WhiteSpace: Season One (Episodes 1-6 of the sci-fi horror serial) (31 page)

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 instrumental 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.
 

Jon’s head started to swim. He burst into laughter at the matching set of blurry Housers, both trying to make him feel bad. “I think these onion rings are the only things I’ve eaten all day,” he said, a half-second after his sudden realization.
 

Houser was right, and the logical side of Jon knew it. But most of him was drunk and getting drunker.
 

Jon had grown reasonably skilled at staying on the shallow side of the drunk pool, and while he wasn’t quite trashed yet, he’d already decided to dive, and was now just seconds from hitting the water. He tried to remember the last time he’d been so drunk, then couldn’t help but feel a soured smile spreading his face at the memory — a seemingly endless night of bacchanal at the infamous Chateau Marmont.
 

The Chateau rose above the Sunset Strip like a leviathan of gothic glamour, and was one of the more famous places in the world where writers, actors, musicians, and the affluent elite had been known to squirrel away in its paparazzi-free palatial environment.

Harry Cohn, founder of Columbia Pictures, said, “If you’re gonna get in trouble, do it at Chateau Marmont.” And Harry was right. Generations thought so. James Dean had jumped through a window, Led Zeppelin rode their hogs into the lobby, and Jon had beat a few demons into the dirt himself. But getting into trouble at the Chateau was reasonably safe. Unlike Hamilton Island, where Jon was terrified of what he might say, or even do.
 

He was glad Houser was there. Jon felt safe beside him, knowing Houser wouldn’t let things get too far out of hand, no matter what sorta shit fell from his mouth. Houser usually had the words, even when he said nothing.