WhiteSpace: Season One (Episodes 1-6 of the sci-fi horror serial) (9 page)

Jon nodded. He knew all too well how vicious his family was when it came to the courtroom.

“So, they put up a fence and set up guards around the perimeter.”

“A lot of work to keep people from killing themselves on an old bridge,” Jon said. “Don’t you think?”

“I dunno,” Brady said, clearly wanting to change the subject. “So, what brings you to town? The funeral? Sarah?”

“Yeah,” Jon said. He considered asking Brady if he knew anything about Emma’s paternity, but decided to keep that question close to his vest for now. Though Brady had been a close friend, that was many years ago.

“I’m sorry,” Brady said. “I know how close you two were.”

Jon sighed, “Yeah, it’s a tragedy. You all know what happened? Why the teacher snapped?”

“No, not a thing. Hell, five minutes into the shooting, the Feds swooped in and took over the investigation.”

“The Feds?”

“Yeah, and get this . . . they’re coordinating efforts with Paladin.”

“Is that even legal?” Jon asked.

“Well, the township made Paladin the same as us, really. Though given the size of Paladin, I’d say we’re nothing more than figureheads at this point.”

“Shit,” Jon said. “So they’re keeping you in the dark, even though you’re the chief?”

“Pretty much. They took all the evidence we collected, and acted like they were doing us a favor. To be honest, they probably are. We don’t really have a staff to handle something like this. And the way people are pissed off, let Paladin and the Feds deal with this shit.”

“You sound burned out,” Jon said.

“You don’t even know, brother. Used to be that being the chief meant something, you know? But now, I’m just the hired help. But I figure if I keep my head down, just handle the shit I’ve gotta handle, I can provide for my family, ya’ know.”

They talked a bit more, catching up as much as Brady’s reticence would allow. It was around one in the morning when Brady walked Jon to his car. Brady looked around, making sure Officer Henry wasn’t within sight, then reached into his jacket and handed Jon his stash of weed.

Jon felt his face turn flush. Even though Brady had been a friend a long time ago, he was still a chief, and to see his stash in the hands of the law sent a chill through Jon, fearful Brady was about to come down on him.

“I think someone accidentally left this in your car,” he said, handing the stash to Jon.

“Yeah, I’ll see if I can return it to its rightful owner. Probably an old guy with really bad glaucoma.”

“Yeah, glaucoma,” Brady said with a grin.

The smile faded as Brady looked around again, however, and then met Jon’s eyes. “You need to leave the island, Jon.”

Jon stepped back, confused. “Huh?”

“You need to get out of here. Something bad is going to happen.”

“What do you mean?” Jon said, noticing the fear in Brady’s eyes.

“I can’t say anything more. Not here. They’re probably watching.”

“You sure you didn’t smoke any of this?” Jon said, patting his pants pocket where he’d put the stash.

Brady didn’t laugh.

“I’m serious, Jon. Get out while you still can.”

With that, Brady turned, and headed back inside the station.

“Hey!” Jon said, trying to get his attention so he could ask a few follow-up questions. But Brady kept walking.

Jon got into his car, shut the door, and glanced in the rearview and side mirrors, looking to see if he could see anyone watching.

There was only darkness.

* * * *

CHAPTER 8 — Liz Heller

Wednesday

September 6

10:14 p.m.

Liz was cuddled on her bed, the comforter and blankets pulled tight around her as she stared at the TV, watching a rerun of
Everybody Loves Raymond
. She wasn’t in the mood to laugh, and wasn’t really paying attention. She just wanted something familiar, something to make her feel a little less alone in the bed she’d shared for so long with Roger. Something other than the constant barrage of news coverage of her husband’s shooting “rampage,” as the talking heads on the TV news were calling Friday’s tragedy. Rampage, like some Roger was some sort of monster, instead of the sweet, sensitive, if not sometimes goofy, man she married 20 years ago.
 

Five days had passed, and though reality had forced itself upon her, it all still felt unreal.

Five days of going through the motions of life, trying to pretend that they would ever have anything close to a normal family again.

Five days of wondering if she could be strong enough for Alex and Aubrey.

Five days of kicking herself for missing the signs that the “experts” said “someone” should have picked up on.

Five days of having her husband’s life dissected and invaded by specialists, authors, and news anchors, who were all suddenly experts on the subject of Roger Heller.

But there had been no sign. Not that she’d seen, anyway.

But Liz wasn’t even sure if she would have recognized a sign if it had been there. Though Roger was sweet, he was often in his own world — distant and holed up in his office for hours on end on nights and weekends. But he’d always been that way.
 

He needed his personal space to write. He’d had a few stories published in literary magazines, and a few articles in writing magazines, but he’d never been able to finish a novel, not one that he liked, anyway. And after he turned 40 last year, he began to spend even more time than ever writing, convinced he was running out of time to write the “Great American Novel.”

Though Roger’s distance had bothered her at times, it wasn’t as if she didn’t have her own life going on. Until Aubrey was born in May, Liz was a ninth grade English teacher at the school, which had kept her busy day and night. She had decided to take an extended maternity leave so she could be with Aubrey until her daughter turned one. During her leave, Liz managed to get a few freelance illustration gigs for magazines and a few websites. She’d always loved cartooning, and was thrilled to have a chance to get back into it, and make money in the process. She had hoped to get enough work that she might never have to go back to teaching. The way things were going, she could work from home and not have to put Aubrey in daycare. They could’ve gotten by on Roger’s salary and her freelance work.
 

Now everything was in limbo.

With trying to get her husband’s body from the medical examiner’s office so she could arrange a funeral, she’d not even had time to figure out whether Roger’s insurance policy would pay out, or whether she or the children could collect his pension or Social Security. She was pretty certain that insurance wouldn’t pay anything since he shot himself.

As for everything else, Liz had no idea.

Then there were the families of the victims. She wasn’t sure what they might do, and didn’t know if they could sue his estate or her for civil damages. She needed to talk to a lawyer, and soon. But at the moment, she was overwhelmed, and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and wake up when everything was over.

But now she was a single mother, raising two kids on her own. Well, raising Aubrey on her own. Alex was self-sufficient, though that could change now that his father was gone. The two had been so close, and though Alex hadn’t shown much emotion in the past few days, it had to be tearing him up.

Liz closed her eyes, the sound of the TV barely audible over the sound of the baby monitor on the nightstand beside her bed. The monitor that had kept her up so many nights, braced for the sound of Aubrey waking to another nightmare, or a stuffy nose. But at that moment, the sound of Aubrey’s fan coming through the monitor was giving Liz comfort, a white noise to drown the thoughts racing through her head.
 

Liz was drifting off when a sound woke her; her daughter murmuring.
 

Aubrey did that a lot at night as she shifted between phases of sleep. She’d make sounds for a few minutes, and would either wake up crying or drift back to silent sleep. Some nights, Liz was lucky to get four hours of shuteye between Aubrey on the verge of waking, or actually waking and needing to be comforted back to sleep. Liz didn’t remember Alex being such a finicky sleeper, but perhaps that was just a rose-tinted memory.

Liz waited anxiously, and then her daughter grew quiet again. Liz drifted into sleep, praying for a night without visions of “rampages.”

**

1:11 a.m.

Liz woke to the sound of Aubrey giggling over the baby monitor.

Though she was tired, she wasn’t too exhausted to find some joy in the sound of Aubrey laughing in her sleep. She smiled, found the remote, turned off the TV, and cast the room into darkness.

Liz’s eyes were heavy. She closed them again, listening to the soft white noise, waiting for it to lull her back to sleep. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep when another sound came through the monitor.

More laughter, followed by a sound she couldn’t possibly have heard, a whispered “shhhh.”

Liz’s eyes shot open, as she reached out and turned the monitor up, to make sure she wasn’t just hearing things.

Nothing but the white noise, albeit louder, of the monitor.

Then, more giggling, followed by Aubrey saying, “Da-da.”

A voice whispered, “Don’t wake your mommy.”

Liz shot from her bed, and out through her bedroom door in seconds, bursting into Aubrey’s room, fists balled and ready to attack whatever intruder dared come into her house.

But there was nobody in the room, except Aubrey, staring out the window, through the open curtains which Liz was pretty certain she’d closed.

“Da-da,” Aubrey said again, looking at the window.

Liz went to the window, checked to make sure it was locked, and saw nothing but darkness outside, and the black security van parked across the street.

“Da-da,” Aubrey said from her crib.

A chill ran through Liz’s body.

* *

2:00 a.m.

Liz couldn’t sleep after rocking Aubrey back to sleep.

No matter how many times she’d gone over what she thought she heard, it failed to make sense.
Just like Roger shooting people doesn’t make sense, eh?
There was nobody in her daughter’s room. The window was locked tight. And even though Aubrey was saying, “Da-da,” there was no way in hell Liz was going to start believing in ghostly visitations from her dead husband.

The only answer which made sense was that she’d imagined the voice. She was stressed out, tired, and had been running on empty for five days running. She needed sleep before she lost her mind completely.

She headed downstairs and into the kitchen where she made some hot cocoa. She pulled the large green mug from the microwave, added a splash of milk, then scooped a handful of marshmallows from a glass canister on the counter. She took a sip, savoring the creamy, sugary, chocolate concoction.
 

Hot cocoa made her feel like a kid again. She also hoped it would help her sleep. She glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was blinking 12:00.

She couldn’t remember the power going out.

She went into the living room and looked at the clock on the cable box which read 2:04 a.m. She might get four or five hours of sleep if she fell asleep right away. Emma usually woke up somewhere between six and seven in the morning, which made some days tougher than others to get through. Tomorrow looked like it would be a long one. Especially if she didn’t get to sleep soon.

But something was bothering her. An itch in her brain; something she felt like she was supposed to remember, but couldn’t.

She walked from room to room with the mug of cocoa in her hand, hoping she’d see something to jog her memory.
 

Is it something I’m supposed to do tomorrow? A bill I need to pay?

She found herself in Roger’s office, clicked on the light, and smiled when she saw that Alex had straightened it up so it no longer looked like a burglar had tore through the room.
 

Poor Alex.

Roger’s death had rocked them all, but Alex seemed to be taking it the hardest, even if he hid it the best. Liz knew he was hurting. She’d tried to reach out to him, but she didn’t know what to do. Part of her felt like she needed to give him his space to deal with this and come to terms with what happened. But another part of her felt that no matter how old Alex was, he still needed his mother.

She’d tried a combination of both approaches, but nothing seemed to be working particularly well. Which was why the cleaned office made her smile. It was the first thing he’d done since Friday, and seemed to suggest progress.

She fought a fresh batch of tears, and just as she was about to turn the light off, that itch returned to her brain, demanding she give it attention.
 

She turned around, wondering what she was supposed to see in Roger’s office.

“What is it?”
she asked the room.