The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2) (8 page)

“Playing,” I say defensively to Mira. I feel like I was just caught doing something obscene.

“Did the doctor say it was okay for you to play that stuff?” she says, frowning.

“I have no idea; the doctor hasn’t come yet,” I say. “But I doubt video game playing can be bad for you.”

“That thing’s 3D screen gives me, a person without head damage, a headache,” she counters.

I can see what Bert is thinking without needing to do a Read.
Hot and into video games?

I am impressed myself.

“So you have actually played before?” I ask.

“Of course.” She narrows her eyes. “Why is that such a surprise?”

“No reason,” I say swiftly.

“I’ll tell you what. Before I go find the doctor, I’ll play whichever one of you wins,” she announces, crossing her arms. Our eyes nearly fall out of our sockets as the move pushes up her cleavage.

I can tell that Bert’s and my thoughts converge on the same idea.

I have to win.

I perform a combo attack, which consists of my best strategies. Bombs, boomerangs, sword thrusts—all go in desperation at the little Japanese creature on the screen in front of me.

The need to win is very strong, and I wonder if it’s some primal part of my brain wanting me to be the victor in front of a female.

Whatever the reason, I throw all I have into this next attack.

It’s futile, though. It seems like the prospect of playing with a real girl is a stronger motivator for Bert than for me. Plus, he’s already better at this than I am.

He blocks my onslaught, and then, in mere moments, manages to wipe the game floor with my poor character.

He ignores the sour expression on my face as I hand him the Gameboy.

Mira and Bert begin the game, and Bert is practically beaming with excitement.

I try not to sulk while I eat the pudding and Jell-O Mira brought me.

“Is Eugene coming back?” I ask when I’m done with the food.

“Yes, he should actually be here soon,” Mira says absentmindedly, not taking her eyes off the game screen. “I had him rent a car, in case they have my car’s plates. I want us to give you a ride once you’re discharged.”

Their game is lasting an unbelievably long time—causing me to think in dismay that she might actually be better at it than I am. I probably would’ve lost to Bert already. Unless my sneaky friend is toying with her, trying to make this game last longer.

I look around for a doctor or at least a nurse. There are none in sight. My bed is one of a dozen such beds standing in a circle around the large room. It all looks very dreary and makes me want to check out of here as soon as physically possible. I hope the bullet hasn’t done any serious damage to my head.

Most of the folks in here seem to be in a sadder situation than I am. There is a man all bandaged up like a mummy in the neighboring bed. Further down, there is an older person with an IV and a breathing machine. After a few seconds, I stop looking. In a hospital, you can easily see something you’ll later regret. But then something catches my attention in the distance.

It’s Sara, my more panicky mom.

“Guys, I need a favor,” I say. “One of my moms is approaching, and I kind of want to have a private conversation when she gets here. Why don’t you go look for that doctor together? Or just walk around?”

Bert chuckles. He knows my real concern. He knows Sara’s tendency to say embarrassing stuff. I can picture a whole diatribe about her ‘baby’ in the hospital, or something even worse, like a nervous fit.

With a curse, Mira slams closed the Gameboy, signifying her defeat, and glances in the direction Sara is coming from.

“Hello, Mrs. Goldberg,” Bert says
,
getting ready to leave.

“Hi Bert,” my mom says. “And you must be Mira?”

“Hi, Mrs. Goldberg,” Mira says uncomfortably.

“Please call me Sara,” she says. “You too
,
Bert, how many times do I need to ask you?”

“Sorry, Sara,” Bert says sheepishly
.

“Nice to meet you, Sara.” Mira attempts to smile at my mom. “Bert and I were just about to go look for a doctor
,
to see when Darren is getting his X-ray results.”

“Thank you
.
” Sara gives Mira an approving look. “That’s very thoughtful. Let me know if they give you any attitude.”

Great. I picture a scenario where Mira is arguing with my doctor, and then, after sufficiently pissing him off, she unleashes my mom on the poor guy. If disgruntled restaurant workers spit in your food, can you imagine what an upset doctor might do to you?

“If they give us any attitude, I will crush their servers,” Bert says.

“Albert, you will do no such thing,” my mom says sternly. “People could die.”

“I’m sure Bert was kidding,” I say, giving my friend a warning glare. He probably wasn’t.

“I will keep him in line, no worries, Sara,” Mira says with a smile.

“Good, thank you,” Sara says
,
apparently satisfied.

As my friends give me the Gameboys and walk away, I realize with amazement how calmly my mom has been behaving. Was it Mira’s attitude that calmed her so?

“Sweetie, what happened? You were shot
.
Does it hurt?” The barrage of questions begins as soon as Mira and Bert are out of the room, and I curse myself for the jinx. My amazement was clearly premature.

I go into a new variation of the story. In this one, Mira is a new friend who happens to live in a bad neighborhood. The shot was just a fluke, the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“I like Mira. She’s smart and very pretty,” my mom says when she stops her verbal version of hyperventilating. “And she clearly cares about you. But you should have her visit you in the city instead of the other way around. It’ll be safer that way.”

I now understand why the freak-out is not as bad as I expected. I think the fact that my mom found me with a girl—something she’s been nagging me about for ages—trumps my getting shot in her twisted version of reality.

“Sure, Mom. It actually just so happens that Mira and her brother will be moving anyway,” I say.

“Good.” She pats my knee. “Let me know if you need suggestions for safe neighborhoods.”

“Okay, Mom. Where’s Lucy?” I say, trying to change the subject.

“Your mother will be here soon. She just texted me. Kyle dropped her off at the hospital entrance and is parking. She’ll be here in a moment.”

I’m actually a tiny bit worried about Lucy coming here. I hope she doesn’t play detective with me. She sometimes can’t help it.

I keep those concerns to myself, though, and say instead, “Okay. In the meantime, there’s something I want to ask you . . .” I pause, thinking about it, and then I decide to just blurt it out. “What were the last names of my biological parents?”

Sara looks taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly. “They were the Robinsons, and your biological mother’s maiden name was Taylor,” she answers readily.

The Robinsons.
So Jacob was indeed asking about my father, Mark Robinson. Does that mean my father was a Reader? Maybe even part of that specific community? I make a mental note to try to learn more about this. Maybe I can find a reason to chat with Jacob again, or ask his daughter Julia about it when she recovers. Perhaps I can even talk to Caleb, as scary as that option sounds. Also, Mark worked with my mom Lucy and Uncle Kyle. I can try to pump them for information—though, of course, they don’t know anything about Readers and Pushers.

I see Sara wave her hand at someone, and it takes me out of my thoughts.

Following her gaze, I see Lucy approaching.

“How are you, kiddo?” Lucy says when she gets to my bed. “What happened?”

I tell her the same story that I told Sara and how I don’t yet know the details but that my friends are trying to get a doctor, or someone, to pay attention to us. As I talk, I can’t tell if she’s buying it. Lucy is like that; you don’t know what’s on her mind when she doesn’t want you to. Must be a detective thing. However, as I learned over the years, the mere fact that she’s hiding her expression signifies trouble.

“You guys catch up, and I’m going to go try to find Mira and Bert,” Sara says and walks off without giving me a chance to respond. Did she pick up on Lucy’s lack of expression also? The idea of her joining the doctor search is the very definition of overkill. If someone is not back here in a few minutes, I will be extremely surprised. Images of lionesses killing gazelles and bringing the bloody carcasses to their fluffy cubs spring to mind for some reason.

“Okay, now tell me what really happened,” Lucy says as soon as Sara gets out of earshot.

My mom the detective. She’s the reason I can usually lie so well. As a kid, I had to take my lying game to stellar levels in order to fool Lucy. I’m usually very smooth at it, but that’s when I’m not worried about head wounds and don’t have secret societies I have to keep quiet about.

“I didn’t want to worry Sara,” I say. “So I simplified things a bit, that’s all.”

“I gathered as much.” A slight smile appears on Lucy’s face. “Spill it.”

“The short version is that some Russian mobsters want my friends dead. Before you ask, I truly have little idea as to why. Suffice it to say, these same people might’ve murdered their family first.”

“What are your friends’ names?” Lucy says calmly. She’s acting as though I tell her about attempted assassinations all the time.

I give her Mira and Eugene’s last name and everything I can recall about their parents.

“I’ll look into it,” she says, writing something in a small notebook.

She can actually find out quite a bit. She still knows people in the organized crime division, including my uncle Kyle, who’s probably on his way up here as we speak. But it’s doubtful she’ll be able to help much. The Pusher who’s behind all this, according to my new friends, would be beyond a regular detective’s capabilities.

“Just information, Mom. Please don’t go after anyone,” I say and finally get a full smile out of her.

“You sound like your mother,” she says. “You don’t need to worry. I’m in the white collar division for a reason.”

“Someone reported a gunshot wound?” an unfamiliar male voice says, and Lucy and I look up to see a stocky policeman approaching. Great. The staff at this hospital can’t be bothered to get me my X-ray results, but they managed to file a report about my wound.

“It’s all right, Officer,” Lucy says, pulling out her badge and showing it to him. “I’m already on it.”

The policeman immediately turns around and departs, muttering something under his breath about incompetent Coney Island nurses, and I suppress a chuckle. There are certainly benefits to having a detective for a mom.

“There you are.” My uncle Kyle enters the room at that moment. “How’s the injured soldier?”

Uncle Kyle is not my biological uncle, obviously. He’s not even my adoptive uncle. He’s Lucy’s coworker. However, he’s played the role of my uncle since I was little, and I’m used to thinking of him as such.

“Hi Kyle,” I say, sitting up so I can shake his hand. It’s our thing. We don’t hug—we shake hands.

“Kyle, I’m glad you’re here. I want to check on this doctor situation,” Lucy says. “Please stay with him.”

“Of course,” Kyle says. “Give them hell.”

And Lucy joins the doctor hunt, which I would find comical if it weren’t for the fact that Mira is involved in it, too. Having Lucy there is literally bringing out the big guns—though I doubt she’ll draw her weapon on the medical staff. At least not unless they really piss her off.

“I heard there is a girl involved in this shooting,” Kyle says, winking at me. If there’s one thing I always liked about Kyle, it’s his lack of smotheringness. He doesn’t ask me how I got shot. He probably isn’t all that worried about me. And there is something refreshing about that.

This attitude of his has served me well over the years. There are tons of fun, albeit unsafe, things a boy wants to do but needs adult backing to actually do. For example, Kyle is the reason I know how to hold a gun. It’s the result of a secret trip we took to a shooting range. To this day, my moms still think we went to the New York Aquarium and would probably still retroactively give Kyle a beating for taking me to a shooting range instead.

“Yes, there is a girl. If you stick around, you might meet her.” For some reason, I’m hoping that he does. Since when do I care what Kyle thinks?

“I’ll try,” he says, smiling.

“I have something here that you might be interested in,” I say, reaching for the Gameboys.

When I was little, Kyle was my go-to video game partner. For all his faults, I’m thankful for the hours he spent playing Mortal Kombat with me. Ripping his head off, literally—well, the head of his character at least, via the Fatality move in that game—is one of my favorite childhood memories.

“I haven’t seen these before,” he says. “Is there a way to make it less blurry?”

Kyle and his lack of technology know-how. I’m forced to teach him how to turn off the game’s built-in glasses-free 3D effect. That’s what he calls blurriness. It’s a sacrilege to not see this game in 3D, but I’m not about to get into a verbal fight with him. A virtual game fight will have to suffice. Once the 3D is off, he chooses his character—Donkey Kong, who happens to be a tie-wearing giant gorilla. I myself go for the cartoony variation of Link, my usual princess-saving character.

As he did when I was a kid, Kyle plays cheap. He chooses a move that works and repeats it over and over. In this case, it creates the rather funny effect of a dancing gorilla.

As I’m about to execute a cunning plan of attack, Kyle’s phone rings.

“I have to take that,” he says, pausing the game.

He picks up the phone. As soon as whoever is on the other line starts talking, Kyle’s expression turns somber, and he walks away from my bed. Must be detective business.

I make myself busy by exiting the fighting game and checking to see if I can get onto Wi-Fi in this place. That would let me buy more games if I’m bored, which I’m bound to be when everyone leaves. Assuming I need to stay here, which I hope I don’t.

“I have to go,” Kyle says when he comes back. He looks upset. “Something urgent has come up.”

“Aren’t you Lucy’s ride?” I ask.

“Yes, but she’ll have to cab it. This can’t wait.”

“See you later. Thanks for stopping by,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.

As he leaves, I realize that boredom might come sooner than I anticipated. Wi-Fi is a no-go, though at this point, given my experience with this hospital, I’m not surprised.

Luckily for me, the fighting game has a mode where you can fight the computer, so I start playing.

* * *

I’m in the middle of a particularly nasty fight when I realize my bed is moving.

I look back and see a woman in a white coat pushing it.

“Where am I going?” I ask. “And who are you?”

“The doctor wants to have a private conversation with you,” says the woman in a monotone while continuing to push the bed. “I’m your nurse.”