WhiteSpace: Season One (Episodes 1-6 of the sci-fi horror serial) (33 page)

“Thank you,” she said.

“Easiest job I ever did,” Houser grinned.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked as she looked around the living room for something, probably her purse.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad your son is back.”

Alex looked at his mom and held up a finger, “I’ll be right back, okay?” then he disappeared up the stairs, continuing the conversation with his girlfriend.

“Nice to see you, too,” Mrs. Heller said, laughing to hide the hurt that Alex was more concerned with how his girlfriend was than his mother who had been worried sick.
 

She began to lead Houser toward the door, “Well, I don’t wanna keep you.”

He wasn’t sure if he should ask, but couldn’t ignore the itch in the back of his brain. “Mrs. Heller? You were saying something about a list and something?”

She shook her head, “Can we forget I mentioned that? I really don’t want to drag my husband’s name through the mud any more than it has been already.”

“I understand, Mrs. Heller, and I don’t want to, either. But I can’t help but feel there’s something else you want to tell me.”

She looked away for a second. Exactly long enough to confirm his suspicion.

He was going to let the silence do the heavy lifting again, but decided to talk, instead. “Mrs. Heller, I can tell something has you scared. Something more than worrying about someone seeking vengeance on your family. I do more than just find missing kids, you know. I also help people.”

She looked back at the stairs where her son might come down any second, or in 20 minutes.

“I dunno,” she said, turning back to Houser and rubbing her hands nervously together.

“Mrs. Heller, let me help you. I promise, whatever you tell me is confidential. I don’t want to make the hard time your family is going through even harder.”

She met Houser’s eyes, like she was analyzing for trust.
 

“I found something else besides the list — a flash drive my husband had hidden. I brought it to the library because the police, Paladin, and the feds took all our computers. All the files on the flash drive were locked, except one.”

Houser could see the fear surfacing in Mrs. Heller’s eyes, and hear it in her voice.

“Roger said in the video that he had proof of something. But I didn’t see what it was before I had to turn off the computer and leave the library.”

“Proof?”

Alex began to descend the stairs, saying goodbye to his girlfriend.

“Can you open the files if I give the flash drive to you?”

“Yes,” Houser said, though he couldn’t truly be certain until he saw the security used with the flash drive.
 

Mrs. Heller reached into her pocket and pulled the flash drive from inside, then slipped it into his hand and whispered, “Don’t show anybody.”

She then thanked him out loud, “Thank you again, Mr. Houser. I appreciate your help.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Houser said, handing her his card and whispering, “call me.”

“You take care,” he said to Alex, still saying goodbye. “Thank you,” Alex said, waving, though he probably had no clue what he was thanking Houser for.

As Houser left their house and climbed inside his rental, he felt the eyes of the Paladin guard on him, watching his every move.

* * * *

CHAPTER 10 — Milo Anderson Part 3

Friday evening…

Milo thought himself lonely two days earlier, but lying alone in his hospital room, soaking in the aftermath of Manny’s death, Cody’s call, and Beatrice’s kamikaze run into Jordy’s Foods, made the previous two days feel like a laugh riot.
 

The surgeon had already met with Milo, as did a pair of Paladin guards, who stayed twice as long as the surgeon, and seemed to ask three times the number of questions.
 

Everyone seemed especially interested in what would possibly make Beatrice floor her way through the front of the store. As if Milo had any idea. He wished he knew. Milo had called Bea a crazy bitch plenty of times, but he had only meant the second part.
 

He felt sick to his stomach, and had had to reach for the barf bowl sitting by the bedside when the taller of the two Paladin officers informed him that there were two fatalities in the accident — an elderly couple named the Marshalls that Milo had known since forever. There were a few other injuries as well, but nobody else in critical condition. Milo and Beatrice got it the worst. But she shouldn’t still be breathing, not if her breath had stopped the Marshall’s from getting theirs.

Milo remembered the first time he saw Mrs. Marshall, in the produce section of Jordy’s ironically enough
,
though back then the store had been called, Lucky’s
.
 

Milo was in the middle of a temper tantrum, one of his worst ever. He wasn’t sure if it was the severity of that particular tantrum, or Mrs. Marshall coming up to him which made him remember the incident, but the memory was clear as a perfect spring sky on the island.
 

Mrs. Marshall came up to Milo, mid-scream, and kneeled on the linoleum. “How old are you, honey?” she said. “You must be four!”

Something about her voice must have stopped Milo from crying. He sputtered to a stop, then turned to the old woman and said, “I turned three last birthday.” Milo remembered holding three proud fingers to the sky.

“My goodness,” Mrs. Marshall said, turning toward his mom. “He’s quite tall for his age.”

Milo’s mom agreed. Mrs. Marshall then leaned closer to his mother and whispered, just loud enough for Milo to hear, “Don’t worry, honey, it gets better. The only time I really hated being a mother was when my children were three. Well, three and 13. Those were the two years when I just didn't want to do it any more. But I promise,” she winked, “it does get a whole lot better.”

The painkillers mostly numbed the pain outside, but the pain inside Milo’s body was far worse. The thought of Mrs. Marshall flooded Milo with fresh memories of his mother, and twisted the pain in his body closer to torment.

He could be dead.
 

Like the Marshalls. Or his mother. Or Jessica. Or Manny.

Home promised plenty more misery, but it would still be better than lying alone in the hospital, where everyone seemed to agree Milo would be spending his next few days.
 

The nurse had removed his catheter and IV. The only thing he was hooked to was a cuff on his arm and a monitor on his finger. So. Alone.

Milo had many wretched memories docked in a harbor of too little time. The memories were a festering wound, and the isolation an acid drop on it. Milo didn’t believe misery loved company, but was smart enough to know sharing was a salve on any wound.
 

Which made Milo wonder again where in the hell his father was.
 

Milo grunted, then swung his legs from bed, detached the device which measured the oxygen in his blood, and then rolled into the bathroom with his IV drip bag.

He sat on the toilet, body aching, pissing for what felt like forever. At first, it hurt to piss. But then the pain ceded. And then Milo continued to sit there, crying, feeling sad, scared, and alone, missing his mother, maybe more than ever. He was terrified that his father would fall into the same abyss that claimed him when Milo’s mom vanished.

Milo’s dad was mostly a ghost — an apparition of the man who once curled his fingers into the chain link at every baseball game, held the glue steady so it poured in thin lines, and made sure all Milo’s A’s and B’s were displayed on the fridge with his homemade smiley face magnets.
 

Milo lost his father once. The wound, still raw, was bleeding again. He couldn’t bear to do it again.

Milo flushed the toilet, washed his hands, then opened the bathroom door to find his father standing there.

“Dad!” Milo said hobbling toward his dad and hugging him.

“Milo!” he said. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Milo sat back on the bed and put the oxygen monitoring clip back on his finger.

Milo looked up at his father, but before he could say a word, his dad leaned onto the bed. “I’m sorry Milo, I should’ve been here.”

His dad looked like he was one shudder from sobbing, which sloshed the acid in Milo’s stomach. His father never cried, or at least
almost
never. He always cried when he watched
Field of Dreams
and some baseball games, but almost never otherwise.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Milo said, suddenly meaning it. “I’m glad you’re home, though.” Milo smiled, though it hurt, sending a spark of pain to his abdomen. “How’s Beatrice.”
 

Milo’s dad looked down, then shook his head. “Not too great. Doctor says they’ll know more later, but so far the news isn’t good.”
 

“Sorry,” Milo said.
 

Milo’s dad tried to hold Milo’s gaze as the edges of his mouth started to twitch, appearing more angry than sad.
 

“You okay, Dad?”

Milo’s father smiled, the older smile that made him look more like a ghost.
 

“Yeah, I’m fine, considering. It’s just,” his face flooded with apology, “Bea and I have been fighting lately, a lot actually, and that’s part of the reason I’ve been out of the house more often than usual. But that’s not fair to you, or her either. Now she’s . . . ” He collapsed into tears. “Well, I dunno if she’s gonna make it, and I can’t get our last conversation outta’ my head.”
 

“I’m sorry,” Milo said.

“It’s okay,” his father said, wiping his eyes before pulling Milo’s hands into his. “Everything for a reason. Everything will be okay. This is the wake-up call I needed. Now, tell me what happened.”

Milo’s dad patted him on his hand, and Milo filled him in on everything (except the Cody guy calling him — he didn’t want his dad to think he was crazy) until the nurse came in with medication which made Milo feel groggy.

Milo was barely aware of his father getting up to leave the room. He might not had even noticed had his dad not leaned in, kissed him on the head, and said, “I’m sorry this all happened. I love you.”

His dad left the room, leaving Milo alone, but feeling more loved than he had since his mother turned to memory.
 

* * * *

Chapter 11 — Stephen Anderson

Stephen Anderson closed the door to his son’s room, then relaxed into the slight limp he’d kept well hidden while inside, quickly putting distance between his son’s room and his still bleeding conscience.
 

Fifty feet from trading the bright white of the hospital for the dim gray outside,
Fur Elise
rang in his pocket. Stephen froze as a thin sheet of icy fear frosted the top of his boiling rage.
 

He held the phone, stared into his palm, and tried to keep his face calmer than his voice. “You have a lot of goddamned nerve calling me. My son was nearly killed! You said nobody else would be around. You said no collateral damage.”

The grayed image on the other side of the call said, “You might want to remember who you’re speaking to, Mr. Anderson. I don’t do well with a lack of manners.” The best Stephen could do to mind his manners was stare and say nothing at all. The voice without a face said, “What does Milo know?”

“Nothing,” Stephen lied.
 

“Are you certain? Because Paladin has shared a different story, and you know how I like my stories to look one another in the eye.”

“Don’t worry,” Stephen swallowed his lump. I’ll make sure he can’t connect the dots.”

“You’d better, Mr. Anderson. Or we’ll activate his chip.”

“Wait,” Stephen huddled against the wall, the phone now inches from his face. “You put a fucking chip in him? When? How?!”

The grayed face crackled into a black screen.
 

The when and how was answered by the smiling surgeon, Dr. Edward Stone, nodding at Stephen as he stepped through a swinging set of double doors.
 

They now had him exactly where they wanted him.

TO BE CONTINUED...

WhiteSpace: Episode 5

by Sean Platt &

David Wright

Copyright © 2012 by Sean Platt & David Wright. All rights reserved
 

Cover copyright © 2012 by David W. Wright

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The authors have taken great GIGANTIC liberties with locales including the creation of fictional towns (and islands!) The authors rarely leave their home states and research is limited to whatever the spirit of Magellan tells them via Ouija Board.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

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