White Space Season 1

Beside the church there were four squat one story buildings forming an “X” in all four directions. The two buildings in the front were set up in rows, probably classrooms for daycare. The buildings in the back looked administrative or like they maybe doubled as meeting spaces. In the back of the property, nudged up against the woods, was a large playground – the one from the photos.
    There were about 20 preschool-aged kids playing on the playground, with two female teachers watching. No sign of the pervert, yet.
    Houser parked his car and threw on his black sports jacket to conceal his gun. He bypassed the church, approached the rear buildings, toward the administrative offices, then opened a door marked “Office.”
    A red-headed chubby woman in her mid 30’s sat at a desk tapping at a keyboard, her eyes fixed on a paper thin screen. She looked up, surprised to see a tall stranger standing in front of her.
    “Hello, my name is Brock Houser,” he said, showing her his badge. “I’m a private attorney working for the Hughes family, searching for their missing daughter, Emma. You’ve seen this on the news, I assume?”
    “Yeah,” the woman said, concern creeping across her face. The nameplate on her desk read, “Mrs. Mallory.”
    “Good. Her grandmother is worried sick, and I believe someone that works here may have some information which could help us in the case.”
    Mallory’s eyes widened, “Someone here?” she gasped.
    “Yes,” Houser said, lowering his voice to a whisper, gaining her confidence through the revelation of a ‘secret.’ “And I’m trying to keep things hush-hush so as not to have people thinking this guy is dangerous or anything. His name is Larry Whistler. His neighbors said he worked here and might be able to help us find her.”
    “Mr. Larry?” Mallory said, alarmed. “Yeah, he works here. He’s a youth pastor on the weekends, but teaches music class during the week. Did he do something wrong?”
    “Oh, no, I just need to talk to him, because he might be able to help out. And I don’t want to see his name all over the news for no good reason. You know how ugly the media can get, and how rumors can spread. Pretty soon everyone’s talkin’ how Mr. Whistler works here, and he’ll look after the kids real good , if you catch my drift.”
    Mallory nodded, “Oh yes. We wouldn’t want that. Mr. Larry is so great with the kids.”
    Yeah, I’ll bet.
    “Can you call tell me where I can find him?”
    Mallory paused, and for a moment, Houser was afraid he’d judged her wrong. He should’ve tried a different approach, he thought, thinking she might call her boss for permission. Permission Houser would never get. People had a habit of protecting their own, even when giving solace to monsters.
    To Houser’s relief, Mrs. Mallory picked up the phone, pressed two digits, and said, “Mr. Larry, can you come to the office, please?”
    “Yes, Mrs. Mallory,” he said over the speakerphone.
    Houser waited, as Mallory made small talk with him about Emma and how tragic it was that she’d go missing right after her mother was killed. She then told Houser how she’d just seen Emma the day of the funeral, and how sweet the girl was, and how much she looked like her mother.
    The door behind Houser opened and Whistler walked through the door. The moment he saw Houser standing there, something clicked in his eyes. Asshole knew trouble when he saw it.
    “This is Mr. Houser, an investigator,” Mallory said.
    Before she even finished her sentence, the scumbag turned and ran out the door.
    Shit!
    Houser tore after him through the churchyard, yelling, “I just want to talk.”
    Whistler was surprisingly fast for a guy in his late 40s, but not fast enough. Houser caught him at the edge of the parking lot, and slammed him to the ground.
    “I didn’t do anything!” the man screamed, kicking Houser, missing his crotch, just barely.
    “You did not just kick me!” Houser said, grabbing the man’s leg, then twisting his ankle back, as he decided how loud he wanted the asshole to scream. Houser decided to bend him into a roar.
    Whistler screamed with what sounded like two parts pain to three parts terror, then flipped to his stomach as he tried squirming away.
    Houser was on him in seconds, wrenching his wrist back and slapping cuffs on him as the pervert tried to wiggle away like a worm through the dirt.
    Now that he had Whistler down, Houser punched him hard in the back of his