The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2) (4 page)

Yep, just going to go ‘to mitigate,’ and not to talk about anything that’s bothering me—like the disturbing things I saw in Caleb’s mind, for example. Or my guilt about Pushing that guy to kill himself. Or that I’m more adopted than I realized. Or even that I’ve met a girl—something my shrink has been nagging me about for ages, almost like a third mom. All that babbling about my feelings would imply that I’m sensitive or something—which I’m definitely not. Nope, this visit will be about this discretion business. But, because I’m there anyway, I might as well talk about some of these other issues with my shrink—the ones that aren’t prohibited by the Reader code, at least. After all, that’s what I pay her for.

“Now that we have the discretion issue squared away, there is another minor thing I wanted to ask you,” Jacob says, distracting me from my musings about the upcoming therapy. “Does the name
Mark Robinson
mean anything to you?”

“No,” I say, confused. “Should it?”

“No. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” He gets up. “Sam will take you back now. I’m happy we’re on the same page when it comes to keeping the Readers’ existence secret.”

He shakes my hand and walks me to Sam, who’s waiting behind the door. Sam leads me back to Caleb, as silently as before.

“Where to?” Caleb asks me when we turn onto Emmons Avenue again.

“Can you please take me to Mira and Eugene’s apartment?” I give him the address from my phone.

As we fly through the streets, something suddenly hits me. I
do
know the name Mark. That was the name of my biological father. Could that be the Mark Jacob meant?

If so, could Jacob have known my father?

When Jacob first saw me on Skype, he said I looked familiar. Did he say that because he saw my resemblance to this Mark person? Or is Mark Robinson someone else entirely? After all, Mark is a pretty common name.

I realize I need to ask my moms about my biological father’s last name.

“Here we are,” Caleb says. He brakes suddenly, just about throwing me through the windshield. We’re near the park across the street from Mira’s building. “Do you want me to wait for you?”

“No, thanks. I’ll just rent a car after this. But there is something I want to ask you,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.

“What’s that?” he asks. “You had a chance to chat on the way over, you know.”

I ignore his annoyed tone. “What happens to people who display their Reader powers to the world? Jacob warned me to be discreet, but I forgot to ask him about the consequences. What if I slip up?”

“It’s good that you didn’t ask him that.” Caleb furrows his brows. “But to answer your question, all I can say is nothing good would happen. This isn’t a game, kid. It’s deadly serious.”

“Can you be more specific?” I’m irritated at being called a kid yet again.

“If Jacob told me someone had done that, and if there was proof, I’d probably put a bullet in that person. Is that specific enough?” Caleb says, giving me a level look. “It would never happen, though. No Reader has ever been that stupid, and I doubt you are either.”

“But surely someone said something at some point,” I persist. “Or else there wouldn’t be these rules, right? Plus, there are ideas in regular people’s minds that seem like they might’ve originated with us. Where else would the concept of psychics come from? Just think of the term
mind reading
. And now that I think about it, maybe that’s also where the reincarnation myths originated, or even astral projection and remote viewing—”

“Don’t forget Bigfoot,” he says, looking pointedly at his car door. “Look, I’m no historian. Maybe back in the day, people blabbed, but they don’t now. And I’m sure those that did back then were burned at the stake, tortured, or had something equally unpleasant done to them by the ancient Readers. Our ancestors were pretty hardcore in that regard. Back then, for example, you’d get killed for fucking someone other than your assigned mate. And they wouldn’t kill just you—they’d kill the person you slept with. I think the reason no one ever does what you describe is that we all know this brutal history. Strictly speaking, no official has ever said, ‘We don’t do that to traitors anymore.’ So I’m telling you the truth: I’ve never heard of any modern-day lapses. We’ve looked into a few psychics who talked about reading minds, but it always turned out to be some lowlife con artist trying to scam people out of money, not Readers doing something they shouldn’t.”

His eyes flash darkly when he mentions the psychics. I wonder what he did to them. I don’t want to ask. I’ve had enough Caleb-related violence for one day.

“Okay, thanks. That explains it, I guess. Now, just one more thing I wanted to ask you,” I say tentatively, unsure how to go about this.

He lifts his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Can I have a gun?” I say it quickly, deciding to just blurt it out. As I say the words, I can’t help staring at his glove compartment.

“You mean
that
gun?” he says, following my gaze.

“Any gun will do.” I’m happy he doesn’t seem too pissed to learn I’ve been snooping. “That gun’s a revolver. They have simple mechanisms that should function in the Quiet—I mean, the Mind Dimension.”

“Most guns work in the Mind Dimension,” he says. “Fine. Take it—quickly, before I change my mind.”

I grab the gun and exit the car. I tuck the weapon into the waistband at the back of my pants, feeling very gangster all of a sudden.

“Take the coffee too,” he says, handing me the cup. “It was for you. Good luck in there.”

Before I get a chance to reply, he reaches over and shuts the passenger door, almost in my face. Then the car takes off, leaving a faint smell of burning rubber in its wake.

As he leaves, I remember another related question. What happens to the people to whom the hypothetically traitorous Reader tells the secret of our existence? I guess Caleb wouldn’t know, since he’s never dealt with anything like that. Or so he says. I can’t imagine it would be anything good. All the more reason to dissuade the shrink of my earlier revelations. I don’t want her to get hurt—she’s done right by me, even though I think she’s full of shit most of the time.

I walk over and sit down on a bench in the park to think things over while sipping the lukewarm coffee.

It’s 7:28 a.m. Mira and Eugene are probably still sleeping, like most normal people. If I do what I’m planning, Mira might be upset for more reasons than just my Pushing yesterday. But then again, I doubt I can make things worse—and I have a feeling that the element of surprise will be to my advantage.

Convinced, I sit up and, using the above-average anxiety I’m feeling at the moment, phase into the Quiet. As the sounds of the street go away, I walk toward the building.

The gun helps when it comes to opening the downstairs door. It also works like a charm on the lock of the door to their apartment. My ears still ringing from the gunshot only I could hear, I gingerly enter the apartment, thinking that it’s a good thing the damage will automatically be repaired when I phase back to normal.

I begin to question the sanity of my plan again as soon as I walk into what has to be Mira’s bedroom.

Mira is asleep on a gray futon. Her room is much less messy than the apartment overall. So it seems like the mess I noticed the other day is more Eugene’s fault.

I’m cognizant of a lacy bra and thong lying on the chair next to the bed. I didn’t think this part of the idea through. I’m in luck, though. She’s clearly not sleeping naked—the shoulder that’s visible above the blanket is clothed in a pajama top.

As I stand there, I wonder what will happen when I pull her into the Quiet with me while she’s sleeping. I was never able to fall asleep in the Quiet, which seems to imply that Mira will wake up as soon as she enters. I’m about to find out for sure.

I reach out, pull away a few stray strands of Mira’s soft dark hair, and gently touch her temple. Then I take a calming breath, realizing the chips are about to fall where they may.

She appears in the Quiet as a second Mira on the same bed, but closer to the edge on my side. This Mira has her eyes open and stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then she turns and looks at her still-sleeping double.

“Please don’t panic,” I whisper softly.

Hearing me, Mira jackknifes to a sitting position on the bed. Swinging her feet down to the floor, she looks at me, obviously confused.

Dressed in polka-dot pajamas, without all the makeup and the femme-fatale clothing, she looks a lot more approachable than the last time I saw her. Like the proverbial girl next door. A little vulnerable, even. These illusions last for only a moment before I get the most seething look she’s ever given me.

“What. The. Fuck,” she says somewhat incoherently, and for the first time, I hear a slight Russian accent in her speech.

“I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,” I say quickly. “But I really needed to talk to you. Will you please hear me out?”

She jumps up—eyeing her purse, which happens to be behind me.

My heart sinks as I realize she’s looking for the gun I recall her carrying in that purse.

Before I can complete the thought about the gun, she’s right next to me, throwing a punch. Without consciously planning it, I catch her small fist in my hand a millisecond before it connects with my face. Then I hold it for a few moments, looking into her eyes. She seems shocked at my quick reaction. As soon as she gets her wits back and starts struggling, I let go of her hand.

She tries to kick me in the shins next, and I step back, again without conscious thought.

She almost loses her balance when her leg doesn’t connect with its intended target. Her frustration turns into anger, every expression clear on her face, and she runs for the door. I briefly regret my newfound fighting reflexes. Maybe if she’d hit me, it would’ve been cathartic for her. Maybe afterwards she would’ve been willing to listen. And I can’t imagine her punches would’ve hurt me that much—given her slim frame and all. And I’m not being sexist here, by the way. Not exactly. If my tiny friend Bert had punched me, seeing as he can’t weigh much more than Mira, I doubt I would’ve felt anything either.

I follow her and realize she’s heading into what must be Eugene’s bedroom. She must be thinking about pulling him into the Quiet with us. Or getting his gun. Or both.

I wait, letting her do what she wants. I feel fairly safe, figuring that if she didn’t kill me yesterday, she’s even less likely to do so today after a good night’s sleep. Hopefully.

Eugene walks out, wearing only wrinkled tighty-whiteys and looking confused. I don’t get a chance to smirk at his appearance because Mira—holding that gun of his—immediately follows him.

The most worrisome part of this is that her hand is steady. I didn’t expect that at all. She looks much calmer than yesterday—much more ready to shoot me. How could I have misjudged the situation so horribly?

I hear the gun safety click off.

Is it possible to have a heart attack in the Quiet? If so, I might be flirting with that possibility, given how fast my heart is beating.

She’s carefully aiming at my head.

I expect to see at least
some
doubt on her face, but she looks completely calm. Merciless. Her forearm tenses as though she’s about to pull the trigger.

I put my hand in front of my face, like that could actually protect me.

“Mira, stop.” Eugene puts himself between me and the barrel. “Think about what you’re about to do. He can spend
months
in the Mind Dimension.”

Either seeing her brother in the way or hearing his words causes her to hesitate.

I’m speechless. She really
was
about to kill me, and Eugene obviously thought so as well. As I take a calming breath, I try not to focus on this fact. The knowledge of what she was about to do stings badly. More than I would’ve imagined. Thinking about it now, I realize everything I’d convinced myself of was just wishful thinking. I was so sure she wouldn’t hurt me. Now, as the hard reality hits, learning that she
would
kill me feels like a deep betrayal—even though it shouldn’t.

And speaking of betrayal, Eugene’s reasoning for why she shouldn’t pull the trigger hurts nearly as much. It sounded like he only wants to spare me because of my power. Forget friendship. ‘Don’t kill him so we can use his abilities in the Quiet’ is what he seems to have meant.

“It doesn’t matter how long he can do it,” Mira says. “What good is that to us?” Her voice sounds more uncertain, however, and her hand seems less steady.

“You know it can be huge,” Eugene says. “We just struck at our enemies. They’re bound to retaliate.”

“How do you know he’s not with them? And if he offered to help us, how could we trust him?” Mira lowers the gun, as though just realizing it’s pointed at her brother’s chest.

“Snap out of it, Mirochka. You always said that you judge people by their actions rather than their words.” Eugene gives his sister an even look. “He saved me, and afterwards he saved you—risking his life in the process. Why don’t you judge Darren by his actions?”

What I can see of her face from behind his back looks thoughtful. Eugene’s reasoning is spot on. I couldn’t have put it better myself. Now it’s clear that she’s trying to make up her mind. I wish it weren’t such a tough decision.

“But he is one of
them
,” she says finally. I see her wrestling with the temptation to raise the gun again, but she doesn’t. “For all we know, he could’ve been trying to weasel his way into our confidence for some reason.”

“It’s unlikely, Mira, and you know it. He wouldn’t have revealed his Pusher nature to save you, if that were the case,” Eugene says.

“Maybe that was a slip,” she says, sounding less and less certain.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Eugene says. “He did it intentionally; you saw him. Assuming the worst case—that he did have
some
agenda before yesterday—he
still
decided to save you. That would count for something if it were true. But I don’t think things were ever that complicated. I think it’s much more likely that he truly didn’t know what he was . . . what he
is
.”

“Yes, exactly,” I finally jump in. “I didn’t.”

“Shut up,” Mira says angrily. “You would say that regardless.”

“Well,” Eugene says thoughtfully, “maybe there’s a way we can figure out if he’s telling the truth.”

“Oh?” Mira voices my own thought.

“Yeah. I’ve been pondering this very question last night, and I may have thought of a way.” Eugene sounds progressively more excited.

“What way?” Mira asks, and the fact that there’s hope in her voice gives
me
hope.

“A test,” her brother says.

Mira’s shoulders sag in dismay. “You tested him yesterday. You were confident he’s a Reader after that.”

“And he is,” Eugene says defensively. “My test wasn’t wrong.”

“Fine, maybe Pushers
can Read as well as fuck with people’s minds,” Mira says stubbornly.

“They can’t Read,” Eugene objects. “Father was certain of that. I remember him telling me about it, and I’ve gone over his notes. Plus, you saw Julia make the same assumptions as me, in front of a bunch of other members of that Reader community. If anyone knew Pushers could Read, they would’ve corrected Julia, but they didn’t. No, Mira. He
is
a Reader. That usually would mean that he’s not a Pusher. Only in this case, for some reason he is. Any way you slice it, he’s a strange case—in terms of his growing up with no knowledge of Reading or Pushing, and now everything that he can do.”