The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2) (16 page)

“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—”

“You can be a private detective,” she suggests, interrupting. “You can do as much paperwork as you feel like doing—since it would be your own business. And, you can take only jobs that have the amount of danger you’re comfortable with. Wives wondering about their philandering husbands, that sort of thing.” There’s only a little bit of mockery in her voice as she says the word
danger
.

I stare at her, struck by the idea. “You know, that could actually work. I could even use Reading to help me solve cases. I could be like one of those psychic detectives on TV. Only I’m afraid that taking on boring cases would defeat the original purpose of my enjoying the work.”

She’s about to respond, but the waiter comes again, with a bigger tray this time. He takes what’s left of the appetizers, and we get our plates with the main course.

“That’s called
chalahach
,” she says.

“Really? It sure looks like lamb chop to me.” I glance down at my plate. “A lamb chop with mashed potato and green beans. How very not exotic.”

“Not exotic? This is a traditional dish from freaking Uzbekistan, or some other former Soviet republic. It’s as exotic as it gets. And the way they make it here is amazing.” She cuts off a piece and puts it in her mouth, closing her eyes in bliss as she begins to chew.

I try it and have to concur. “It’s been sautéed in a different way than your usual lamb chop,” I say.

“Exactly. Also make sure to use the sauce.” She points at the red ketchup-like stuff in a saucer on my plate.

I follow her suggestion and admit, “It’s even better with the sauce.”

“Told you,” she says, wolfing down her chop. “The sauce is Uzbek also. Or Tajik. I’m not sure.”

For the remainder of the meal, we talk about why Russian food is so full of other cultures’ cuisines, and I challenge her to come up with some original Russian dish. I also unsuccessfully try to think of a way to bring up my knowledge of Arkady’s location without ruining our lunch.

“No dessert?” I say when the waiter brings us the check.

“I wanted to leave room for you to try something else,” she replies as I pay the waiter with cash.

“Something else?” I say curiously, rising to my feet.

She gets up as well. “I wanted to get you a
pirozhok
, this meat-filled dough. It’s definitely, positively a Russian food. They sell them all over the boardwalk.”

“Great, more food, and the street variety to boot. I can’t wait,” I say, teasing.

Without saying a word, she goes into the indoor portion of our restaurant and comes back a minute later with a strange-looking pastry.

“This one is not street food. I assure you, it’s safe,” she says. “Try it.”

The pastry tastes baked, not fried, and seems to be filled with something like apple preserves.

“I like it,” I say. “But wasn’t this supposed to have meat in it?”

“You wanted dessert, so I got you the apple variety. A pirozhok can have all kinds of fillings,” she says and rattles off a weird list that includes eggs, cabbage, cherries, and—my favorite—mashed potatoes. Yes, Russians apparently eat starch filled with starch.

“Thank you, Mira,” I say when I finish my pirozhok. “That was awesome.”

“Don’t mention it. Now let’s walk it off by going toward Coney Island,” she says. “I’m in the mood for a stroll.”

“Okay. But now that we’re done with our meal, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” I pause, and then at her expectant look, I say carefully, “I think you might get your revenge sooner than you thought.”

“You should’ve told me earlier,” she says after I finish telling her the story about how I got Arkady’s name out of the mobster’s head and how my friend Bert found out about his whereabouts.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t really get a chance before. Not with all the guns you kept pointing at me, and then getting shot and everything else.”

“Fine,” she says curtly. “We have to go to the banya. Now.”

“But what about our walk? Besides, his massage is at four p.m., and it’s two-thirty now,” I say, already regretting that I told her.

“Listen, Darren, I’m sorry, but the walk will have to happen another day,” she says. “Thank you for the lunch and for telling me this now, but I can’t relax and enjoy myself, knowing about a lead like this. Plus, the guy is already there, I assure you. I know how a banya works.”

We walk back to the car. I learn on the way that going to the banya is usually a full-day event and that our target is likely to want to get a couple of
parki
—the spankings with the birch brooms—before getting his massage.

I start driving, and she continues telling me what she knows of the Russian bathhouse culture. I’m beginning to feel that Russia is the one place I won’t need to visit anytime soon. I suspect I have already learned and seen everything a tourist would have by just going on this one date— if this
is
a date—with Mira.

“Stop here,” she says when, according to the GPS, we’re a few blocks from the place.

I look around. The neighborhood looks a bit rundown and sketchy.

“We’re going into the Mind Dimension,” she says, clearly seeing the hesitation on my face. “So we’re not really going to leave the car. Please Split and pull me in.”

I do as she asks and phase in.

Immediately, I’m in the backseat looking at the back of my own head and that of Mira. I tap an exposed part of her shoulder, and in a moment, a livelier version of her is sitting next to me.

“Let’s go,” she says, and we make our way to the banya on foot.

We go inside, and I gape at the scene in front of me.

Picture Russian Mafia. Now picture them sitting with regular middle-aged Russian men and a small handful of women—all of them in their swimwear—at what looks like a mix between a cafeteria and a shower stall. Picture all that, and you’ll begin to get an idea of what the inside of this Mermaid place looks like.

“Okay, which one is he?” Mira starts walking around. “They all look like a bunch of regulars.”

“I say we Read people one by one until we find him or verify he isn’t here yet. We can also look for the masseur,” I say. “His name is Lyova.”

“All right. You take the steam rooms, and I will do this area. The masseur is likely to arrive close to the appointment.”

“You sound like you’ve been here before,” I say, heading toward what must be the steam rooms.

“Of course,” she says over her shoulder. “It’s the best banya in Brooklyn.”

I walk over and open the wooden door that leads to the steam room. The people here are even less covered than their counterparts in the lunchroom. They’re also wearing pointy woolen hats that are supposed to protect their heads from overheating. If I hadn’t read about this previously, I’d burst out laughing at the ridiculous sight. Completing the bizarre picture are two people lying on wooden shelves and getting the birch-branch spanking treatment.

I’ve never seen steam frozen in place before. It’s weird. When my body touches it, it condenses into tiny drops of water on my skin. The room is not hot here in the Quiet, but I can tell that in the real world, this place is scorching. Everybody in here is covered with droplets of sweat.

I start Reading people, one after another. Two guys are programmers, another is an electrical engineer, and the majority are retired old men. No gagsters, no Arkady, no luck.

I leave this room and head over to a room that has a sign stating that it’s a Turkish Spa. The glass entrance door is fogged up from thick steam. I’m going to come out wet if I go in there.

“Darren, over here!” I hear Mira call out from the table area, and I’m more than happy not to enter the room I was about to go into.

As I walk toward her, I see them. These guys stand out for a number of reasons. First, they are buffer and meaner-looking than the rest of the patrons. But the main reason I know we found what we’re looking for is that I see the guy who tried to shoot me yesterday. He must’ve managed to handle the car safely, even after I Guided him to leave fast and to keep on driving. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since I didn’t command him to do anything truly suicidal.

He’s sitting there, a shot of vodka held halfway to his mouth. Vodka in a steam room? Really? Someone has a strong cardiovascular system, or a death wish.

“That’s the fucker who tried to shoot me,” I tell Mira, pointing at the guy.

“Right, and that’s the man we came here to Read.” She gestures toward a particularly large specimen, who has tattoos of stars on his shoulders and a large silver cross hanging around his neck. His face is frozen in a scowl—probably his usual expression.

I approach and gingerly touch one of his meaty biceps. The muscle is so big, it looks like a strange tumor.

I focus momentarily, and I am in.

* * *

We’re jumping into the cold water of the special pool by the steam room. There are ice cubes floating in it, we notice with satisfaction. Instead of the shock of cold water, our body just feels tingly, and the dip is extremely refreshing. The resulting pins-and-needles sensation on our skin, combined with the buzz from the vodka, almost makes us forget the unfortunate fact that we’ll have to leave banya in a half hour and miss our massage, all because of that fucking phone call.

I, Darren, disassociate.

Something is odd about this mind. Something I’ve never come across before, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

I focus on the memories Arkady has about the phone call. I get vague images of it being from someone important, but someone outside the Russian organization.

Sounds a lot like our mystery Pusher, I decide.

Determined to investigate this, I almost instinctively feel lighter and rewind Arkady’s memories to that point.

“On the Brooklyn Bridge?” we ask, confused. “Why the fuck would we meet there?”

“Because, I don’t trust you, Mr. Bogomolov.”

“That’s a fucking joke, right? You don’t trust me? Out of the two of us, I have far more reasons not to trust you, Mr. Esau, much more than the other way around,” we say. “I’m still not convinced you’re not setting some kind of a trap for me and my people.”

“Well, you’re just proving my point for me then. That’s even more reason to meet in a public place, with lots of people around,” says Esau. His voice sounds unnaturally deep. We’re fairly sure he’s using a voice scrambler.

“How will I find you?” we ask. “What do you look like?”

“I’ll find you, so don’t worry,” says Esau.

“Oh, I’m not worried,” we say. “But if you don’t bring my money and the list, you should be worried. Very worried.”

Images of the torture we would inflict on Esau in that scenario flash in front of our eyes.

“You will get the cash and the list,” says Esau. Is that fear coming through the voice scrambler? “You’re actually going to get two lists. One will contain more business for you.”

Esau had ordered kills on and off from us for some time, but this is the first time he decided to put together a whole fucking list of people.

“We don’t do bulk discounts,” we say sarcastically. “This isn’t fucking Costco.”

“I wasn’t asking for a discount. The list is merely a way to make sure I keep these pleasant conversations with you to a minimum. Your usual rate applies.”

“Good,” we say with satisfaction. “And if we’re going to play this distrust game, then you better bring a downpayment for each name on this new list of yours.”

“Of course, half the usual for each target,” Esau says. “But, just as a heads up, since we’re going to be bringing so much money with us, the memory card that contains the lists is encrypted. We’re going to give it to you today, but will only provide the key to decrypt it once we’re safely away from our meeting.”

We’re both impressed and annoyed. This last precaution might well have saved the man’s life. Maybe. Depends on how well protected he’ll be. The passcode can be gotten out of him if enough skill is applied in questioning. We haven’t had anyone not talk before.

As if reading our mind, Esau says, “Furthermore, you should know that if something were to happen to me, I’ve made arrangements. The people on the list that you want, the ones in witness protection, will get a warning, and you wouldn’t want that.”

“Sounds like we have an understanding,” we say, wondering if Esau is bluffing about these arrangements. Even if he is, we can’t take the chance. Esau will survive today’s meeting—which is fine with us. This way, we get more money down the line and can off him later. “I’ll see you later today.”

“Four-thirty, sharp,” Esau says and hangs up.

We wonder if this could be a trap from the FBI or some other agency. Then we dismiss the thought. Those people wouldn’t order hits. They go as far as using drugs and things like that, but assassinations are a line they wouldn’t cross. Particularly the petty kinds of kills that this Esau guy had ordered—like the American kid Slava managed to screw up killing yesterday.

The American kid? I, Darren, take a mental step back, struck by the wording. Eugene is Russian, and at almost thirty years of age, he’s not exactly a kid. If Arkady was thinking about him, wouldn’t he call him a Russian guy or something along those lines? Unless . . .

Unless the shooting this morning wasn’t directed at Eugene, like we all thought.

Suddenly, it all becomes clear. Of course. It was the Pusher. He tried to kill me, not once but twice—first via the shooter and then again in the hospital.

I’m the un-killed American kid in question.

Shit. Whoever this Pusher is, he’s serious about eliminating me. Is it possible he had something to do with my parents’ deaths? Or Mira’s parents’ deaths? Had he used this exact puppet—Arkady—to do it? I need to dig deeper into Arkady’s head to find out.

I focus on going back a long time . . .

We spit out a tooth, but don’t slow down. Instead, we execute our plan of attack on the Captain. A punch to the liver, another to his Adam’s apple. The Captain has been teaching us Systema for the last couple of weeks. Learning the unit’s secret martial art was one of the main reasons we joined this training. Well, that and curiosity. We wondered if this, of all things, will take away the boredom.

I, Darren, realize I’m too deep inside Arkady’s past, so I try to go for more recent events.

The Chechen woman is shot in the neck. She falls, bleeding, convulsing, and trying to scream. We feel nothing, though we know that most people would feel pity at the sight. We vaguely understand the concept. We wonder if it’s pity that compels us to think about how the woman was beautiful, and it’s a shame we didn’t get a chance to fuck her. No, that’s more regret than pity. Pity is an emotion that still eludes us.

I’m still in too deep. Also, I finally understand what the strange thing about this mind is. The guy is a real-life, certifiable psychopath. He doesn’t feel the usual range and intensity of emotions that other people do.

I decide I have to be careful about poking around in his head. His experiences make Caleb’s disturbing memories seem like summer camp. The atrocities Arkady committed in Chechnya are there, in the back of our shared-for-the-moment mind, and I don’t want to experience something like that. No amount of therapy with Liz would undo it.

So I mentally tiptoe around, trying to look at experiences that shed any light on the murders of the past. I’m drawing a blank, though, whenever I try to focus on anything having to do with my parents’ murder. He must not have been involved in that.

I do come across many signs of the Pusher, though. And the explanation of why Arkady thinks he met Esau recently. The Pusher regularly makes Arkady forget things—like missions from this Esau. In fact, he often makes Arkady forget Esau’s existence completely. To me, that means only one thing.

Esau and the Pusher are the same person.

I want to scream in excitement.

Unfortunately, it seems like the Pusher took obsessive precautions to never be seen by Arkady. Even when he Pushed Arkady, he probably walked over to him in the Quiet, rather than being physically in the room. This Esau identity must be the Pusher’s way to control his pet Mafia goon by more conventional means—via the phone.

I look further into Arkady’s memories.

We finish setting up the explosive device and get back into the car. As we sit there, we wonder why this Tsiolkovskiy guy needs to be eliminated in such a fancy manner. Bullet to the head would’ve been much cheaper and less risky. Every assassin knows that explosives can hurt the man who works with them. We’ve heard of this happening on many occasions. It’s understandable for someone high-profile, but doing it to kill some Russian scientist? It doesn’t make sense. But the client said he would pay double, claiming that Tsiolkovskiy might see it coming otherwise, so explosives it is.

I feel cold all over at my discovery. I can’t even imagine what Mira will do when I tell her.

With a shudder, I get out of Arkady’s head.

* * *

“Fuck,” I say unimaginatively when I’m out and catch Mira’s gaze.

“I take it you heard the phone conversation,” Mira says. “We’ve got to hurry.” She turns and starts to briskly walk away.

“Mira, wait.” Catching up, I place my hand on her shoulder.

“What?” She gives me an annoyed look. “Didn’t you Read the same information I did?”

“Yes, a Brooklyn Bridge meeting,” I confirm. “But I learned something else, too. Something you might not have, given your Depth . . . ”

Her face turns pale. “Tell me.”

I take a deep breath. “He remembers planting a bomb under a car for a Russian scientist with the last name of Tsiolkovskiy. That had to have been your dad—”