The Elders (Mind Dimensions #4)(10)

That’s where I decide to head, but first, I want to take one last look at the cemetery.

I phase in and leisurely walk back toward Kyle’s grave. In the safety of the Quiet, I allow myself to register my environment, a luxury I couldn’t afford when I was running. As far as I can tell, this is a very nice cemetery. Then again, this was my very first funeral, so all cemeteries might look like this.

I’m a hundred feet away from my destination when I notice that something’s gone terribly wrong.

I come across the body of a cop.

I break into a run and see another cop on the ground.

Then another.

Then two more.

The closer I get to the burial site, the more cops I find lying about in every direction.

I approach one at random. This officer’s wrist is twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes are closed. Is he dead?

I kneel next to the body and touch the cop’s good hand.





*





“Raise your hands,” we say to the bald man in the orange robe. “Lie down on the ground and put your hands behind your head. Slowly.”

Instead of obeying, the man closes the distance in a series of jerky motions and grabs our wrist.

“Let go of the gun,” our attacker says calmly, almost soothingly.

“Fuck you,” we say and try to punch the man with our left hand.

Our punch doesn’t land, and our right arm is on fire. We realize the f*cker broke our wrist when he did whatever it was he did; he moved too fast for us to see.

Ignoring the agony, we reach for our handcuffs, ready to employ a desperate maneuver. Before our hand even reaches the cuffs, there’s an orange blur in the direction of our right temple and the world goes blank.





*





I exit the officer’s head and look around.

More cops are in similar unconscious conditions. It takes a quick Read of each one to see the same pattern play out. Though all the men I check are alive, every officer got his ass handed to him by the monks. Most of their memories are a variation of the weapon disarm I saw in the first cop. In a few rare cases, when the cops were above average when it comes to self-defense, what I witness reminds me of a mix between the martial arts training Caleb and I experienced in the Israeli master’s mind, and a Hong Kong kung fu movie about Shaolin monks.

The cops who faced Caleb have some broken ribs and are in noticeably worse shape, leading me to believe that the monks were trying to inflict as little damage as possible while pursuing their goals. Caleb, however, almost relished the violence. It was Caleb who knocked out the priest—a dickish and unnecessary move, in my opinion.

Throughout my Reading, I curse myself for being such a shortsighted humanitarian. I made the cops empty their guns. The monks’ lack of respect for the authority of the police force, as well as their apparent disregard for guns, created this mess of a situation. Even with bullets, these cops would still have had it rough, though lots of monks would’ve died. Still, because of my meddling, what could’ve been a tough fight became an easy slaughter of these men and women in uniform. Thinking of women in uniforms gets my heart beating much faster.

I run in the direction I sent Mira and her handlers in.

It’s not long before I find the first lady cop on the ground. Then the second. They’re both lying there with various injuries.

I run in the other direction, to where Thomas was led. Twenty feet in, I see someone I recognize: the Quarterback. He’s the first person beginning to get up. Must be his resilience as a football player at work. Reading him, I learn that he and his larger friends did marginally better against the monks, who probably had to carry a few of their brethren away, but the cops were outnumbered and the monks were swifter, so the eventual outcome was the same.

I check the direction my moms went in and see nothing at all. I wonder whether that means they escaped. They didn’t have a police escort and maybe that saved them. I sure hope so.

I run toward the parking lot, determined to learn more, and end up following a trail of macabre breadcrumbs in the form of beat-up police officers.

I suppress my growing panic.

It’s still within the realm of possibility that Thomas and Mira somehow escaped their escorts. Maybe Thomas came to his senses and Guided the cops to let him go?

And what about my moms? I see no evidence that they might be in trouble.

I increase my pace, sprinting toward the parking lot.

The minivans are gone, and I notice tread marks on the asphalt, which tells me they left in a hurry.

I frantically follow the driveway and leave the lot.

I Read the stylist of a nearby hair salon. She has a good view of the cemetery from her shop. Using her brain as one would a surveillance camera, I search for what I need. Yep, she noticed the vans. The screech of their tires drew her attention. She saw them turn right onto Liberty Avenue.

I leave the hair salon and walk down Liberty, Reading people as I go. It takes a dozen more Reads before I find any sign of those damn vans. Inside the mind of a McDonald’s cashier, I see two Hondas turn onto Conduit Boulevard.

On a hunch, I follow the signs that lead to Belt Parkway—the big highway in Brooklyn. Reading what feels like a hundred people on the way confirms my suspicions: the two Odysseys are heading toward the highway.

I push a frozen bike messenger off his bicycle so I can take advantage of his ride. Bikes are useful for long-distance travel in the Quiet. Rolling up my suit pants, I get on and start pedaling toward the highway.