WhiteSpace: Season One (Episodes 1-6 of the sci-fi horror serial) (22 page)

Finding nothing inside, Houser hit the backyard. There was a blue shed in the rear of the property, which might house yard equipment, but could easily pull duty as a prison. Houser walked through the back yard, glancing up at the window of the house next door where an old white haired woman was watching him
—
the same house that hadn’t answered the door when he knocked earlier. Houser waved, pretty sure she was calling the cops. He had to act quickly.

He reached the shed and was not surprised at all to find a padlock locking the doors.
 

He pictured Emma on the other side. At first, he imagined her alive. Then he remembered finding Cecilia as the life was fading from her eyes.

Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead.

He knocked on the shed, the tin door bouncing in its track from the weight of his blows.
 

No response.
 

Houser said, “Hello? Anyone in there? I’m here to help you.”

Nothing.

Houser looked around for something he could use to pick the lock, or smash it if he had to, but saw nothing. He could shoot it, but didn’t want to attract any more of an audience than he already had. Nor did he want to take the chance of hitting someone inside.

So he stepped back a bit and kicked the door off its tracks with a loud crash.

If the old lady hadn’t already called the cops, the kick had to dial the three digits.
 

There was nothing in the shed, except for a motley assortment of gardening tools. A shovel leaned in the corner, with dark fresh soil staining the business end. The sick in his gut said it was more future evidence.
 

Houser looked behind him, glancing around the yard, but saw no indication of any recent burials.

He glanced back up and saw the old lady duck from the window.
 

Time to go.

He ran back inside the house, closing the back door, then raced out the front, locking the bottom lock on his way out.

Once in his car, he put the car in motion, and called Jon.

“Hey, just left his house. No sign of Emma, but fucker has an ass ton of pics on his iPad; little girls on a playground. Particular interest in Emma, a dozen or more shots, right in a row.”

“Jesus,” Jon breathed. “Now what? Do we call the police?”

“Not yet,” Houser said. “I’m on my way to the church right now.”

“The church?” Houser heard Jon swallow.

“Yeah, I’m not waiting around all day for him to get home. Say, do they have a playground at the church? Emma ever go there?”

Jon took a moment to fill Cassidy in on the details, then asked if Emma ever went to the church or the playground.

Jon was back. “She’s not sure if she went to Sunday school there, but yeah, they went to church services sometimes, and to the playground.”

“OK, well right now, this guy is our suspect, and I’m gonna go pay him a visit.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Jon said.

“Don’t
you
do anything stupid,” Houser said. “Like calling the cops. Let me do what I do well, so this guy doesn’t lawyer up before I get a chance to let him smell the sweetness of my breath on his ears. ”

“OK,” Jon said. “I’ll wait to hear from you. Actually, no, we’re gonna meet you at the church.”

“It’s up to you. But I’ve gotta warn you, I think the old lady next door may have called the cops already, or maybe even called him at church. So if he’s on the move, I’m not waitin’ for you.”

“Please,” Jon said, “find her.”

“Call Chief Brady. Call Paladin. Tell them to get search teams in the woods around Whistler’s house. Just don’t say anything about Whistler, yet, unless you have to.”

“Do you think she’s . . . dead?”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Jon. We’re running out of time.”

**

The church grounds had five buildings and a playground. The largest building was the church, a massive, traditional-looking wood and stone structure with high arches, several stained glass windows beneath winding spires, and a giant cross on the steeple you could see from the sea. Beside the church there were four squat one story buildings forming an “X” in all four directions. The two buildings in the front were set up in rows, probably classrooms for daycare. The buildings in the back looked administrative or like they maybe doubled as meeting spaces. In the back of the property, nudged up against the woods, was a large playground – the one from the photos.

There were about 20 preschool-aged kids playing on the playground, with two female teachers watching. No sign of the pervert, yet.

Houser parked his car and threw on his black sports jacket to conceal his gun. He bypassed the church, approached the rear buildings, toward the administrative offices, then opened a door marked “Office.”

A red-headed chubby woman in her mid 30’s sat at a desk tapping at a keyboard, her eyes fixed on a paper thin screen. She looked up, surprised to see a tall stranger standing in front of her.

“Hello, my name is Brock Houser,” he said, showing her his badge. “I’m a private attorney working for the Hughes family, searching for their missing daughter, Emma. You’ve seen this on the news, I assume?”

“Yeah,” the woman said, concern creeping across her face. The nameplate on her desk read, “Mrs. Mallory.”
 

“Good. Her grandmother is worried sick, and I believe someone that works here may have some information which could help us in the case.”

Mallory’s eyes widened, “Someone here?” she gasped.

“Yes,” Houser said, lowering his voice to a whisper, gaining her confidence through the revelation of a ‘secret.’ “And I’m trying to keep things hush-hush so as not to have people thinking this guy is dangerous or anything. His name is Larry Whistler. His neighbors said he worked here and might be able to help us find her.”

“Mr. Larry?” Mallory said, alarmed. “Yeah, he works here. He’s a youth pastor on the weekends, but teaches music class during the week. Did he do something wrong?”

“Oh, no, I just need to talk to him, because he might be able to help out. And I don’t want to see his name all over the news for no good reason. You know how ugly the media can get, and how rumors can spread. Pretty soon everyone’s talkin’ how Mr. Whistler works here, and he’ll look after the kids
real good
, if you catch my drift.”

Mallory nodded, “Oh yes. We wouldn’t want that. Mr. Larry is so great with the kids.”

Yeah, I’ll bet.

“Can you call tell me where I can find him?”

Mallory paused, and for a moment, Houser was afraid he’d judged her wrong. He should’ve tried a different approach, he thought, thinking she might call her boss for permission. Permission Houser would never get. People had a habit of protecting their own, even when giving solace to monsters.

To Houser’s relief, Mrs. Mallory picked up the phone, pressed two digits, and said, “Mr. Larry, can you come to the office, please?”

“Yes, Mrs. Mallory,” he said over the speakerphone.

Houser waited, as Mallory made small talk with him about Emma and how tragic it was that she’d go missing right after her mother was killed. She then told Houser how she’d just seen Emma the day of the funeral, and how sweet the girl was, and how much she looked like her mother.

The door behind Houser opened and Whistler walked through the door. The moment he saw Houser standing there, something clicked in his eyes. Asshole knew trouble when he saw it.

“This is Mr. Houser, an investigator,” Mallory said.

Before she even finished her sentence, the scumbag turned and ran out the door.

Shit!

Houser tore after him through the churchyard, yelling, “I just want to talk.”

Whistler was surprisingly fast for a guy in his late 40s, but not fast enough. Houser caught him at the edge of the parking lot, and slammed him to the ground.

“I didn’t do anything!” the man screamed, kicking Houser, missing his crotch, just barely.
 

“You
did not
just kick me!” Houser said, grabbing the man’s leg, then twisting his ankle back, as he decided how loud he wanted the asshole to scream. Houser decided to bend him into a roar.
 

Whistler screamed with what sounded like two parts pain to three parts terror, then flipped to his stomach as he tried squirming away.

Houser was on him in seconds, wrenching his wrist back and slapping cuffs on him as the pervert tried to wiggle away like a worm through the dirt.

Now that he had Whistler down, Houser punched him hard in the back of his ribs.

Whistler screamed again.

“Where is she?”

“Where’s who?” Whistler said.

Houser punched him again, harder. “Don’t make me fucking ask again. Tell me now. Or else I’m gonna cut your balls off and hang them from my rearview.”

“I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Houser spun the man, stomach to the sun, then grabbed him hard by the cheeks
 
and squeezed them together hard enough to turn them purple, then violently shook Whistler’s head back and forth.
 

“I know what you are,” Houser said. “You might be able to hide your sick little fetishes from your friends, these good people at the church, and maybe even God above. But you can’t hide it from me. I know what you are.”
 

Houser leaned in close enough for Whistler to smell the sweetness of his breath. He growled, “Don’t make me ask again. Where is she?”

Whistler cried, “I swear, I don’t . . .”

Houser smacked him hard in the face, then grabbed him by the cheeks again, splaying his fingers into Whistler’s flesh, then squeezing even harder.

“Where is Emma Hughes?”

Whistler’s eyes widened, recognizing the name, maybe even thinking of the photos he’d snapped of the girl, or where he was holding her.

“Ah. See. You DO know who I’m talking about,” Houser said, smile spreading. “Now, tell me.”

“I don’t know,” Whistler said, sobbing, his lips quivering in fear.

Houser shook his head, “Oh, man. That’s too bad. I was really hoping you wouldn’t make me get Betty.”

“Betty?” Whistler said, fear and confusion now fighting for his eyes. “Who’s Betty.”

Houser pulled the gun from his holster, and displayed it for Whistler, enjoying the look of fear light in the man’s eyes. “Oh, you don’t know Betty? That’s a shame, because she’s just itching to know you.”

Houser set the barrel of the pistol against Whistler’s forehead. Whistler cried out. Houser could sense eyes on him, from the church, from the playground, and the surrounding buildings. He paid them no attention.
 

While he didn’t want to do this in front of kids, scarring them for life, the alternative was wasting time he might not have bringing Whistler somewhere where they could talk.

Time for talking was running out.
 

Now was time for truth telling.

“You ever see a gunshot wound to the head up close?” Houser asked. “I do love Betty, but she’s a messy bitch. Guess you don’t need to care about that. It’s not like
you’ll
have to clean up the mess.”

“Please,” Whistler whimpered.

“I’m gonna count to five, Larry. And then I’m gonna stop counting, and I’m gonna let Betty get her way.

“No!”Whistler cried louder, trying again to squirm away.

Houser pushed the gun harder against his head, pressing his weight even more onto the man’s chest.

“Five!”

“No, no! Please, I don’t know anything.”

“Four!”

“Please. I never touched her. All I did was look.”

“Three!”

Whistler let out a long wail, running out of excuses.

“Two.”

“I swear!”

“Now or never, Larry!” Houser yelled.

And then Houser heard the yell behind him.

“Put the gun down!”

Houser turned to see a police officer and two Paladin guards, weapons drawn and every gun aimed at him.

Fuck.

* * * *

CHAPTER 6 — Cassidy Hughes Part 2

11:30 a.m.

Jon and Cassidy were standing beneath the fluttering flag at the police station, the cold wind biting the both of them as a dark cloud loomed on the horizon. She was thankful for his presence, and grateful she was too tired and too worried about Emma to properly hate him.
 

They were waiting for Sgt. Sam Johnson to finish questioning Whistler and for Chief Brady to let Houser go from the holding cell. She was anxious, but Jon had a surprisingly calming effect on her. And so far, she’d been able to avoid the craving for the pill in her pocket.

Cassidy lit her Marlboro Light, took a drag, then offered the pack to Jon. He shook his head. “What, you’re too good to smoke now?”