White Space Season 1

Just name it. I got dinner for the next week. OK?”
    “Week? How about two?”
    “Two? Do I look rich?”
    “Richer than me. You don’t have a wife, kids, daycare bills, or any of that shit.”
    “Wah, wah, I’m so jealous of your sexy, single life, Houser,” Houser said, mocking Chan playfully. “Alright, two fucking weeks. But you better find something we can take to Cleary!”

    **

    Chan did.
    At 8:15 a.m., 15 minutes after the courthouse opened, Houser’s cell rang.
    Chan was practically yelling into the phone. “Seems our guy got busted peeping in some windows 11 years ago. One of the windows was of a little girl. Somehow he got off with a slap on the wrist.”
    “Fuck! OK, I’ll call Cleary,” Houser said.
    “Too late,” Chan said. “I already did. Warrant has been issued.”
    “I love you, man. Three weeks! On me. OK, I’m going in. I’ve got another unit here and we’re going in.”
    “K, I’ll be over in five,” Chan said.
    “Alright, Houser called into the radio, alerting the officers camped behind Jurgen’s house, and to the side, just out of the man’s line of sight. “Let’s get this fucker!”

    **

    Houser burst through the freshly kicked-in door, stunned to see Jurgen standing right in the living room, naked, and aiming a .45 at Houser.
    Houser fired, but not before Jurgen.
    Jurgen’s shot slammed into Houser’s Kevlar vest, knocking him to the filthy carpet, and clearing the air from his body.
    Houser’s shot hit the man between the eyes, killing him instantly.
    Sgt. Combs kneeled next to Houser, “You OK?”
    Houser took a moment, sucking in air, feeling beneath his vest to make sure there was no blood, before nodding. He would be bruised as hell, but he’d live.
    Four cops, in addition to Houser, began to scour the man’s place, searching for any sign of the child. Upstairs, in an unused bedroom, Houser picked up the fresh scent of paint, and noticed that the fresh color on the wall behind a large bookcase — the same color of yellow, but brighter than the rest of the room. Drywall dusted the carpet. Houser put a finger behind the bookcase and pulled it away, yellow.
    “Get up here!” he shouted, pulling the bookcase to the floor and sending volumes pouring from the shelf and into a pile.
    A large wet paint spot barely concealed a bad plastering job, covering a wide hole in the wall. Houser knocked on the wall twice
    “Hello?”
    Houser heard a muffled cry.
    Oh God.
    His heart sped in his chest as the remaining officers poured into the room. Houser punched high where the wet spot started, straight through the quickly crumbling drywall, and began to tear at it, throwing chunks of drywall to the ground.
    Inside the wall, he found Cecilia, hands and feet bound, mouth gagged. Dark eyes staring up at him, barely clinging to life.
    He reached into the wall and pulled her out, holding her closely. She was so tiny. And dirty, wearing the same pink, and now filthy, pajamas she’d been reported missing in.
    “It’s okay, you’re safe now,” he said laying her on the floor.
    “Get the paramedics in here!” one of the other officers shouted. Paramedics were on standby downstairs.
    Houser pulled the gag from the girl.
    “Thank you,” her tiny voice barely said as her eyes rolled to the back of her head.
    “No, no, no,” Houser said, shaking his head and hoping to God she wasn’t gonna die. Not now, just seconds after they found her.
    Two paramedics rushed into the room and began to give the girl CPR.
    Houser watched, helplessly from behind, as they attempted to revive her.
    But they couldn’t, despite an eternity of trying.
    Cecilia Ramirez was dead.
    Cecilia’s dying eyes and whisper of voice were immediately and forever etched into Houser’s memory.
    As the officers began collecting evidence, and the paramedics rolled the girl’s body from the house, Houser stood, went downstairs, then into the back yard for a moment alone.
    He wanted to cry.
    He wanted to scream.
    He wanted to fucking shoot something.
    But eyes were on him, cops and neighbors, and soon the media’s.
    Houser had to stand quietly, holding his rage, swallowing regret, and making silent vows that he would never, ever, let anything like this happen again. A late search warrant and overcautious judge had murdered Cecilia Ramirez, just as much as Richard Jurgen.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 2 — Liz Heller

    Hamilton Island, Washington
    Thursday
    September 7
    Afternoon…

    Liz pulled into her