The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2)

by Dima Zales

  “Where to?” I say when I get in.

  “I’m in the mood for Russian food. Have you ever had any?”

  “I had some blinis with caviar at the Russian Samovar place in the city, but that’s kind of it,” I say.

  “That’s an appetizer and isn’t the kind of thing people eat every day. Not unless they’re some kind of oil oligarchs,” she explains. “But it’s a decent example.”

  “Okay, that settles it. Can you direct me to a good place?” I say.

  “Yeah. Take two lefts over there. We’re going to this place called Winter Garden,” she says, and I start driving.

  A couple of turns later, I’m getting a bad feeling. “What part of Brooklyn is this place located in? It is in Brooklyn, right?”

  “Yes. It’s located where most good Russian food can be found. Brighton Beach,” she says. “Have you ever been there?”

  “No. But, Mira, isn’t that the place where all the Russian Mafia hang out?” I try to sound nonchalant.

  “A lot of people hang out there,” she says dismissively.

  “Right, but we’re on their shoot-to-kill list,” I say. “Other people are not.”

  “You’re such a worrier.” There is a hint of laughter in her voice. “Brighton Beach is a big place, and it’s the middle of the day on a Saturday, with tons of people around. But if you’re scared, we can get sushi.”

  “No, let’s go to this Winter Garden place,” I say, trying to sound confident. I don’t point out that the last time we got shot at by those people, it was in the morning, or the fact that the bullets went right through a very public playground. I figure the odds are on our side, but even if not, I don’t want to reinforce the idea that I am a ‘worrier.’

  “Great, turn onto Coney Island Avenue at that light. Yes, there.” As I turn, she says, grinning, “I have been meaning to ask you, do you always drive this slowly?”

  “What’s the point of going fast when I see the light changing to red?” I say, realizing that she’s beginning to talk and act like the Mira I’m more familiar with. It’s oddly comforting and even fun in a way.

  “You could’ve totally made that green,” she says. “Next time, you should let me drive.”

  I picture her driving like Caleb, only worse, and make a solemn vow never to let her drive, unless it’s an emergency. I also don’t dignify her jibe with a response.

  Her grin widens. “How is your head?” she asks when I stubbornly remain silent.

  “Much better, thanks.” With everything going on, I’d nearly forgotten about the wound. “Just a little itchy.”

  “That means it’s healing.”

  “Cool. I hope that’s the case. How was your day yesterday? How’s your brother doing? Did he visit Julia again? How is she recovering?”

  For the rest of the way to the restaurant, she tells me how boring it is at the hotel. How Eugene is impossible to be around when he doesn’t have his ‘science stuff’ with him. He wants to run ideas by her, share epiphanies, and carry on conversations. Mira’s only reprieve was his visits with Julia, who was let out of the hospital today. Now, Julia is apparently staying in the same hotel as Mira and Eugene until she’s completely recovered—she doesn’t want her family to know about her adventures.

  “So Eugene is off your back, it seems,” I say as we pull into a public parking lot. “He’ll probably be busy with Julia from now on.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” she says and makes a face before climbing out of the car.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask as I feed the parking meter.

  “I’m not a fan of that relationship of his,” she says as she walks toward a pathway that leads to a large wooden boardwalk. “Last time, Julia’s father interfered with their relationship, and Zhenya was really hurt.”

  “Is Zhenya Eugene’s nickname?”

  “Yes, that’s what I call him sometimes.”

  “What about you, do you have a nickname? I can suggest a few, like Mi—”

  “No,” she says. “Please don’t. My name is already short.”

  She walks a few seconds in silence, and I wonder if I touched on a sensitive topic. Maybe her parents called her by a nickname, and this made her think of them?

  “We’re here,” she says, bringing me out of my thoughts.

  We’re standing next to a place that has a sign that reads “Winter Garden.” If no one tries to kill us during our meal, I’ll have to admit that Mira made an excellent choice when picking this place. The tables are situated on a wooden boardwalk, with the beach and the ocean beyond it. The weather is beautiful, and the ocean breeze brings sounds of the surf and smells that I associate with vacation.

  When we take our seats, I look at the menu.

  “It’s all in Russian,” I complain.

  “Think of it as a compliment,” she says. “They must think you’re Russian, though I personally have no idea why.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t want to be mistaken for a Russian. I don’t have too high of an opinion of them after the last few days. Present company excluded, of course.” I smile at her.

  “Of course,” she says sarcastically.

  “In any case, I guess I’ll have to behave like a tourist and ask for the English menu,” I say, not looking forward to it.

  “Or you can take a chance and let me order for you.” She winks at me mischievously.

  Did I mention how hot Mira looks when she’s being intentionally mischievous?

  “First you pick the place,” I say, folding my left pinky finger. “Now you want to order for me?” I fold the ring finger. “Who’s taking whom out?”

  “Don’t forget that I also wanted to drive.” She chuckles and holds out her middle finger as though she wants to fold it in the same fashion. Except it looks more like she’s flipping me off, and I suspect she’s doing that on purpose.

  My witty retort never comes because our waiter arrives and begins speaking in rapid-fire Russian.

  Mira looks at me, and I nod, resigned.

  Mira and the waiter have a long, incomprehensible discussion in Russian while I get distracted by a smell coming from somewhere. It’s a nauseating aroma, and it takes me a few moments to realize that it’s some idiot smoking a cigar.

  The last time I saw people smoke in restaurants was in 2003. Did this guy not get the memo about the smoking ban? I guess he thinks the fact that we’re outside is a loophole of some kind. If you ask me, it’s an unthinkable breach of etiquette, and I’m tempted to tell the guy off.

  I look the offender over. Okay, so perhaps I won’t give him the stern lecture he deserves. He doesn’t look like he’d get it. What he does look like is a mountain. Only mountains are peaceful and serene things, and this motherfucker looks extremely mean.

  I contemplate forgetting about it, but I can’t leave it alone. The smoke is going to ruin my meal. Deciding to take a different course of action, I phase into the Quiet.

  The restaurant patrons freeze in place, and the ambient noises of people and the ocean surf disappear.

  I savor the silence. It makes me realize that I haven’t done this in a while. Not once today, in fact.

  I approach the guy with the cigar.

  Frozen in place, he looks a lot less intimidating. I reach out and grab his ear, like they used to do back in the day to spoiled children—or so Kyle told me.

  Physical connection in place, I want to establish a mental one. The lack of recent practice shows. I need to consciously relax to go into his mind, but once I focus on my breathing, I’m in.

  * * *

  We’re puffing on the Cuban cigar and wondering when Sveta will get here.

  I quickly disassociate, not willing to smoke that monstrosity even in someone else’s head. If it were possible to cough mentally, that’s what I’d be doing right now.

  I make a snap decision on how to proceed and instantly feel good about myself. I’m about to do this guy a great service—and help everyone around him.

  I prepare to do the Gu
iding, which is a better term than Pushing for what I’m about to do.

  ‘Smoking is bad.

  If you keep it up, it will give you cancer.

  Feel a strong desire to put out this cigar. Feel disgusted, appalled, and sick to your stomach.

  Doesn’t the cigar look like a turd?

  Do you want to put shit in your mouth?

  You will never smoke cigars, or cigarettes, ever again. You have the willpower to quit—for the rest of your life.’

  To add to those indoctrinations, I try to channel my memory of the negative emotions I felt during anti-smoking ads. Some of those ads are so disgusting that I can’t believe anyone can see them and go on smoking.

  I’m convinced the guy will not be smoking for a long while.

  For how long is an interesting question. According to Hillary, my biological mother made my adoptive parents avoid the topic of my origins for years. I suspect my Reach might be just as impressive. If I understand it correctly, Guiding Reach works a lot like Reading Depth. Both are based on another variable: the amount of time you can spend in the Quiet. I don’t know the limits to my time in the Quiet, but I do know my Depth amazed Julia and others, and they didn’t know the full Depth I was capable of. It would be reasonable to assume my Reach is equally long.

  All that considered, I might’ve permanently cured the cigar smoker of his deadly addiction.

  As I prepare to get out of his mind, I wonder how regular Guides do their Guiding. It must be very different for them. They don’t get the experience of being inside the person’s head the way I do. That’s a Reader thing. For them, it must be more like blind touching and wishing. I’ll have to ask Hillary more about it, maybe get some tips on how to Guide more effectively.

  Realizing that I’m still inside the now-non-smoker’s head, I focus and instantly get out.

  * * *

  My good deed done for the day, I walk over and Read the waiter, since I’m in the Quiet anyway. He thinks Mira is as hot as I do, but I can hardly blame him for that. The good news is that nothing Mira ordered for us thus far sounds life-threatening.

  Satisfied, I phase out.

  “Ee dva compota,” I hear Mira say to the waiter with finality.

  As the man leaves, I see my new non-smoker friend begin to cough with a funny look on his face. Then, staring at his cigar as though it’s a cobra, he violently sticks the object of his distress into his water glass.

  Success. I mentally pat myself on the back, but don’t say anything to Mira. The last thing I want is to remind her of my Pushing abilities.

  “Thank you for ordering,” I tell Mira instead.

  “See if you like the food, then thank me.” She smiles. “Besides, you’re paying, so I should thank you.”

  “Oh, good, you’ll at least let me pay. That makes me feel like I am taking you out after all,” I say, winking.

  “Sure. I have to look out for your masculine pride and all that. You almost ran out of fingers counting your grievances,” she says. “And of course, this has nothing to do with my being broke.”

  I consider this for a moment. “Don’t you have all those gambling winnings?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t keep much of it.”

  “Where does it all go? Shoes?” I joke.

  “Well, in fact, shoes do cost a pretty penny, but no. The bulk of our money ends up feeding my brother’s research,” she says, pursing her lips with displeasure.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you support his research this much.” In fact, I’d gotten the impression she disapproved of it. “What exactly does he study? I mean, I know it has something to do with how our powers work.”

  “I support his research mainly out of spite. Because I know it would piss off the fuckers who killed Mom and Dad.” She glowers darkly. “And because I love my weirdo brother. As to what his research is all about, I wish I could tell you, but I don’t really get it. When he starts talking about it, it’s as though a part of my brain shuts off.”

  I chuckle at that, remembering how she always goes out of her way not to hear Eugene talk about his work.

  A waiter comes back with drinks and says something to Mira in Russian.

  “Try it,” Mira says. “I think you’ll like it.”

  I taste the liquid in my glass. It seems to be some kind of sweet fruit punch. “Yum.”

  “Yeah,” she says knowingly. “That’s Russian compote, made out of dried fruit. My grandmother used to make it all the time.”

  “It’s a great start,” I say.

  “Good, the appetizers are coming too.”

  Sure enough, the waiter comes back with a tray.

  “That’s julienne, escargot, and you already tried blinis before,” she says, pointing at the tray. “Give it a try.”

  I oblige, piling samples onto my plate.

  “You know,” I say when I’m done chewing. “This tastes a lot like French food.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she says. “Czarist Russia’s nobility had French chefs, and French cuisine is now part of Russian culture. Still, these dishes should be a little different.”

  The escargot, snails in butter and garlic, are outstanding. The julienne thing is a mushroom and cheese dish that reminds me of mushroom pizza, without the dough—meaning you can’t go wrong with it. Blinis are very similar to the crepes I had before, only these come with red rather than black caviar.

  “So far, it’s awesome,” I tell her, trying my best not to burn my tongue on the hot cheese of the julienne dish—which, so far, is my favorite.

  “I’m glad.” She sounds so proud that you’d think she cooked the food herself.

  “I was wondering about something,” I say as I blow on my food. “What are you planning to do after you get your revenge and all that?”

  She gives me a vaguely surprised look, as though she’s never been asked this before. “I plan to get my GED, since I never finished high school. After that, I’m going to enroll at Kingsborough College.”

  “Kingsborough? I’ve heard of it, but know very little about the place. Is it good? What do you want to study there?”

  “Kingsborough is a community college. We locals call it ‘The Harvard on the Bay.’ It’s probably not up to your high standards, but I can get my RN license after I get my Associate’s degree and afterwards get a job.”

  “You want to be a nurse?” I ask, surprised. I wonder if she said the Harvard bit because she knows I graduated from there. Maybe she Googled me? I find the idea that she cared enough to do a search quite pleasant.

  “I would make a good nurse,” she says. “I’m not squeamish, and I don’t faint at the sight of my own blood like some people.” She gives me a pointed look.

  “I didn’t faint,” I protest. “I lost consciousness because I was shot. That’s completely different. I saw a ton of blood the other day, remember? No fainting.”

  “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much . . .” She gives me a teasing smile. “I’m pretty sure you saw your own bloodied hand and fainted yesterday. But in any case, I think I would make a great nurse. My plan is to work in a neonatal unit, if I can. To deal with newborn babies.” Her face softens as she says that last bit.

  “Really?” I can’t picture her working with babies. Being a kickass professional spy, maybe. But a nurse working with babies? It just boggles my mind.

  She nods. “Yes, I like helping people. And I want to work in a place like that, a place where people learn the happiest news of their lives.”

  So she likes to help people. That’s news to me. But something about that worries me a little. Could that urge of hers explain why she was so nice to me when I was hurt? Was she only acting like that because that’s how she would’ve treated any person in pain?

  “I imagine it’s not all unicorns and rainbows at the neonatal unit. Don’t babies get sick?” I ask, picturing all the crying, and worried parents breathing down your neck. I don’t know about other guys my age, but for me, crying babies are on par with scorpions
and snakes.

  “Of course. But I can Read them and figure out what hurts.” She smiles again. “And then the doctors will be able to help them.”

  “You can Read a baby?” I don’t know why that hadn’t occurred to me before. If that’s the case, then working with babies does sound like a uniquely helpful way to use Reading. Similar to what Liz does with her Guiding of OCD patients, but perhaps even cooler.

  “Sure. You can Read many creatures,” Mira says. “I used to Read my cat, Murzik, when he was alive.”

  “You could Read your cat?” Now I’m flabbergasted. “How was that? Do they have thoughts, like us?”

  “Not thoughts, at least not my old lazy cat. But I was immersed in his experiences, which had something like thoughts in them, only fleeting. In that way, babies are similar. They feel more than think, and when you Read them, you can learn if something hurts or why they’re unhappy.”

  “Wow. I’ll have to try Reading some creature. And, I must say, yours sounds like an excellent plan. I hope you get your revenge soon, because this sounds much better than what you’ve been doing.” As I say that last part, I realize I might’ve inadvertently criticized her.

  “You don’t say.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. “Helping people is better than underground gambling with monsters?”

  “Never mind,” I say, sorry I blabbed too much. “Yes, obviously you’ll be happier once you put that plan into motion. Besides, I assume your gambling days are over?”

  “You assume?” she says, finishing her last crepe. “It’s an interesting assumption. But I think we’ve spent enough time talking about me. Quid pro quo, Darren. What do you plan to do after you get out of this mess?”

  “I’m going to take a vacation,” I say without hesitation. “Go someplace warm, or maybe travel someplace interesting, like Europe. After that, I don’t know. I already have a job at a hedge fund, but it’s not the kind you described. It’s not my passion or anything like that. It’s just a means to make money.”

  “The horror,” she says in mock shock. “Money is the root of all evil, don’t you know?”

  “Hey, I’m not complaining. It’s just that you actually want to help people, and you’ve thought about a job that would make you happy. I haven’t thought about that yet. I was thinking about being a detective the other day, but the paperwork and danger might be a drag. Not to mention the very thought of going back to school—”