by Sean Platt
Not like Cassidy put much (if any) stock in the crap her mom spewed from her mouth. She wasn’t half as cracky as Mrs. Lindley, but she was cracky enough. Last night’s rambling was more than cracky, though, it seemed almost . . . candid, like she was telling Cassidy there was something black between her teeth.
Vivian was snoring a few seconds after she said it, so Cassidy went to sleep wondering what in the hell she meant, and had risen the same. Cassidy would’ve blurted her question immediately, but the lingering weirdness she was feeling from her nightmares was holding her back.
The last few nights had haunted Cassidy with dreams she couldn’t remember, no matter how hard she tried. As soon as sunlight streamed through the blinds, her mind went blank, even though chaos from the evening’s dreaming was still buzzing.
Last night’s seemed especially important. Cassidy wanted to remember, felt hungry to know, somehow convinced it had something to do with Emma.
Like the dream about Sarah.
Or all the dreams from before.
Cassidy had even gone to bed with a small spiral notebook on the nightstand, so she could scribble the first thing she remembered once she opened her eyes. Cassidy had the ball of her pen on the flat of her paper, just seconds after she opened her eyes, but five minutes of staring had left just two blue smears to mar the white of the page.
Cassidy pulled a chair from the table, and set her half-empty glass of orange juice beside her mom’s bowl of oatmeal. She sat, then said, “So what were you trying to say last night?”
Cassidy’s mom looked up from her oatmeal, curling four fingers around the handle of her spoon, the whites of her eyes trying to focus on Cassidy as they swam through the red of her hangover. Vivian’s nose twitched and her eyes narrowed, trying to center on Cassidy. She went bright, then dim, and for a few seconds seemed to skate along the lip of memory. Finally, the look faded, leaving her with an expression of someone who had lost their keys.
“What?” she finally said, shaking her head. “Was I talking in my sleep again?”
“Not exactly. At least it didn’t seem like that at all. It wasn’t like when your eyes shoot open in the middle of a snore and you’re yelling at me or Sarah to take out the garbage.” Cassidy took another sip of orange juice, swallowing it quickly. “Even though you were snoring by the end of the sentence, you were wide awake when you started taking about Emma. Since I seem to be the only one in the house worrying about our nine-year old girl gone missing, you were trying to convince me I was crazy for caring.”
Cassidy looked at Vivian, holding her eyes to make sure she was listening. “You said the ‘people in the sky’ took her, and that I didn’t have to worry since they would bring her back, like they always do. Like they brought me back. Except you thought I was Sarah.”
Vivian stared at Cassidy, the blank look back on her face, her nose twitching and eyes narrowing in an echo from a moment before, again skating at the edge of memory. Finally she laughed, with enough of a cackle to qualify as a bark. “You’re fucking with me, right?” she said, putting a craisin-heavy spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth. “I believe I called you Sarah.” She laughed, “I mean really, Cassidy. But the rest, I don’t think so.”
“No Mom, I’m not kidding.” Cassidy shook her head. “And not only did you say it, you seemed pretty goddamn sure about what you were saying.” She took another small sip of orange juice, just enough to keep her lips busy.
“Well hell, Cass, I’m always certain around midnight with a belly full of two-buck chuck,” she cackled again. “Must’ve been dreaming. What was on last night?” Vivian dropped her spoon long enough to scratch her head, then turned to Cassidy, “Must’ve been watching The X-Files or something if I was talking about people in the sky.” She patted the table, coming nowhere near Cassidy’s hand. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m sure it was nothing.”
The craisins were gone from the oatmeal, and the conversation excused itself from the table. Vivian filled her mouth with nothing but oatmeal, then turned her eyes toward the window, settling the pair into several minutes of silence. Just as Cassidy was about to excuse herself for a quick shower, before she left to look for Emma, Vivian said, “Hey Cass, would you mind getting me my pain meds from the bathroom? My back feels like there’s a buffalo back there trying to mount me.”
Before Cassidy could argue that she didn’t really feel like playing house servant, she saw the visible pain etching lines onto her mom’s face in misery.
“Sure Mom.” Cassidy rose from the table, dumped the rest of her orange juice into the sink, then set the glass in the dishwasher and went to the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet and scanning the four rows of the chest, seeing nothing.
Cassidy called, “I don’t see anything, Ma!”
Vivian yelled back, “They’re in the third drawer of the wicker cabinet.”
Cassidy snarled.
Fuck her.
There was only one reason for Vivian to stuff her pills inside the wicker cabinet, and that was to keep them from Cassidy, like she couldn't be trusted. Just like Cassidy imagined, the small bottle was wrapped inside a scarf, and pushed to the back of the drawer.
Cassidy pulled the bottle from the drawer and looked at the label, shocked to see it was Ourocettes.
Fucking A, why’d I pay for the shit when I could’a just scored some from Mom?
Her Addict whispered:
The bottle is full, Cassidy. Filled six months ago. Obviously, your mom doesn’t use them, or even need them. At least not that often. Not like you do. One at a time will take all of your pain away, Cassidy.
Just.
One.
Pill.
The Addict’s whisper was warm in her ear. So was the bottle in her hand.
Her addict screamed:
What are you waiting for, Cassidy? Don’t be stupid. Craig is an idiot. And dealing with him will get you busted. This bottle means you don’t have to.
This bottle will make everything go away.
Cassidy opened the bottle, hating herself, then spilled six pills into her palm and dropped them inside the front right pocket of her jeans. She tapped the bottle once more, dropping one more pill into her hand, which she brought to her mom with a tall glass of water.
“Thanks Sweetie,” Vivian said, swallowing the pill. Done gulping, she turned to Cassidy and said, “I’d advise you not to think you’re the only one concerned about Emma. I’ve been looking after that girl one way or another since she was born, while you were off doing who knows what, who knows where,” she narrowed her eyes at Cassidy, “and with who knows who. I’ve been feeling so wrecked the last few days, I could barely move. And right now I barely have the strength to stand. I’m sorry I’ve not been able to help more, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Cassidy cut her mom mid-sentence, but her apology was severed by the doorbell.
Vivian said, “That has to be good news, right?”
Cassidy swallowed and shrugged, then ignored her chills and went to the door.
Jon stood on the other side of the porch, awkwardly smiling. “Morning, Cass,” he said. “I just checked in with Brady, I’m sure you have, too, and there’s no news. I was wondering if you’d like some more help looking this morning.”
She did, and was surprised by how happy she was to see Jon Conway standing on her mom’s porch, for the first time in 10 years, at least.
“What in the hell is he doing here?” Vivian said, turning toward the door, her face soured as if she were sucking on a lemon.
Cassidy looked at Jon apologetically, then turned to her mom. “He’s here to help us look for Emma.”
“Hmph, I’ll bet,” Vivian growled, “Like he doesn’t know anything about it.”
Cassidy was impressed, the way the smile flickered across Jon’s face, and yet he managed to hold it inside. “Give me a second,” she said, closing the door.
Cassidy went to her room, grabbed a sweater and headed for the
door. Halfway into the hallway, she turned back and emptied the pills from her pocket, dumped them into the bottle from Craig, then dropped one back into her pocket — just in case.
Smart girl, her Addict said.
Cassidy left her room, opened the front door, took Jon by the arm, then turned to her mom and said, “We’ll be back,” closing the door behind her.
* * * *
CHAPTER 4 — Jon Conway Part 1
Jon held a stack of full color glossy photos — Emma smiling in front of the monkey cage at the small zoo the Conways had sponsored and installed four years earlier. Jon found them online the night before, then had them printed, risking ridicule. It would have been typical for Cassidy to call him an asshole or a showoff or some other horrible name, simply because he had the audacity to use his money and resources to make their job easier. Fortunately, she didn’t. Instead, she smiled like she meant it, and held out her open palm for her half of the glossies.
Jon felt like he had to apologize anyway, “People are visual and color matters. If it gives us even a degree of a chance of finding her faster, I figure it was worth it.”
Cassidy said, “I get it, Popcorn,” pulling her sweater tighter around her body as they crossed the street, doubling back to where they’d gone the day before.
They were planning to cover another section of the island, but figured they should hit every house where residents hadn’t been home the previous evening, just to be certain. Before leaving their block, Cassidy suggested they bang on Mrs. Lindley’s door and see if she wanted to help.
Jon shook his head “Not sure that’s gonna help much.”
“I wouldn’t be asking if it was just Mrs. Lindley,” Cassidy said. ”But Mrs. Carlson knows everyone on the island and everyone loves her. She only leaves her house for groceries, or to fill her shift at Conway Medical Center. When she’s not at the hospital, she shuts herself in tight, and won’t leave except for maybe three people. Mrs. Lindley happens to be one of them.”
“Why?” Jon said, genuinely shocked, happy to see Cassidy smile.
She said, “Probably because Mrs. Lindley makes her laugh.” Cassidy pointed across the street to a tidy cottage with a fat hedge of pink and purple Hydrangeas bunched beneath the window. “She lives over there. She was working Conway Medical Center yesterday, but she’s home now.”
Sure enough, Mrs. Lindley loved the idea, and so did Mrs. Carlson. They agreed to cover Aspen Park together, while Cassidy and Jon hit the shore.
“Chief Brady said The Paladin officers would help with the search, too,” Jon said, stepping from the porch of their sixth, “no, sorry, haven’t seen her,” on their way to the seventh.
Cassidy was silent.
Jon added, “Paladin said they could spare six officers.”
“Wow,” Cassidy said, “A whole six officers? That’s amazing. Who’s going to be left to guard Daddy’s miles of chain link fence?”
“That’s in addition to the guards they already agreed to yesterday, including some that are working the Sound.”
Cassidy looked sorry as soon as she said it, but Jon would never know whether or not she would have apologized since his phone started ringing before she finished the word “fence.”
He looked at the screen: Houser.
“What’s up?”
“Hey Jonny H.,” Houser got right to the point. “You ever heard of some dipshit named Larry Whistler? Lives three streets over from the girl’s grandma, and has a bit of a history.”
“What sort of history?” Jon looked over at Cassidy, suddenly fascinated by his phone call.
“Seems Whistler had a bit of trouble at a daycare a few years back while living in Rochester, New York.”
“Go on,” Jon said.
“He was accused of touching a mentally disabled girl, but the case fell to shit when they couldn’t find any evidence outside an upset mom and dad willing to swear on a high stack of bibles. So, anyway, Whistler left town with the stink of kiddy diddler on him, and moved cross country, got a job working a church on Hamilton Island, serving as a youth pastor, no less.” Houser paused, then added, “I looked up the church website. Seems to be run by Pastor Avery. You familiar with him?”
“Yes, I know him.” Jon was careful not to repeat Avery’s name, not wanting to upset Cassidy until after he was off the line.
“Well, Whistler’s not on any watch lists, or anything, but he’s sure as shit worth a man-to-man.”
“Alright,” Jon said, “I’ll call Chief Brady as soon as we hang up. He promised he’d stay on standby, said Emma was his top priority. I’m sure he’ll be able to swing over to Whistler’s immediately.”
“Fuck that noise,” Houser said. “If I wanted red tape, I’d drive down to the goddamn hardware store and buy myself a jumbo roll, maybe two. I want answers, and happened to wake up this morning with all the shit needed to get ‘em.”
“You sure about this?” Jon asked.
“Sure as my big swinging sack, and both balls in it.”
Jon was silent, trying to figure whether or not he even wanted to talk Houser out of whatever he had in mind.
Houser interrupted the thought. “I’m in front of his house already. Asshole left for work about 40 minutes ago. I’m going inside to see what’s up.”
The line went dead, so did Jon’s choice in the matter.
He dropped the phone in his pocket.
“Who was that?” Cassidy said.
“My friend, Brock.”
“And?” Cassidy stared. “Spill it, Jonny. I read between the lines already, now tell me the shit I don’t know.”
“Know a guy named Larry Whistler?”
Cassidy thought for a moment then shook her head no.
“Well, he lives about three blocks from you. Before Hamilton was home, he lived in Rochester, New York. And, allegedly,” Jon measured his words, “he had some trouble keeping his hands to himself before leaving there and coming here.”
Cassidy gritted her teeth, and began to breathe heavy through her nostrils.
Jon continued. “A mentally disabled girl’s parents swore he was guilty, but there wasn’t any evidence, so the powers that be had to drop the case. Whistler packed up there and headed west.” He finished the sentence he didn’t want to say. “And now he’s a youth pastor working under Avery.”
Cassidy’s eyes went wide. “I know him! At least I’ve seen him. I thought he seemed a little too damned happy to be teaching kids.”
“So,” Cassidy said, “What’s your friend gonna do?”
“Whatever will get him the answers we’re looking for.”
“How do you know he can get them?”
Jon swallowed, hoping Houser made the right move. “Because once Houser gets scent of something, he don’t stop until he gets what he wants.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 5 — Brock Houser Part 2
Houser pushed the front door open, gun drawn in his ungloved hand, as he made his way into Larry Whistler’s home.
The house was two stories, common from what he’d seen on the island so far, with a well-manicured lawn, plenty of trees, and a tall brown privacy fence surrounding the back yard. The inside of the house was another story, though, something from a hoarder’s wet dream, with boxes, newspapers, garbage bags filled with all sorts of something, open boxes of food, and empty pizza boxes filling nearly every inch of the bottom story. The house reeked strongly of cat urine. At least Houser hoped it was cat urine.
“Jesus,” he whispered, searching the bottom floor, room by room, wading his way through more of the same. Evidence collection in this house would be a bitch and a litter. He hoped, for the investigating officers’ sake, if nothing else, that this pig wasn’t guilty of anything more than filth in his sty.
“Jon‘s paying me double for this bullshit,” he said, navigating his way through the pyramids of laundry littering the stairway.
The second floor was more shit decorating shit, crowned on piles and mountains of crap. Shoc
kingly, the man’s bedroom was nearly immaculate, especially compared to the rest of the dump.
A large TV sat on the dresser, beside an ancient looking PS4. On the nightstand lay a plate with half a muffin and a cup half-filled with water. Beside the plate was a bottle of lotion, and next to that, an iPad.
Houser holstered his gun and picked up the iPad with his gloved hand to see what sort of shit the man was into, or maybe sort through his email, searching for anything which could tie him to the missing child.
He didn’t have to search long.
There were several photos of children playing on a playground which all seemed to be taken from far away with a telephoto lens. Houser’s stomach turned as he swiped with his ungloved hand through the images. All the photos were of young girls, with the occasional boy in the background. The targets were all girls, with a high percentage of shots aimed up the girls’ skirts.
Jesus; fucking scumbag.
Houser kept swiping until he saw Emma in a photo.
A chill ran through his body. He swiped forward, five, 10, 12 photos of Emma in a row, suggesting the perv had a thing specifically for Emma — all the proof he needed to make this asshole as his prime fucking suspect. Houser flipped through more photos. No nudes or child porn, but had enough to get him a room with a mirror down at the station.
Not finding anything else of note, and not wanting to tamper with what might wind up as evidence, Houser set the iPad back on the nightstand, then searched the rest of the room, stomach sinking as he opened the nightstand drawer on the other side of the bed and found several pairs of girls’ underwear, many stained and all small.
Houser’s blood began to boil, more certain than ever that he’d found the fucker who took Emma. He prayed to God that the man hadn’t already killed her and dumped her somewhere. A small island like this, where everyone knew everyone, with nowhere to go, surrounded by tons of woods, odds weren’t looking good of finding the poor girl alive.