Oh Jesus,” Chan said with a grin. “I heard some crazy asshole was chasing a suspect around the city. I should’ve known it was you. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too,” Houser said, pointing toward his gun and phone. “May I?”

“Yeah,” Chan nodded.

Chan and Houser came up through the academy together, working for the Ocean County Sheriff’s Office. Chan was one of the few guys Houser didn’t piss off during his tenure. Last he and Chan talked was about a year back, when Chan contacted Houser about a cheating spouse case Houser had been working that turned ugly.