WhiteSpace: Season One (Episodes 1-6 of the sci-fi horror serial) (13 page)

The other cop, a short woman with auburn hair in a short ponytail and thick horn-rimmed glasses, cuffed Ski Mask as Chan grinned and shook Houser’s hand. “So, what, you were bored and figured you’d swing by and help us out?”

“Something like that,” Houser said as he holstered his gun and clicked “end” on the phone, now that he didn’t need a recording in case shit went south and he got shot. “I was working a slip and fall case and saw this dumbass sneaking around in broad fucking daylight with a ski mask and crowbar, breaking into a house.”

Chan’s partner pulled the ski mask off, revealing a pale teenage kid with a lip ring and a bad case of acne. His hair was bleached white, making his fuzzy dark eyebrows look like angry caterpillars.

“Wow, he is one ugly motherfucker,” Houser said.

“That asshole chased me down! I didn’t do shit,” Ski Mask said, his face twisted and red.

Chan’s partner said, “Yeah, yeah, tell the judge,” yanking Ski Mask off his knees and leading him past them and to the back of the squad car.

“That’s Sgt. Vickers,” Chan said. “You two would get along great; she’s a charmer.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Houser said, grinning. “I wish
I
had a partner that cool back in the day. Anyway, I’ve got video if you wanna see.”

“Wow, you must be
really
bored. I’m surprised you didn’t apprehend him, too.” Chan said following Houser back to his car.

“Well, I was trying. But then you all roll up like the heroes, after I did all the work.”

 
“You ever think about coming back? It’s a lot different here than OC.”

“Yeah?” Houser asked, “You guys making money now?”

“What do
you
think?”

“Then I think you know my answer,” Houser said. “Besides, you know I don’t play well with others. Can’t stand the politics. You call me when you make Chief, maybe we’ll talk.”

“I didn’t say
I wanna
be your boss. I don’t need the headache,” Chan joked.

Houser opened his car and pulled out the video camera, then hit rewind. He let the tape go back a bit farther than he meant, and the video screen showed a cop in a dark alley with a prostitute blowing him.

“Woah!” Chan said, “What the hell is that? Your home movies?”

“Woops, didn’t realize I still had that in there.”

“Who is that?” Chan asked.

“Some asshole traffic cop in New Mexico who made it his mission to pull me over every goddamned day I was there during the summer.”

“New Mexico? What you doing over there?”

“I go all over, man. One of the perks of working for myself. Anyway, dude kept pulling me over, saying I was going way faster than I was, giving me tickets and shit. I had enough tickets to line a litter box. Not sure why he had such a hard-on for me, so after I wrapped up business, I decided to dig into his life.”

“Ah,” Chan said, smiling wide. “Obviously he hadn’t heard about your infamous exploits with OCSO.”

“Yeah, right? Anyway, fucker was up to all kinds of fun stuff. First, I was just looking to prove he wasn’t even using the radar correctly,
which he wasn’t.
Then ding-ding bonus, I caught him doing a whole heap of unsavory shit. I decided to fight the tickets, and sent a copy of this video to the local news anchor the day before. Needless to say, he didn’t show in court.”

Houser fast forwarded the tape to show the burglar.

“Remind me not to piss you off,” Chan said, shaking his head, still smiling.

“Like I said, I don’t play well with others,” Houser said as he returned to his car.

* *
 

Houser returned to Benedict’s house to find, big fat surprise, the guy was still home.
 

After another two hours of sitting in front of the house, Houser found himself reliving the rush of the earlier chase, then surprising himself by pondering Chan’s offer. He wasn’t sure if Chan was being polite or if they really needed cops, but Las Orillas seemed like a decent enough place, idiot burglars aside. A quiet seaside town, artsy community, people with money, but without all the bullshit you’d find in Ocean County. Most of all, though, Houser missed having someone to hang out with on duty while killing the tedious boredom. Chan was one of his closest friends back in the day. Now, he spent much of his time waiting for people to do stupid shit while he stared at his iPad.

Houser had been working for himself for seven years, building his agency with three other investigators, and was now taking only the jobs he wanted to take. He was in the best position of his life, was making good money, ridiculous sometimes, and providing two other investigators with regular work. But there were times when he missed his work having any real meaning beyond catching a cheating spouse or someone for insurance fraud. He rarely had the chance to help real people in need.
 

Sure, he helped people protect their assets, and insurance companies reclaim their money, but he wasn’t nailing violent criminals, solving murders, or any of the other things Chan did on a daily basis.

Of course, if you asked Chan how he felt about his job most days, he’d probably say he was frustrated that they couldn’t do more to help people. Annoyed that more often than not, the bad guys walked, or the cops got there too late, or there wasn’t anything they could do to protect abused kids or spouses.
 

Then there was the Cecilia Ramirez case. The one that crushed him. That one that still plagued his nightmares.

No, can’t go back to that.

He put his pointer on his iPad, flicked another bird at the pigs, and decided he was just fine doing this for the next decade, if need be.

After 10 more minutes of bird flinging, Houser’s phone rang. It was Jon Conway.

“Whatup, Jonny Hollywood,” Houser said.

“I’m never in the mood for that. And never less than now.”
 

Jon sounded pissed.
 

Houser laughed. There probably wasn’t a rich fucker in the world he liked more than Jon. Jon was richer than all of them. He had manners, over-paid, and was always happy to take Houser exactly as he came. “Okay,
Jon
, how may I help you today?”

“You busy?”

Houser looked over at the house, then shook his head to himself. “Well, I guess it depends on your definition of busy. I’ve got cases coming out of my ass, but every one of them’s boring as shit. You call to bring some excitement into my life?”
 

“Can you come to Hamilton Island?”

“Hamilton Island? I said I want excitement, not retirement. What the hell you doing back home? The old man die or something? I didn’t see shit on the news about it.”

“No, but there’s a missing girl.” After a pause, Jon added. “My daughter. How soon can you get here?”
 

Houser kept his questions to himself since he could tell by Jon’s voice he didn’t want to talk about it, at least not over the phone. “Gonna fly me first class?”

“Have I ever not?”

“No, but I like busting your balls, Jon.” Houser laughed again. “I’ll be on the next flight, even if it’s coach, and swim across the channel if I have to. You can count on me.”
 

“I know. That’s why I’m calling,” he said. “I’m staying at the Sands of Time Hotel.”
 

“Anything else I should know? Maybe look into while flying?”

“No,” he said. “See you in a few hours. Just keep the daughter thing to yourself, of course.”

“Of course,” Houser said.

“Thank you,” Jon said.

“You’re welcome. See you soon.”

Houser hung up, then turned to the teddy bear in the cop uniform riding shotgun. “Well, buddy, we said we were bored. Shit’s about to get interesting again.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 3 — Milo Anderson Part 1

Hamilton Island, Washington

Thursday

September 7

10:24 a.m.

Heller turned from the whiteboard, toward the classroom – face clammy and eyes bloodshot, hands shaking as he turned his head back and forth.
 

He looked down at his desk again, hands on either side of his briefcase, then pulled out a pistol. 

Amber Riley screamed as students gasped around her.

Heller aimed the gun and fired, shooting Tommy Hopkins in the face.

Jessica ran toward him, eyes wide like her mouth.
 

Milo wanted to protect her, but Heller was faster.

Milo tried to speak but the gunshot murdered his voice, and Jessica. Blood pooled across her powder blue sweater.
 

Manny was shot in the stomach, laying on the carpet, twitching, eyes glassy.

Heller came toward Manny, gun shaking in his hand. Heller paused, staring at Manny with hollow eyes. He kneeled and whispered something to him.
 

Heller then turned to the whiteboard, pointing at the word “eleven” with the barrel of his gun.
 

He parted his lips and shoved the gun inside his mouth.

Heller pulled the trigger and Milo screamed.
 

Milo shot forward from his mattress, screaming, wondering if he would ever be able to dream anything else ever again. It was hard enough to have witnessed the horror of what happened, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on seeing the visions played out over and over every time he fell asleep.

Milo swung his legs from bed and threw the covers toward the footboard, shaking his head. This couldn’t be real, Alex’s goofy dad couldn’t have gone Columbine. It didn’t make any sense.
 

Milo went to the bathroom, took a piss, and wondered if today’s misery would be any dimmer than the day before. He sure as hell hoped so because the school was opening its doors tomorrow, and Milo was damned sure he was gonna have a bad day.
 

He scratched his arms, annoyed that his stupid allergies were coming early. They seemed to itch even more than they had the day before.
 

Milo thought skipping the funeral would make him feel better, keeping him from having to stare the icy reality between the eyes. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing Jessica, or the others, frozen forever. It wasn’t just that. Milo could have forced himself to look inside the coffin. It was everyone else that would tear him apart. Despair he could deal with, no matter how bleak, as long as no one spoke to him. Once they did, Milo would break.

Milo perked his ears but didn’t hear Other Mom at all. He could always tell when she was in the house, even when she was quiet. The house had a different feel and sound when others were in it. For the moment, Milo was alone.

He crossed his room, opened the door, then peeled the pink Post-It from the front of his door:

“In Seattle with Janet and Teena. There’s $50 downstairs on the kitchen counter. Go out and do something fun, or order a pizza. Whatever you want. I won’t be home any later than 4:00 or so. Take care of yourself. Maybe order a movie from PayPerView? Whatever you want, it’s okay. xoxo”

Milo hated the x’s and o’s, and hated Beatrice for writing them. She could be gone a whole month with Janet and Teena for all he cared. That would save him from having to play nice and pretend like they were some kinda happy family.

Milo wondered if it was even worth leaving his room as he sat at his desk and opened the lid to his Mac, then logged on to his LiveLyfe page, the social media site many of the kids flocked to once Facebook became their parents’ number one hangout.
 

He updated his status:
 

“
Going through Hell.”

Milo scrolled through his news feed, looking through his friends’ posts and videos and pics, pausing at an entry from Leslie Sissom, another junior at Hamilton Island K-12.
 

“This is America, where you can find a gun easier than mental health services.”

Milo gave it a High-Five by clicking on the icon of the open palm, then continued to scroll, wiping his tears as he reached the bottom and waited for LiveLyfe to load older posts to the feed. He moved his cursor to the LiveLyfe search box and typed, “Hamilton shooting,” then stared at the list that swallowed the page, scrolling until he hit the fourth choice: Hamilton K-12 Shooting Survivors Group.
 

Milo clicked on the link, then started reading through the posts from the kids at his school, a mix of names he recognized, screen names he didn’t, and names involving “clever” plays or words involving either 420, genitals, some racist term, or oftentimes a combination of all three.

“One day I’ll leave the island, but every time I hear a firecracker snap or a balloon pop, I’ll see blood and probably jump.”

“What a psycho, shooting up a school like that. Good thing Heller’s dead.”