The Other by Marilyn Peake Read online

  The Other

  By

  Marilyn Peake

  http://www.marilynpeake.com

  The Other

  © Copyright, 2017, Marilyn Peake

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  Book Cover Art by Tom Edwards:

  http://www.tomedwardsdesign.com/

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  About the Author

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author Marilyn Peake writes in a variety of genres, mostly Science Fiction and Fantasy. She’s one of the contributing authors in Book: The Sequel, published by The Perseus Books Group, with one of her entries included in serialization at The Daily Beast. In addition, Marilyn has served as Editor of a number of anthologies. Her short stories have been published in seven anthologies and on the literary blog, Glass Cases.

  AWARDS: Silver Award, two Honorable Mentions and eight Finalist placements in the ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Awards, two Winner and two Finalist placements in the EPPIE Awards, Winner of the Dream Realm Awards, Finalist placement in the 2015 National Indie Excellence Book Awards, and Winner of “Best Horror” in the eFestival of Words Best of the Independent eBook Awards.

  Author Links:

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  PART 1

  Cora Frost, Ph.D.

  Chapter 1

  I was packing to leave when a Breaking News story came on the TV. The CIA had launched an investigation into reports of UFOs and outer space aliens that seemed to occur every day now. That’s how serious this had become.

  As a Psychology professor investigating the same thing, I liked to keep a cool head, remain rational. The focus of my research: this is nothing more than mass hysteria. Although “nothing more” doesn’t adequately explain the situation. Mass hysteria can lead to a whole lot of destruction. Just ask those considered witches in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in Europe, or later in the Salem Witch Trials. Yeah, you didn’t want people thinking you were a witch back then.

  The next Breaking News story was about North Korea testing another missile, followed by graphic video of a terrorist attack in Europe and interviews with investigators looking into a computer hack in which the Russians were the prime suspects. Yup, the world was melting down. People carried on as though none of this affected them personally, but deep down in their brains in the almond-shaped amygdalae, fear responses were going off like fireworks. Rather than shake with terror over a relentless barrage of frightening stories, everything had been crystallized into one bogeyman: a green alien from outer space with monstrously large black eyes. Yup, we’d found our witch.

  It was July and we were headed to Roswell, New Mexico, the home of a cult that had started exhibiting some rather extreme behavior in regard to the aliens. I thought back to my own childhood growing up in a cult in Utah. I banished the memories. I had bogeymen living in the basement of my own amygdalae, except those were real. I wasn’t going to go there.

  It was going to be hot as hell. Probably another reason why things were getting worse in the Roswell cult. Things always get worse under conditions of extreme heat. Tempers flare. Riots break out. In many of the hottest places on Earth, war is ongoing. Even language reflects the connection between heat and violence. We talk about “things heating up,” “tempers flaring,” “violence ignited.”

  I searched through my closet and drawers for the coolest summer clothes I owned. I threw a bunch of tank tops and white T-shirts into the suitcase, along with an equal number of shorts, some pink flip-flops and sandals. I pulled two skirts and dress shirts off hangars, folded them neatly and placed them on top, then stuffed flat dress shoes into the front compartment, just in case we needed to dress up for something. Thinking over the different conditions in which we’d be working—out in the dusty desert, which could be windy with cool nights—I added a few pairs of jeans, hiking boots, sneakers and a jacket. I threw in a couple of hats I could wear in the hot sun.

  Then I headed on over to my office to pack up papers and a couple of nice smooth worry stones that might be just what the doctor ordered on a trip like this.

  As soon as I got to my jeep, just about to put my key in the lock, my cell phone rang. I really didn’t have time for that. Liam Bernacki, the Department Head, had arranged flights out of LAX. We were leaving in a few hours. Pulling the phone out of my jeans pocket, I glanced at the number. Damn. Not again. I thought she had given up. Go away, little girl. Get on with your life. I’m not answering.

  The moment I’d thought it, I felt terrible. Still, I was not going to answer. Ever. What’s done is done. We all had to keep moving on.

  I hopped in my jeep and roared down the street. Fifteen minutes later, I was at the university.

  I hurried through the near-empty campus. It was between sessions in summer. A lot of the kids had left—either for home or for some exotic vacation spot. Their lives were a far cry from mine. I worked my way through college. Right about now, I would have been cleaning up booze-induced vomit and soiled sheets at some local no-tell motel with part-time hours.

  Moving quickly through my office, trying to assess what I needed to take with me, I threw stuff into an empty box. A couple of books on cult behavior in times of stress. The laptop I used for travel.

  Hearing a knock on my open door, I whirled around.

  It was Nathan Moore, the Anthropology prof who was going with me. Our research trip was being funded by a joint research grant for both our departments to figure out what the hell was going on in certain cult compounds inside the United States. If this panned out, there was a promise of more money to evaluate what was happening to certain groups outside our country. The UFO phenomenon seemed to be occurring worldwide.

  “Oh, hey, Nat, what’s happening? You packed?”

  That was kind of a dumb question. He was wearing a backpack and holding a briefcase in his hand and had a laptop case thrown over a shoulder. Not the way one would normally saunter down the hallway to say hi.

  Rather than make eye contact, he brushed his hair out of his face and gazed around my office. “Yup. Can’t wait for this trip. You know the flying saucers are some kind of disks sent by one of our enemies, right?” Looking back at me, he grinned with that little-boy grin he used when trying to get people to agree with him.

  I turned back to packing up things. Grabbed a handful of worry stones and threw them into the box. Last week, I’d held one I’d already worn thin in some kind of death grip and cracked it right in half. I was taking alon
g an adequate supply just in case things got rough. I played along, “OK. Which enemy in particular? Our President seems to have made quite a few lately.”

  Nat looked at me, his green eyes sparkling, then away at something on one of my bookshelves. “Well, that’s what I’m investigating on this trip. It’s part of my study on how cult groups react to cold war tactics from enemy states. I suspect Russia in this case. North Korea would probably love to do this kind of thing, but I don’t think they have the capability. But who knows? Information coming out of the DMZ is that South Korean military witnessed some kind of silvery disks flying overhead from the other side of the border. Now, does that mean North Korea sent them or they just happened to be flying from that direction? North Korea claims they sent them, but of course they’d like everyone to think they have the capability to make next-gen super-secret military aircraft. Not very likely, Dear Leader. Not very likely.” He grinned.

  Glancing around my office, opening and closing desk and cabinet drawers, trying to see if there was anything else I should bring, I asked, “How do you know this? Has another news story broken?”

  Picking up a pen from my desk and absentmindedly twirling it around with his fingers, he said, “Nope. Nothing public, at least not yet. Heard this from Min-Jun Jhang, my contact at one of the South Korean universities.”

  Picking up the box and cradling it in my arms, I said, “Well, let’s hope our research goes well. If we get the grant to take our research worldwide, you could go to North Korea.” I grinned.

  He flipped the switch to turn off my office lights as I stepped toward the door. He said, “Hmmmm. Now, that would be interesting. Thank you all the same, I prefer the country on the other side of that particular border.”

  As I locked the door, I said, “Wuss.”

  Nat laughed. “All right then, next trip: a joint project in North Korea, since you think it’s such a great idea. Nothing like a bit of adventure, hey?”

  We grew quiet. I’m sure both of us were pondering the possibility of arranging such a trip. I know I was.

  Once in my jeep, I waved goodbye to Nat. We were driving separately to the airport in case one of us had to come back early. Shit was always coming up that changed plans.

  Just as I got the engine going, my phone lit up. My brother. I did not have time for this. I answered. “Hey, Jed, what’s up?”

  “Not much. How’s it going?”

  “Good. I’m heading out to the airport, actually. I got a research grant to investigate…human behavior close-up.” I winced. That sounded so lame. I was going to say, “UFO stuff that’s going on in certain cults;” but with our history, mentioning the word cult was like throwing a match into a lake of gasoline.

  “Uh-huh. Sounds interesting.”

  I don’t know why I ever worried about choosing my words carefully with him. It’s not like he ever listened to anything I said.

  Trying to get the conversation going, so that we could end it as soon as possible, I asked, “So, why did you call?”

  Jed sounded hurt when he answered, “Can’t I just call my big sister to see how she’s doing?”

  Well, that would be a first. I replied, “Sure. I’m doing great. You know how invigorated I get when…”

  He interrupted to say, “So, I have a problem.”

  Yup. Never listens. Doesn’t care. I was going to say, when I get to go out and do research in the field.

  I stifled the sigh building up in my body. “What’s the problem, Jed?”

  He answered, “I’m out of a job…temporarily…on administrative leave.”

  He was a cop. Out on administrative leave usually meant he’d done something questionable. Or been accused of it, anyway. With Jed, it usually meant he’d actually done it, but the department found there had been extenuating circumstances.

  I sucked in my breath, let it out. “So, what happened?”

  Jed’s voice got louder. I pulled the phone back from my ear and turned the sound down while he ranted and shouted. I didn’t want to go deaf. He unloaded his version of the story on me: “I pulled over a couple niggers…”

  I rolled my eyes. God, why did he have to be that way? We both came from the same rough background. What made him so damned close-minded and bigoted?

  As he went on, his voice slurred. He’d been drinking, again. Big surprise there. I’d been wondering lately if he sometimes went into work drunk. He said, “They were all nervous-like…”

  Yeah, I’d be nervous, too, if I were them, knowing my brother. I was going to interrupt, realized it would do no good, let him continue. I just wanted to know how bad things were with him, if there was something I needed to fix.

  He went on, “So, I’m thinking cocaine, or that cheaper flakka stuff that’s on the street these days. I take a look at their car: an old, beat-up Chevy Impala. I take a look at them. Driver’s wearin’ a torn sweatshirt. The other guy’s wearin’ dirty jeans. Yeah, I’m thinkin’ flakka, gravel—that stuff. These guys aren’t exactly rollin’ in dough.”

  I popped my cell phone into the holder on the dashboard, put the jeep in drive, and headed out to the airport. This was obviously going to be a long story while my brother tried to show off his detective skills to his big sister. You know what? I hate being a mother figure. If our own fucking mother hadn’t…

  OK, I wasn’t going to let my mind go there. I focused on the road. I tried to focus on what my brother was saying. I want to ask what flakka or gravel were. Two different things or two different words for the same thing? I started diagramming his sentence, trying to figure it out from the grammatical structure. No way I was going to ask him. He’d just go on forever.

  As I pulled up to a red light and stopped, he was saying, “I tell them, ‘Let me see your license.’ Mr. Torn Sweatshirt reaches for his back pocket. Then he starts giving me lip. He says, ‘What did I do, Officer?’ I tell him, ‘Never mind that. Just give me your license.’ I’m watching his hand for a gun when, suddenly, there’s a flash of metal coming from the other side of the car. His buddy was pulling a gun out of his jacket! It must have been a gun. What other kind of shiny metal thing do you pull out of your jacket? I reacted. I shot them both.”

  My heart started racing out of control. My hands started shaking. Afraid I was going to pass out behind the wheel of my vehicle, I said, “What do you want from me, Jed?”

  He said, “Well, I could use some money. Stella don’t work. She stays at home with the kids. Her bein’ a good mom’s the most important thing to us.”

  Ya know, if you’re asking me for money, you probably oughtn’t bring that up again. I’d made my life choices. I didn’t want to be a mom right now. Maybe later. I’d spent my twenties earning a Ph.D. and getting a job as a college professor. Building a stable life brick by brick. On the other hand, he’d married his high school sweetheart two days after graduation. She was four months pregnant. He’d managed to stick with training to become a police detective, but his life was a mess. Anger management problems, for sure. I’d started wondering about alcoholism. I would have wondered about drug use as well except he was always so hostile toward anyone who used them. But who knows…

  I asked, “Aren’t you on paid administrative leave?”

  With a distinct hostile edge to his voice, he said, “Well, yeah, but I’m used to overtime. I’m not sure how we’ll get along without it. I got four kids to feed. And you know Alice needs medicine for the ADHD.”

  The ADHD? Did he really know anything at all about his daughter’s condition?

  I asked, “Have you thought about getting another job while you’re on leave? Maybe work at a grocery store or paint houses or something?”

  He said, “I’m a cop, Cora! I just have to wait until after the hearing; then I can go back to work.”

  I didn’t have time to argue.

  The image of the two men he’d shot—blood and flesh spraying over the car interior, splashing onto the windshield, embedding itself in
the car seats—flashed through my mind. I tried to block it out. I thought of flying saucers and interviewing people in the Roswell compound.

  I thought of people drinking poison.

  With bad memories resurrecting themselves like ghosts in my brain, I tried to bring the conversation to a close. I said, “How much do you need?”

  Jed’s voice got lighter, more cheerful. He said, “Can you send me a thousand for now?”

  Jesus. I was a college professor, not a rock star. I thought about my checking account. It would still have a balance if I moved some money over from savings. I said, “Sure. I’ll send it sometime tonight.”

  My brother said, “Awesome! Well, it’s been great talking with you.” Then he hung up. The click of him disconnecting was jarring. Not even one word of thanks. That was Jed. Some things never changed.

  Before I realized I had started crying, I felt the warmth of tears trickling down my face.

  Damn. I wished I could absolve myself of responsibility for him. My baby brother. My goddamn fucking baby brother who could blow the brains out of people who he constantly judged through the lens of bias and discrimination and his own dark sense of self-loathing.

  Chapter 2

  We got to LAX an hour before takeoff. I preferred to arrive two hours early, but that just wasn’t possible this time. We’d gotten the go-ahead from Liam with very little time to spare. He’d been trying to get us into the Roswell compound for months. When one of their leaders finally said yes, he didn’t want to give them a chance to change their mind.

  Security was especially tight. Police were walking around with submachine guns. I’d never seen that before. There were also a lot of TSA canine teams. I’d seen the dogs before and always assumed they were brought in to sniff for drugs and explosives.

  Juggling suitcases and backpacks, we rushed into the airport terminal, printed out our tickets at the kiosk and checked a few bags. Then we walked as quickly as possible to the security line.