The Time Stopper (2 page)

I’m hoping the guy I’m looking for, the guy who deals with bombs, will be primed by my words and think of setting up one specific explosion. I’ll be the first to admit that this tactic is a long shot, but it’s the only option I have since my Depth allows me to go back only a few minutes into their memories.

Not for the first time, I envy more powerful Readers. Those like the legendary Enlightened, the most powerful Readers of all, who have enough Depth to relive whole months, if not years, of someone’s life. Someone like that would get the answer directly without any gimmicks, but I can’t. There are no shortcuts for Readers like me. Given that Depth is spent at twice the speed when you Read, I have to be careful about running out of my measly half hour.

Whatever Depth I spend on Reading is going to be worth it in this case, though. Trying to learn the truth is why I come to these games. Well, that and the money from the wins—but there are better ways to make money gambling than coming here. Safer ways.

My strategy for today is to spend only seconds of my Depth on people I think as unlikely candidates, leaving extra time—even if it’s just a few minutes—for the others.

One such unlikely candidate is Shkillet, the guy who’s staring at me in the real world.

Shkillet is not his real name, but a street alias. Probably has something to do with his too-thin pasty-looking face. He resembles one of those skeletons we had in science class before I dropped out of school. The Russian word for skeleton sounds a lot like the word
skillet
, only with a
yet
sound at the end. Shkillet’s lisp could be the reason for the
sh
sound at the beginning.

Or I could be completely wrong. I was pretty young when we left the Motherland, and I do get some of these little ethnic things confused now and then—which drives my brother nuts.

I look at Shkillet’s cards. He’s not holding anything I need to worry about. But he is staring at me—the real-world me. In fact, if I drew a line from his pupils to that me, it would land directly on her/my boobs. Boobs that are nicely displayed in my red strapless dress, thanks to the Victoria’s Secret pushup bra.

I intended that effect, but I’m still annoyed. Fucking men.

Stepping around him, I take off his shirt.

I know it seems weird that I’d undress someone, especially someone this unattractive, but I do have a purpose. I’m looking for tattoos. Over the course of my investigation, I’ve learned that a man’s tattoos in the Russian criminal underworld reveal a lot about him. Well, only for the ones who’ve been in Russian prisons, but those are the ones I’m looking for. The most dangerous. The ones without souls.

Those who’d plant bombs on innocent families.

Shkillet is what I call skinny-fat. His body is gaunt with his ribcage sticking out, but at the same time, his stomach is flabby. I don’t care about his looks, though. All that matters is that he has no tattoos. He does have a large birthmark, however, that reminds me of a Rorschach inkblot test. A counselor showed it to me during the one and only time I tried therapy. Most of her inkblots reminded me of people’s brains blowing up—understandable, given the reason I went to see her in the first place—but this guy’s birthmark looks like an exploding heart.

Okay, so Shkillet either hadn’t been to prison back home or nobody bothered to put any ink on him while he was there. Either way, he’s not likely to be a high-status criminal and thus probably isn’t the person I’m looking for. Therefore, he’s good for a measly five-second jump into his head.

I put my hand on his neck as though trying to measure his pulse. Where I touch people in the Mind Dimension never seems to matter, so I go for the least disgusting place. I clear my mind for Reading. The faster this part is, the more Depth I save. Eugene had figured out some techno-widgety new practice for me to improve how quickly I can do this, and I’m grateful for it with situations like this.

The feeling I get just before I’m about to Read someone comes over me, and I make sure I’m sent only a few moments back into his memories.

* * *

“It’s so smoky in here; it’s like someone set off a bomb,” the girl says.

The sex bomb is talking about a real bomb, we think of replying, but decide against it. Not until we see how Victor responds. The guy’s insane, and displeasing him is as easy as it is deadly.

This is why we realize that if we go through with our plan for the girl, we’ll have to cut her throat afterwards. Had we just wanted to fuck her, then we could probably get away with leaving her alive afterwards—there are no rules against rape in this place. But we want her money, too, and that’s why she’ll have to die. Victor’s underground casinos have only this one rule: retaliations due to game losses are forbidden. We shudder when we remember what had been done to the last guy who tried to pull some shit on a poker game winner. We’ll have to ensure we’re not caught.

We think about all the things we want to do to her before we kill her off, and get a painful hard-on. We imagine how we’d fill up that oh-so-fuckable pouty mouth of hers. We visualize grabbing those perfect titties, leaving marks, prying open those long legs . . . Our balls tighten in anticipation.

This is going to be even better than the last time. That whore from two days ago can’t even begin to compare to this girl. Looks aside, that bitch hadn’t even fought us, just meekly took it. The fight has become half the fun for us over the years. When they fight, and we finally bend them to our will, we feel the rush of power that’s almost as fun as the sex itself. With this girl, it’ll be even better because she’s rumored to be feisty. The sarcastic remarks she’s made throughout the game confirm it. So she’ll likely fight, and fight well. We fantasize about her scratching our back with her perfectly manicured fingernails before we lock her wrists in a tight grip . . .

I, Mira, separate my own thinking from Shkillet’s in horrified disgust. I need a shower. I need a dozen showers. I’m still in his head, but I can reflect on what I just learned without fully getting out. Separating my thinking this way allows me to spare my brain from getting more of the vile details of what he plans to do to me. Witnessing the memories of what he did to the poor girl he raped two days ago was terrible enough. And while I’m not clear if he killed her afterwards, I’m positive he’s planning to kill me.

Given the circumstances, I dive a little deeper into his memories. I need to learn if he’s armed and if there’s anything else I need to know about.

We look at our cards. One fucking pair. Two more rounds like this, and we’ll be completely broke. But not for long, we remind ourselves, feeling the weight of the ceramic knife in the holster in our boot.

It’ll be best to do the deed swiftly. It has to happen here on the club premises before the bitch leaves and has the chance to get into her car.

Victor will be furious when they find the body. But he’d never suspect Shkillet. Getting no respect has some advantages—people underestimate us, and therefore, we can get away with anything.

I, Mira, separate again and think quickly. He managed to sneak a ceramic knife into this place. I guess the material didn’t trigger the metal detector wands the bouncers pass over everyone’s body upon entrance.

Damn it. This changes my strategy completely. I need to make sure to leave plenty of Depth to deal with this development. If one of these other men is the one I came here to find, it’s his lucky day, because I’m skipping their vile heads.

Except Victor’s. I’ve been waiting to meet him face-to-face for months because he’s always seemed the most likely candidate, given what I’ve heard about him. There’s no way I’m missing that chance now.

As I form a plan, I exit Shkillet’s mind.

* * *

Still in the Mind Dimension, I approach Victor and unceremoniously rip the shirt from his body. As I do so, I note the pair of aces in front of him on the table.

And his tattoos.

Yeah, Victor’s been in the Russian jail system—he’s a
zek
, as these people call it. Russian tattoos fascinate me. Probably because Dad had one. He served time with a bunch of scientists for objecting to the nuclear arms race during the Cold War. His Reading skills saved his life, enabling him to get out of the prison camp after only a couple of months, but the hellish experience made him desperate to leave the Soviet Union. He waited years until he could, and by then, Soviet Union was simply Russia. Still, as Dad liked to say about the new regime, “Nothing’s changed—KGB still rules.”

So now I try to memorize Victor’s tattoos. I only recognize the meaning of the stars on his shoulders.
Vor v zakone.
Translated literally, it means ‘a thief in law,’ but the vernacular is a criminal authority of high caliber.

I examine him more. I’ve never seen this double-headed eagle tattoo before, though I think this is what the government symbol looked like back in the Czarist Russia. The Statue of Liberty super-imposed on the eagle also doesn’t ring any bells. Perhaps Victor hates the Soviet Union and is reliving the pre-revolution glory days with this ink? Coupled with a symbol of America, maybe he’s not so fond of communism, too? It’s a theory that gains more credence when I realize that a lot of his prison images are anti-authority.

I also notice that Victor is ripped. How can I not? I am, after all, human. He’s built like a swimmer, and his abs form a perfect six-pack.

Stop being a danger slut, Mira,
I chide myself.
How can you even think about what he looks like after what was in Shkillet’s head?

Or, more importantly, given what I’ve heard about Victor. This tendency to drool over monsters is something I truly despise about myself.

So, to that end, I decide enough’s enough. I need to give Victor a Reading and get the hell out. I’ll be only half-empty of Depth, and that will have to be enough.

I put my arm on his chiseled chest, right on the serene face of Lady Liberty. Physical contact made, I concentrate.

I’m going back far enough to see what he did before he came into this room. With any luck, he might’ve been thinking of blowing up someone’s car. If so, Shkillet won’t be the only person I’ll need to deal with . . .

* * *

We’re inside Vera. She moans softly. With her bent over just the way we like, we have a nice view of her naked back. It’s sinewy with muscle. In a perfect world, we like our woman to be a bit curvier, but there’s something about her that we find attractive enough to overlook that fact. Our previous squeeze had nice love handles, but she, unfortunately, didn’t appreciate our interest, instead opting to overdose while we were taking care of business. Women
.

Besides the lack of curves on Vera, we also don’t approve of the tattoo on her lower back. It’s of Madonna holding the baby Jesus. When we fuck someone doggy-style, the last thing we need is a religious symbol staring us in the face, particularly since the tattoo artist made Madonna beautiful. Probably wanted to mess with the heads of everyone who’d ever fuck Vera in the future—which is a large number of people. Or, just as likely, the bitch arranged for the tattoo to have this effect herself.

As our thrusts deepen, she moans louder, and that brings us closer to the edge. In an effort to prolong the sensation, we direct our mind off the fucking and onto irrelevant things, like the dimples above her ass.

Unfortunately, they’re actually a turn-on.

So then we try focusing on the little mole on her right shoulder blade. That works for a bit until we notice the way the sweat slicks her skin. Smooth, gleaming skin. Fuck. We lift our head to stare at the blank walls of the VIP room.

I, Mira, disassociate, albeit hesitantly. This is the first time I’ve ever caught a man fucking a woman, and it’s . . . hot. It’s nothing like Reading them while they fuck me. Of course, I’m not here on a hedonistic vacation. Each moment I spend watching this, a double moment is subtracted from my Depth—because that’s how Reading works. Eugene explained that we share the time with the target. I guess that means that on some level, everyone can get into the Mind Dimension when touched, but non-Readers are pulled in only enough for us to Read them.

I fast-forward Victor’s memories a few minutes into the future.

We’re approaching the table and noticing the girl. She’s the prodigy we’ve heard so much about, the only female
katala
we’ve ever met—though, to be fair, we met most of those card-shark shysters when doing our time in the all-male Gulag.

We look at her, this girl who’s squeezed so many people dry at our establishment. She has the cheekbones and nose of Russian nobility. Someone in this girl’s lineage must’ve survived the October Revolution back in 1917. Her features have a slight sharpness to them, along with an air of dignity. It’s a contrast to the matreshka-like round face of someone like Vera, who looks like a common Russian farmer’s daughter—and probably is.

With those big blue eyes, long eyelashes, and dark waves of hair, this girl reminds us of our daughter’s latest pictures. Only Nadia looks much more innocent than this one, we think with a mixture of longing and pride. Keeping Nadia innocent is why we made the sacrifice of not being in her life all those years ago. She probably doesn’t even know who we are, so there’s no point dwelling on it. And even if she knows, she’s in Russia, and we can’t go back there.

“It’s so smoky in here; it’s like someone set off a bomb,” the girl who reminds us of our daughter says.

That word—bomb—brings back flashbacks of that day in Chechnya when we lost two of our best comrades. Our heart rate increases, but then we calm down. The girl is just being a spoiled American princess. It happens to all the kids who arrive here. Her Majesty probably expected this illegal gambling club to enforce New York’s non-smoking laws.

I, Mira, separate my mind from Victor’s and feel a hint of disappointment. The fact that my words bring up his experience in Chechnya, which must’ve happened a long time ago, makes him unlikely to be the guy I’m looking for. Especially since he seems to have an aversion to explosions—almost a PTSD-type of reaction. It’s not a certainty that he wasn’t involved, of course, but it’s enough for me to clear him. I’d crossed people off my list based on less credible evidence.