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

His dad was gone, like always. Beatrice, or “other mother,” as Milo called her, sometimes to her face and always when she wasn’t around, was left in charge of the house.
 

Milo’s dad worked as an analyst for Conway Industries. While most people who worked for the company lived on the island, or on the mainland, Milo’s dad was out of the state more often than not. Milo figured his dad was good at his job given the money he made. Beatrice was good at hers, too, though her job was much easier since her main duties apparently were to spend his money and be a bitch.
 

According to Beatrice, Milo just didn’t appreciate her or see things from her perspective. She said that as far as hard jobs went, being a stepmother was right up there with being an air-traffic controller. Milo thought that was bullshit, particularly since he was 17 and practically an adult. He wasn’t sure what she did on any given day that could be deemed a parental responsibility, save for the occasional dinner she made.

He’d given her plenty of chances, but she’d blown every one, starting with the day his dad announced they were getting married. She stood beside him, smiling like she was standing in an open vault, and said, “You can call me Mom!”

Thanks Beatrice, you evil bitch.

She wasn’t his mother, and never would be.
 

It was hard enough that his mom vanished without a trace when Milo was 12. Even harder when everyone thought she was one of many victims to jump from Tanner’s Pass, and her father had her declared dead.

Perhaps his father could replace her, but that didn’t mean Milo had to accept Beatrice.

He hated how she always tried to insert herself into his life and get her to call her “mom.” The worst was when she started her sentences with, “Your father and I always . . .” as though she had to constantly prove their union by broadcasting the great times they were having when Milo wasn’t around, making it all too easy to imagine doing everything from spending money Milo’s father actually had to work for, to doing things in the bedroom Milo didn’t even want to think about.
 

Milo still remembered the minute he went from merely wishing she wasn’t in his life to actually hating her. He had been caught getting drunk with Manny, and the next day had come home to a “family meeting.”
 

He sat on one couch while his “parents” sat on the other. Beatrice said, “Did your mother bring you up to do that?” while his dad sat beside her, either wondering the same thing or acting like too much of a coward to say otherwise.
 

Milo had hated her ever since. His mother wasn’t an alcoholic. And she wasn’t a drug addict, despite the rumors. She was clinically depressed and on several medications, any of which might explain her disappearance.
 

Beatrice called from the other side of the door. “Milo, honey, I’m making lasagna. Would you like it with sausage or without?”
 

Milo ignored her, like he had for the last hour she’d been trying to get his attention and draw him from his room. He almost felt bad since she seemed uncharacteristically genuine, at a time when he expected to see her at her worst.
 

Beatrice didn’t like it when things didn’t go according to plan, especially when her plans included leaving the island for yet another weekend getaway. She and his father were scheduled for a weekend at The Fairmont Sonoma Mission Inn & Spa in California Wine Country. They were booked and ready to leave Friday afternoon as soon as his dad came home early from work. But they had to cancel everything when they heard about the shooting at school.
 

The quiet house had heard maybe 500 words the entire weekend. His dad, the only one who even tried to make conversation, had to fly to New York for another conference on Tuesday.
 

Beatrice’s plastic personality made it pretty easy to see through her shallow attempts to mimic emotions. She could give a shit about Milo, and was probably marking red X’s on a calendar somewhere, waiting for him to graduate and leave the house.

She’d been trying to get him to go to Jessica’s funeral service all weekend, but Milo didn’t want to talk about it. Now she was trying to lure him out of his room with lasagna, which he loved. Hers was admittedly good, and Milo could smell the scent traveling up the stairs and into his bedroom.

Milo was tempted to leave the room, just long enough to get some lasagna, when his cell phone rang. He hoped it wasn’t Alex again. He’d been ignoring Alex’s messages, not even bothering to listen to them. He couldn’t hear Alex’s voice right now. It was too soon, the horror still raw. How could he possibly remain friends with the son of the man who murdered his friends and classmates?

It was bad enough that he saw Jessica’s dying eyes every time he went to sleep.

He grabbed the phone off his nightstand and saw that it wasn’t Alex. It was Jesus, Manny’s older brother, who’d come back from Stanford University in California to be with his family. They’d talked briefly Saturday when he learned that Manny was in a coma.

“Hey Milosauraus,” Jesus said, “How’s it hanging over at Casa la Anderson? Other Mom still being a bitch?”

Milo felt a slight flush of shame as the scent of lasagna bled beneath the door. “Nah, she’s being alright, for the moment anyway. How’s Manny.”
 

“Wish I knew,” Jesus said. “The doctors aren’t saying shit. He’s still in a coma. Might make it, might not. Changes every hour. Dad’s stopped asking, Mom can’t keep from crying. We’re taking turns hanging out at the hospital, just in case he wakes. Right now is my shift.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Milo said.

Jesus sighed, “Yeah.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Milo wasn’t sure what to say, but Jesus didn’t seem like he was in a hurry to hang up. After a while, Milo gathered enough courage to say what he had wanted to say on Saturday. “Hey, Jesus, can you call me as soon Manny wakes up?”

“Of course, man.”

“I mean immediately, I want to be there as soon as I can see him.” After a pause, Milo added, “Before other people start talking to him.”

An edge of concern crept into Jesus’s throat. “What’s going on? What aren’t you saying?”

“It’s probably nothing,” Milo said. “But I can’t stop wondering something. Right before Mr. Heller blew his brains out, he knelt down next to Manny. He looked like he was sorry he shot him. Like he didn’t know what he was doing, or perhaps hadn’t meant to hit Manny, I’m not sure. But the weird thing was that he said something to Manny.”

“Said something? What did he say?”

“I dunno, that’s what I want to ask him.”

“You and me both,” Jesus said. “You and me both.”

* * * *

CHAPTER 5 — Jon Conway Part 2

Wednesday

September 6

6:50 p.m.

The sky was unseasonably clear for a summer on Hamilton Island, with not a single cloud in sight. In fact, the only thing spoiling the bruised orange pre-twilight sky was a pair of long white contrails, stretching from the other side of the tree-lined hills on the west side of the island to the snow-capped Mount Rainier on the eastern horizon.

Jon drove his rented Avalon past the Chamber of Commerce and the Visitors’ Bureau buildings, past the outer limits of the tourist trap downtown, then finally along the freedom of the winding coast to Greenwood, where the rich people lived, then up into Cedar Park, where the houses got larger, acres went to triple digits, and money poured like rain in Washington.
 

Cedar Park had the largest estates on the island, but even the most massive, was dwarfed by Conway Gardens, which sat at the crest of the foothill, like an idol looking down from the peak of a mountain.

While Jon had made it his mission to leave Cedar Park behind as soon as he could, his older brother, Warren Jr., was still sucking on the family tit, living with his wife, Melinda, and their daughter, Anastasia, at the Gardens.

Warren had invited Jon to dinner, and of course Jon had to accept. Though he could avoid the family when he was home, he couldn’t do so when returning to the island without offending everyone. Their father, Blake Conway, had a way of bringing the Conway men together, whether they wanted a union or not. But he wasn’t responsible for this particular visit, nor would he be present. He was out of town. And Anastasia was in her freshman year at Columbia, so it would be just Jon, Warren, and Melinda, plus the usual staff.

Jon swung a left and felt the Avalon struggle. Only slightly, but for the first time since he was handed the key, Jon missed his own car — a BMW Z8 which cornered like it was on rails. The Avalon was a golf cart by comparison.
 

He idled by the gate and pushed the buzzer, but didn’t have to identify himself since he was looking into a closed circuit video camera.
 

A crisp voice crackled through the speakers. “Welcome home, Mr. Conway.”

“Thanks Carl,” Jon said, smiling. “It’s good to be back.”

The gates opened, and Jon pulled the car around the long circular drive, parking behind what had to be his brother’s brand new Bentley. Warren was such a dick. Their smallest garage was big enough to house a family, Warren only left the Bentley out for him to see. Jon couldn’t fathom why his brother always felt such a need to compete. Well, he had a few ideas, but diving into Warren’s psyche wasn’t something Jon cared to do at the moment. Warren was a lost cause, not worth the time or effort. Once an asshole, always an asshole, was Jon’s belief in general and iron law when it came to his brother.

Jon killed the engine and went to the front door, which swung open before he could knock. The Conway’s oldest living employee, Madge Rasmussen, smiled at Jon, asking him if he had a coat, even though it was a perfectly crisp 74 degrees outside.
 

“Hi Madge,” Jon said, giving the woman who had first introduced him to her sister’s cookies 25 years earlier. “How are things?”

Madge gave him a sly smile, then said, “The usual, Mr. Conway.”
 

“I really hate it when you call me that. You can tell Carl the same thing.”
 

Madge held his eyes, but said nothing.
 

“Jon, or hell, even Jonny, if you like.”

“As you wish, . . . ” She started to say “sir,” but mercifully didn’t.

“So is the family circus waiting?”

“Yes,” Madge said. “Mr. and Mrs. Conway are waiting for you in the dining hall.”

“You mean Warren and Melinda?” He smiled. She smiled back, but he wanted to see it go wider, so he added, “Or Humpty and Dumpty as I like to call them.”
 

Madge surrendered to a hearty laugh, “You’re so bad, . . . Jonny.”
 

She then told Jon to follow her as if they’d moved the location of the dining hall.
 

“Jon!” Warren exclaimed, setting his iPad on the end-table beside an overstuffed chair. He stood and crossed the carpet to greet Jon like he was some beloved hero returning from war. Melinda was reading on her own iPad several feet away. She set hers down as well, then followed Warren’s lead.

“How are you?” Warren said, wrapping his arms around his brother. Melinda stood to the side, like her usual cold fish self, but Warren was uncharacteristically warm.

Jon said, “Better than most, not as good as some, I suppose,” then surrendered into his brother’s embrace. Jon pulled away and asked, “How are you?”

Warren smiled. “Good, not great. Same as you I guess. Dad’s driving me crazy, but nothing new there. You know how that goes.”
 

“I try not to,” Jon said.
 

Warren met his smile with a thinner version. “Hungry?”

Jon realized he was starving. “Yes,” he said. “I guess I haven’t really eaten today, except for a couple of cookies, and a half-gallon of coffee. What’s on the menu?”

Warren laughed. “Carmen figured you would want a steak. So we’re having Kobe and lobster. Ready when you are.”

Jon smiled as his stomach growled. A steak did sound great. Carmen didn’t make the best steak in the world, that honor belonged to Queue de Cheval Steak House in Montreal, if you wanted fancy, and Peter Luger’s, in Brooklyn, NY if you didn’t. But she did come in third, and third was his favorite, since it was the only one that could make Jon remember everything from being 11 years old, building his own treehouse in the backyard, to being 17 and losing his virginity with Sarah, inside it.
 

The steak and pasta were on the table just minutes after they sat, and the 2006 Chevalier-Montrachet before that. Jon cut his meat, imagining the taste as he looked down at the gorgeous red flesh, then put it in his mouth, and let his mind wander to Sarah’s girlish grin, and his final words before that long ago evening had taken him from boy to man.
 

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he had asked.

“I’m always ready for you, Jon,” she had said. Then, “thank you for waiting,” before lying on the sleeping bag, curling her finger, and beckoning him forward.
 

It was a beautiful memory, one of his favorites. He hoped it wouldn’t make him cry.