The Other Place (The Glass Book One)
Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
Join Nathan's Newsletter
Audio by R.C. Bray
Dedication
PROLOGUE
PART ONE: THE GLASS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
INTERLUDE
INTERLUDE
INTERLUDE
PART TWO: THE DEAD
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
INTERLUDE
INTERLUDE
INTERLUDE
PART THREE: THE OTHER PLACE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
EPILOGUE
The Hidden Space (The Glass Book Two)
Copyright © 2022 Nathan Hystad
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover art: J Caleb Design
Edited by: Christen Hystad
Edited by: Scarlett R Algee
Proofed and Formatted by: BZ Hercules
Keep up to date with his new releases by signing up for his Newsletter at www.nathanhystad.com
And get Lights Over Cloud Lake for FREE!
Nathan’s books are also available on Audible!
The Other Place (The Glass Book One) is narrated by the award-winning R.C. Bray
THE OTHER PLACE AUDIBLE
For my Chrissy…
PROLOGUE
July 4th, 1986, 11:01 P.M.
Rural Montana
It was utterly silent throughout the valley. Horace Bennet preferred it that way. His chair rocked gently in time with his breaths. This was the life. Horace set his beer can down to rub his callused palm. Today had been exhausting, but with the promise of a full case of cold ones and an evening of solitude, he’d worked without complaint.
Horace glanced at the door, almost expecting his wife to come outside and shout at him. There were seven empties littered on the wide wooden planks of his front porch, and she hated it when he made a mess or drank too much. But the joke was on her. He was no longer her problem since she’d up and taken their station wagon and her ratty luggage.
She’d left two years ago, but he didn’t mind. This was as good as it got.
The moon sat high in the sky, bright and full. His gaze lingered on it, hanging above the treeline separating his home from his farm. Beyond the section of forest was his barn. Even from here, he smelled the cows. It wasn’t unpleasant. Not to him.
Horace finished the can and let it fall to the porch. The ice in the cooler was half-melted, and the water bit at a cut on his finger. He considered leaving the fresh beer in the bin, but in the end, his willpower conceded. He’d worry about the headache tomorrow. Tonight was the Fourth of July. The aluminum tab popped with a flick of his fingernail, and the beverage poured past his smacking lips. He’d done his part to protect America. Why not participate in her celebrations?
The occasional cattle’s lowing carried from the pasture, and Horace did his best to ignore them. He guessed they sensed the coming fireworks. They had a knack for things like that. Most of the population thought cows were big stupid animals, but Horace knew better.
More cows joined in, agitating the entire herd. Soon they were all grunting and mooing.
“Just what I need.” Horace groaned as he stood up, nearly losing his footing. His right knee throbbed, and the beer wasn’t helping his balance. He chugged the rest of the can, let it clang to the wooden deck, and went inside, the boards creaking from his weight.
His rifle was exactly where he’d left it, beside the front door. Another bonus of not having Mandy around. He could keep things accessible. The loaded gun by the entrance comforted him. Horace never knew when he’d have to scare off a coyote or a bill collector. He chuckled as he thought about the last stuffed shirt that had come knocking at his door. The sheriff had been close behind after that incident, but Horace wasn’t a pushover. And his lineage was as old as the dirt in the fields. Fifth-generation rancher. That held some sway in these parts, or it used to.
Horace wiped at his nose with a sleeve and stopped to tie his boots. Wouldn’t do any good to trip on a shoelace. He’d seen a friend in ‘Nam shoot himself in the face because of that. Lesson learned.
He glanced at the cooler, deciding this would be more enjoyable with a refreshment. He shuffled off toward his barn with a beer in one hand and the Remington in the other.
Horace didn’t bring his flashlight, deciding it wasn’t necessary. Not with the moon so prominent and the stars lit up like a mob of lighters at a rock concert. Plus, Horace knew every damned inch of this ranch. He’d been working it since he was old enough to crawl.
The cattle grew quieter, and he stopped, wondering if he was wasting his time. He should be in the rocking chair, easing the pressure off his aching knee.
Before he talked himself out of checking on the herd, he continued. They were his livelihood, and he owed it to them to defend the ranch. And a walk would do him good. Although it was late, the night held a warmth nature saved for the heart of summer.
Horace swatted at a swarm of mosquitoes, spilling some of his beer. He cursed them and kept walking. The fence was ahead, where nearly all of his cattle stood crammed to this side of the pasture. They only did that when they were scared.
“If there’s any punk kids nearby, I’m liable to shoot you!” he yelled. Horace considered firing a warning shot, but that would frighten the herd even more.
He sniffed the air, catching a metallic scent beyond the animal odors. Something was burning. “Just my luck.”
Horace opened the gate and secured it behind him. He struggled to avoid the muck and walked past the rows of cattle. He peered into the distance, seeing lights from the town beyond the valley. The fireworks would start up any moment, and he didn’t want to be within this fence when that happened.
“I’m warning you. If I so much as see a hair of your hide, I’m gonna pull the trigger. If it’s the Carson boys, your pappy’s gonna spank you ‘til you can’t sit on your keister for a month!” His words echoed across the field and fell flat a second later.
Horace spotted a reflection off something a hundred yards in the distance, and hurried for it. The barn was to the left, and he thought a shadow stirred on the red wooden exterior. “Great. Just great. We have ourselves a creeper.”
Horace had become used to people sneaking onto his property. His was the ranch closest to town, with the trailer park two miles down the road. It wasn’t unusual for kids to come and shoot cans with pellet guns, or some confounded high schoolers wanting to see if they could tip a cow.
The glint of moonlight drew his attention again, and Horace walked to the object. The scent of charred electrical wires filled his nostrils, and he slowed, trying to understand what he was seeing. It was almost twenty feet long, shiny and black, shaped like a giant almond.
“What in tarnation…?” His beer fell to the grass, and he clutched his rifle with two hands. “Is someone playing a gag on me?”
No answer. Horace stepped closer, and he reached out. He touched the surface. It was scalding hot. The tip of his finger instantly blistered, and he jerked his hand back. The object steamed, half-buried into the ground. Blades of grass sat blackened from the heat.
A noise clattered near the barn, and Horace licked his lips, craving his spilled beer, just to calm his nerves. His knee almost buckled as he stepped forward, but he stayed on two feet. The cows were moving again, heading farther from the gate. They must have seen something, or sensed it.
“Who’s there?” Horace asked, but after seeing the black object burning in his field, he wasn’t sure he wanted a response. Was it one of those experimental government ships? Or a weather balloon? Horace didn’t have a vivid imagination, but this had his mind reeling.
The main doors were ajar when he approached the barn. He never locked them, only latched, but the metal lever was flung wide open. He listened, trying to hear whatever hid within.
Now Horace regretted not bringing the flashlight. He pushed the door with his boot and wandered in. It was quiet for a moment, but he caught the sight of an animal’s eyes. They glowed a dim yellow, like a wolf watching him from the trees.
“Gotcha!” Horace kicked the door and swung the gun around. The sky ignited with fireworks, and he accidentally pulled the trigger. His shoulder barked with the recoil, and the figure swooped overtop of a cow. It looked up, and they locked gazes in the dimly lit barn. Fresh blood dripped from its… what did you call those? Pinchers?
The fireworks continued to sizzle above Hay Lakes, illuminating the entire pasture. The cows joined in the festivities, but Horace just stood there, frozen.
 
; It shifted like it wanted to pounce, and Horace readied himself. The second it lunged, he stepped outside, slamming the barn closed. The metal latch sank into place, and the creature banged against the wood. Horace ran for the side entrance, forgetting about the pain in his legs. He found the door and shoved the barrel lock shut.
The animal scratched and clawed at the heavy slabs, but they held. He’d built them to keep a bull inside, and there was no way this creature could penetrate it. Horace lowered the rifle to the ground and leaned on it.
He gazed at the exploding fireworks, then at the crashed ship.
A smile crept onto his face.
PART ONE
THE GLASS
Drake
Present Day
Click. Click. Drake tapped the button, taking a series of shots with the long lens. Most photographers would be at the lake, trying to capture a rare bird in its habitat, but Drake was no photographer. The woman exited the restaurant first, all legs and a skin-tight red dress. Drake’s target stood behind her, flashing a knowing grin at the valet. He snapped a picture of Benjamin Tate as he positioned his hand on the small of his date’s back, ushering her toward the Bentley. What did that thing run him? Two hundred grand? It made Drake sick, but he was used to rich, bored housewives spending their husbands’ money.
He didn’t care where it came from, but he knew that Benjamin was involved in suspect investment schemes: the kind that depleted people’s retirement funds, while a couple at the top laundered the cash so they could buy cars like this and date women who didn’t ask too many questions.
Drake wasn’t one to judge. When he’d been a detective on the force, he would have cared. Now he just wanted to finish the job so he’d get a paycheck.
He took a few more shots for good measure and set the camera aside. Drake pulled out his notebook, a tattered leather-bound thing with ink stains on the margins, and jotted notes on it. Times. Places. He’d type it up later and compile the file to give to Mrs. Tate. Drake presumed she wouldn’t divorce Benjamin because of his indiscretions. She was too used to the lifestyle. It had been obvious in the way she’d treated the barista when they met for coffee last week. Women like that didn’t give up their money.
Drake had recognized the imposter syndrome the moment he’d met her. How she pretended to be important without owning it. He guessed Mrs. Tate had come from nothing. Once you had it, you couldn’t let it slip. She’d hold it over his head. Demand some new trinket or car, and Benjamin would cave, promising to keep it in his pants.
Until next time.
Drake had been so busy making notes, he failed to notice the looming shadow until the big fist knocked on the glass. It was Benjamin.
He slammed against the window. “Open up!”
Drake jumped in shock and started the engine.
“Oh no you don’t!” Benjamin tried the door handle, and it was unlocked. He grabbed Drake by the shirt, hauling him from the truck. If only he’d been wearing a seat belt. He landed on the road, gravel digging into his shoulders.
“Get off me!” Drake shouted, rising to his knees. He shoved at Benjamin, but the bigger man sidestepped. He allowed Drake to climb to his feet, but his smirk didn’t fade.
“You’ve been following me.” Benjamin’s voice was deep, his hair slicked and black.
“You must have me mistaken for someone else,” Drake managed, finally regaining his confidence.
Ben peered past him toward the passenger seat. “I don’t think so. Who are you?”
Lying wouldn’t help Drake, so he told the truth. “I’m a private eye.”
The fist came out of nowhere. He didn’t have a chance to defend against it. It hit him in the solar plexus, and he keeled over, gasping for breath. Ben pushed him against his truck and struck him again, this time in the jaw. White lights sprinkled across his vision, and a car slowed, coming from the opposite direction.
“Stop it, Benji!” the woman in the Bentley cried. “You’ll get arrested.”
“Everyone okay here?” an older man asked, his window rolled down.
“Mind your business, grandpa,” Ben yelled, turning his attention to Drake. “Who hired you?”
“An investor.” Drake said it loud enough for the witness and his date to hear. “She wanted to know where her retirement fund disappeared to.” He couldn’t rat out his employer, so he improvised. Implicating Ben’s wife might make him more violent, and Ben was obviously eager to slap someone around.
Benjamin just laughed and reached into the car, taking the camera. He smashed it on the road, stomping on it until it broke into a hundred pieces. “If you so much as cough in my direction, I’ll beat you so badly, you’ll wish you’d never uttered my name.”
Drake had been surprised, but he was no pushover. Now that he was focused, he thought he could take this guy. He stood taller, keeping his posture loose, but it wasn’t worth it. He didn’t want to involve the police. Not after his own dubious track record.
“Not to worry. I have nothing to tell her.” Drake pointed at the busted camera. “And even less to show.”
Benjamin smirked and got into his Bentley, ripping away. The streets were quiet at the late hour, and the older man was still stopped nearby. “You good?”
“Yes. Thanks for stopping.” Drake waved at him as the car lights vanished in the distance. “Very good indeed.” What the thug hadn’t realized was that each picture automatically stored in the cloud, accessible from Drake’s cell phone. And that Benjamin’s wife would get the bill for that camera, and maybe a little extra for the pain and suffering of having to hold himself back from the fight.
Drake left the camera on the road, climbed into his truck, and drove home.
His place was quiet, the entire block asleep for the night. He loved this time of year. He liked to leave the windows wide open all night, letting the cool air drift into his house, expunging the summer heat. Drake opened the door to the scrambling paws of his Golden Retriever.
“Hey, girl.” He petted her head and walked through the house, using the rear patio doors. She scuttled out, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he joined her before dashing down the three steps off the deck.
Drake sat on the patio chair, staring up at the sky. It was partly cloudy, with a littering of stars staring back at him. He loved living on the outskirts of the city. It made his commute longer, but most of his time was spent at his home office.
He watched as a cloud blotted out the moon for a few moments, and Sage trudged over to him, resting her chin on his knee. “You have a good night?” Her tail wagged once and settled on the deck. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Drake led her inside and checked the heap of mail near the front door. Bills. Flyers. Depressing bank statements. He needed to get paid for the Tate job, or he was in a world of trouble. Work was rare these days. It wasn’t like he counted on word of mouth. A lot of his clients didn’t want their friends to know they’d hired a private eye to trail their spouses, or to search for their long-lost parent. He dabbled in an assortment of work, but it was far less exciting than he’d expected when he’d opened the business.
Drake checked the fridge, gathering a bottle of beer and a carton of half-eaten chicken curry. It would have to do. After giving Sage a treat bone, he settled onto his couch and flicked on the TV.
“… there’s no evidence of foul play. One day, the field sat empty; the next, this object appeared. The body is reported to belong to a lifelong rancher, Horace Bennet.” The screen showed a picture of a gap-toothed old man standing between two of the biggest cows Drake had ever seen, a ribbon in his hand.
“Diane, the local sheriff’s department has yet to inform the public how Bennet died, but early sources are suggesting it was heart-related. He was eighty-eight years old.” The news anchor tapped the table. “We now go live to north of Billings, where Jessica is onsite.”
Montana? Why would the local Portland news be talking about some rancher in Montana? It didn’t take long for Drake to understand.