The Thought Readers

by Dima Zales

  And regarding the SEC, I wish I knew at what point someone shows up on their radar. Not that they’d have anything on me, even if they noticed my activity. They work on proof, unlike the casinos—proof like phone conversations or email records. Things they would not have in my case. Still, I don’t want the bother of an investigation.

  I can’t believe Mira makes her money playing cards with criminals. This way is so much easier. I really hope she doesn’t do it for money. If I find out that’s the case, and offer Eugene and her some money, I wonder if they would accept. Somehow I think she might be too proud, but I ought to try. I’m feeling very generous right now. I’ve never had any trouble with money, even without the job at the fund, but now, with Reading, I see that I will quickly reach a new level of financial independence.

  I’m so wired now, I have to go harder on myself during the rest of the workout. Lifting heavy weights seems to clear my mind. I’m not sure if that’s a common experience or just me being weird. There’s only one way to find out, so I Read a few minds to investigate. According to my informal gym-based study, other people also feel good after lifting weights. Good to know.

  When I’m done with the gym and get in my car, I text Amy. She’s an acquaintance from Harvard. That’s another reason to go there, by the way—to make important connections that help you get jobs.

  Networking is not why I want to meet with Amy today, however. I do it because she’s crazy, in exactly the way I need.

  She wants to do sushi, and after some back-and-forth, I give in. I guess I’ll have sushi for the second day in a row. It’s a good thing I like the stuff so much.

  We meet at her favorite midtown place and catch up. She works at another fund, so it’s easy to convince her this is just an impromptu networking session. Except I’m here for a different reason.

  Amy is into extreme experiences of all sorts. In some ways, she’s the opposite of me. For example, she’s just bitten into Fugu sashimi. Fugu is that poisonous blowfish that the Japanese never allowed their emperor to eat. The fish contains tetrodotoxin, a neurotoxin fatal to humans and other creatures. If the chef messed up Amy’s order, it could be deadly. Each fish has enough poison to kill around thirty people. And Amy’s eating it like it’s nothing. That’s the sort of person she is. It’s perfect for me, so I phase into the Quiet.

  Amy is still, chopsticks carrying their potentially deadly load into her mouth. She isn’t cringing or anything. I have to respect her for that.

  I approach her and get into her mind, not bothering to rewind events.

  * * *

  We’re chewing the Fugu. I, Amy, can’t get enough of the stuff, while I, Darren, am severely disappointed. The flavor is much too subtle for me. It doesn’t really taste like much of anything. Given the health risks, I would’ve expected this to taste like lobster multiplied by a hundred.

  I go deeper.

  We’re flying in a plane. This is our first non-tandem jump, and we feel the adrenaline rush just getting on the plane. When it takes us to fifteen thousand feet, we get our first ‘feargasm,’ as we like to call it.

  When we eventually make the jump, the feeling of free fall overwhelms us with its intensity. It’s everything we thought it would be, and more. Through it all, we don’t forget the most important thing—and after sixty seconds of bliss that seem like a millisecond, we pull the cord to open the parachute.

  We’re already wondering what to do next. Maybe jump naked? Maybe under the influence of some substance?

  The flight after the parachute opens gets boring, so I, Darren, seek something else.

  We’re snowboarding this time . . .

  * * *

  I get out of Amy’s head eventually. Thanks to her, I’m able to cross off ninety percent of my bucket list. Through her eyes, I have surfed, bungee jumped, rock climbed, snowboarded, and even done BASE jumping with a wing suit.

  I would never have done any of these things for real, particularly since yesterday I found out something that I’m still trying to wrap my head around: I can extend my subjective lifespan by just chilling in the Quiet. That means I have a lot more to lose than regular people.

  I insist on paying for Amy’s lunch. It’s the least I can do to pay her back for the experiences I just gleaned through her eyes. I definitely got closer to understanding what drives her and other people like her to do these seemingly crazy things. Most of it was awesome—especially jumping out of that plane.

  Of course, it wasn’t awesome enough for me to risk my life. But now, thanks to Reading, I won’t have to. I can just hang out with Amy again. I think I might be getting lunch with her more often now.

  After I’m in the car again by myself, I, unbelievably, feel like I might’ve had enough Reading for today. I want to get together with my new Brooklyn friends a day early.

  I text Eugene, and he excitedly invites me over.

  Now the stupid car will finally come in handy.

  Chapter 15

  I park in front of Eugene and Mira’s building after an uneventful drive over. The spot is near a fire hydrant, but far enough away from it not to get a ticket. The nice thing about hydrant spots like this is that there’s no one in front of the car. This makes parallel parking, a skill I haven’t fully mastered, easier. No parking meters either, just a regular spot that’s only a problem during Monday morning street cleanings. Impressive. I guess one nice perk of Brooklyn is being able to park like this on the street.

  I make my way over to the building entrance. A friendly old lady holds the door for me. Apparently I don’t look like a burglar to her, the way she just lets me walk right in. I’m glad, because this way I don’t have to play with the intercom again.

  Before the door closes behind me, I get that feeling again.

  Someone’s pulled me into the Quiet.

  The door is frozen halfway between open and shut, the world is silent, and I’m standing next to frozen me and unfrozen Mira. I briefly wonder what part of my body she touched to get me to join her before I notice the wild look in her eyes and forget everything else.

  “Mira, what’s going on?”

  “There isn’t time,” she says, running to the stairs. “Follow me.”

  I run after her, trying to make sense of it.

  “They found me,” she says over her shoulder. “They found us.”

  “Who found you?” I ask, finally catching up.

  She doesn’t answer; instead she stops dead in her tracks. There are men standing like statues on the staircase heading up to the first floor.

  Finally coming out of whatever shock she’s in, she goes through the pockets of a tall burly man wearing a leather jacket. Not finding whatever information she was looking for in his wallet, she touches his temple and appears to be concentrating in order to Read.

  When she’s done, she takes a gun from the man’s inner pocket and shoots him. The sound of the shot, even with a silencer on the gun, nearly deafens me, and I put my hands up to my ears. She just keeps shooting, over and over. Then, when the gun begins to make clicking sounds, she uses the empty gun to beat the man’s face into a bloody pulp. I’ve never seen anyone as angry, as out of control, as she is. Tears of frustration well up in her eyes, but none fall.

  “Mira,” I say gently. “You’re not going to kill him that way. He’ll still be alive when we phase out of the Quiet.”

  She goes on with her grisly attack until the gun slips from her fingers. She turns to me, the tears falling now. She brushes them away impatiently, clearly embarrassed that I’ve seen her lose control like this. “I know that—trust me, I know. It doesn’t make a fucking bit of difference, anything I do to them. But I needed that.” She takes a breath, pulling herself together. “And now we have to run.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Can you please explain to me what’s going on?”

  “These fuckers’ friends just kidnapped me,” she says, pushing her way through the rest of the ‘dead’ man’s three companions.

  “What? How?”r />
  “They’re after Eugene,” she says, running even faster up the stairs. “They’re taking me hostage in case they don’t find him at home. They want to use me to smoke him out. Only, he is home.”

  “What do they want with him?” I ask, confused. Eugene is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. I just assumed this whole kidnaping business with Mira had something to do with her gambling adventures. The four men sure look like the same kind of guys as the one we ran into at the sushi restaurant yesterday. Why would they be after Eugene?

  “I don’t have time to explain, Darren,” she says, and stops on the second floor. She turns to me and sizes me up, as though looking at me for the first time.

  “Listen,” she says, “I won’t make it to the next floor, let alone the apartment. I’m about to fall out of the Mind Dimension—I can already feel myself slipping. Me running here was a desperate attempt. Even if I didn’t pull you in, I wouldn’t have made it. So, I need your help.”

  “Of course—what do you need?” I’m scared. I haven’t seen Mira like this before. Sarcastic—yes; angry—a couple of times, sure. Even amused. But not vulnerable like this.

  “You have to promise to save my brother.”

  “I will,” I say, and it comes out very solemn. “But can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Okay, pay attention. I might not have the time to repeat it. I need you to go into the Mind Dimension, the Quiet as you call it, as soon as my time’s up. Once you’re there, once you’ve stopped time for everyone around you, you have to come back up these stairs and go all the way to the apartment. Take one of their guns on the way—” she points at the men downstairs, “—and shoot the door lock to get into the apartment. Pull Eugene in to join you in your Mind Dimension. Tell him these guys are on their way up.” She says it all in one breath, wiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve. It might be disgusting from anyone else, but somehow Mira makes even this display endearing. “If you pull this off, if you get him out of this fucking mess, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

  “I’ll do it, Mira,” I say, beginning to think coherently. “I promise, I’ll get him out of the building. I’m parked right outside. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Thank you,” she says. The next moment, she’s next to me. She hugs me, and I clumsily hug her back. I don’t know how to act around a woman in such distress. I pat her back gently, hoping it makes her feel better.

  Then she stands on her tiptoes and kisses me. The kiss is deep and desperate, her lips soft against mine. It’s completely unexpected, but I return the kiss without a second thought, my mind in complete turmoil. So much for coherent thinking.

  “Tell Eugene I’m sorry,” she says, pulling away after a few moments. “Tell him this is my fault. I led them here. They picked me up at the gym, and I had some mail on me.”

  “The gym?” I say, a sick feeling in my stomach.

  “Yes. I’m so fucking stupid. I took the mail out of the mailbox in the morning. They found it on me. Our address was on it,” she says bitterly.

  “Your gym is how my friend found you,” I admit. “You used one of your older aliases there. I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you that.”

  “No, you didn’t know the danger we’re in. This is definitely on me. I should’ve asked you how you found me. And I should’ve changed gyms. We should’ve fucking moved a long time ago—”

  “Where are you now, and more importantly, who are these people? You have to tell me before your time is up,” I interrupt urgently.

  “The men in this building are working with the ones who picked me up. I don’t know for sure, but I think they’re all involved with the people who killed our parents. The same Russian crew. The same Pusher is probably pulling their strings. Eugene can tell you more. I’m in the car where the friends of the assholes downstairs put me. At first they knocked me out somehow, maybe with chloroform or a shot. I don’t remember. I don’t have any bruises, so I doubt they hit me on the head. When I came to, about twenty or so minutes after, I Split and Read the driver. They gave our address to someone, which led to the group that came here. They work quickly; I didn’t expect them to already be here. The ones holding me are going to this address in Sunset Park.” She hands me a little piece of paper. I commit the address on the paper to memory. “After that, I Split again and ran here on foot. But it was too far. If I hadn’t run into you—”

  I phase out before she’s able to finish her last sentence. Suddenly I’m standing downstairs again, next to the still-closing door.

  Mira is gone.

  As she instructed me, I instantly phase into the Quiet.

  I run, even though rationally I know I have plenty of time. Unlike Mira, I can spend an insanely long time in the Quiet.

  As I’m running, I digest the fact that after she pulled me in and her time ran out, I got pushed out. This is something I wondered about—what happens if you pull someone in, but then get out of the Quiet yourself. Looks like your guest in the Quiet is tied to you. If you get out, they get out.

  My contemplation of the rules of this bizarre new world is interrupted by the people on the stairs. The guy in the leather jacket is back, standing there like nothing happened—which makes sense, since nothing actually has happened, at least not outside Mira’s Quiet session. I take his gun as she suggested. I’m very tempted to Read them, but I decide to do the important part first.

  I run up to the fifth floor. As I turn into their hallway, I see Eugene. He’s wearing a ratty hoodie with dorky pajama pants underneath. I fleetingly wonder what happened to the white coat.

  He’s throwing out the garbage. I don’t need to shoot the lock off their door after all.

  I touch him, and in a moment he’s staring at me, confused.

  “Eugene, Mira is in trouble,” I tell him instead of hello.

  “What? What do you mean?” He looks alarmed.

  “Please let me explain. She was just here, in the Quiet. She said she was kidnapped. She said they’re after you.”

  “Who’s after me?” He looks panicked now. “What are you talking about?”

  “Come with me,” I say, figuring a picture is worth a thousand words. “I’ll tell you what she told me on the way down. You need to see them.”

  “See whom?” he asks, but follows me anyway. “Can you just explain?”

  “There are some kind of mobsters who came here for you. I’m taking you to them,” I say and pick up speed. “Mira said they’re the same people who killed your parents. That some Pusher controls them. She said you would be able to explain this to me.”

  “And now they have her?” he asks from behind me, his voice low.

  “Yes. She’s in a car, being taken to a place in Sunset Park. I have the address,” I say as we make our way to the four men on the stairs. “This is the problem,” I say, pointing at them.

  Eugene approaches the men. There is an unrecognizable, almost frightening expression on his face.

  Without asking any more questions, he approaches the man wearing a blue tracksuit and touches the guy’s temple. I decide to also indulge in Reading, since I’m waiting for Eugene anyway. I walk up to the guy in the leather jacket whose gun I didn’t need.

  * * *

  We’re driving to the address we were texted. We’re happy we called shotgun, as Boris, Alex, and Dmitri are still bitching about having to share the backseat. Alex, who sits in the middle, apparently spreads his knees too wide for the others’ comfort.

  Haste was of the essence when we got the call, so we had to leave the restaurant, bill unpaid and food unfinished, and get into Sergey’s car. Top priority and all that.

  “Wait here,” we tell Sergey—the driver—in Russian. I, Darren, understand this again, though the words sound foreign in my mind.

  Next, we hand Sergey our phone with a picture of the target. If the target happens to waltz into the building behind us, Sergey is supposed to text us immediately.

  I, Darren, am able to feel a more pronounced
mental distance between myself and my host, whose name is Big Boris. I’m less lost in the experience, and I’m glad about that. I guess I’m getting better at this Reading business. His mind seems less of a mystery to me with this little bit of extra distance.

  Encouraged, I try to focus on how he—or I, or we—got the idea to come to this building. Specifically, I’m looking for more details on this phone call he/I/we were recalling. All of a sudden, I’m there.

  We’re at the restaurant eating lamb shish kebab when we get a phone call. We look at the phone and see the number we memorized long ago, and the name ‘Arkady’ on the screen. A piece of meat gets stuck in our throat. It’s the boss, and he always makes us nervous.

  “Go to the location I’m going to text you immediately,” he says, and we promptly agree.

  We’re not done with the meal, but we don’t voice our annoyance to the boss. Not into the phone, and not even to the crew as we tell them what’s what. We wouldn’t dream of crossing Arkady; he’s the craziest, toughest, most ruthless son of a bitch we’ve ever met.

  I, Darren, repeat Arkady’s phone number to myself over and over, so I can remember it in case it comes in handy later. Luckily, I’m very good when it comes to remembering numbers. Still, I need to write this down, along with the address where Mira is being kept, as soon as I can.

  I realize that I managed to jump around Big Boris’s mind without the usual feeling of lightness. Though with hindsight, I think I did feel light; it was simply on a subconscious level, like I was on a strange mental autopilot. I’ll need to play around with this some more, this jumping about in people’s minds, but now is not the time. I need to jump out of this mind and get Eugene out of this mess.

  * * *

  When I’m out of Big Boris’s head, Eugene is staring at me.