The Enlightened (Mind Dimensions #3)(43)

That’s what my Guiding reinforces: Fight. Survive.

When I phase out, Lucy moans.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “Please stay with me, Mom.”

My voice seems to soothe her, or maybe she only had the strength for that one outcry.

I get behind the wheel. Part of me knows I need to get myself together. Driving while in this severely distraught state might cause an accident, and if the accident doesn’t kill her, the delay surely will.

I take a calming breath, but then I hear some mumbled whimpers from the backseat.

Fuck calm. I floor the gas pedal.

My heart is pounding in my ears and the streets are all a blur as the car is pushed to its very limits. My foot doesn’t move off the gas pedal. If Mom’s little Toyota could speak, it would be begging for mercy.

I’m not completely reckless. I use an approach that won’t slow us down, not even for a moment.

At regular intervals, I phase into the Quiet, and while time stands still, I clear the road ahead of us.

I make a jaywalking teenager change his leisurely gait into a mad dash for his life. I make every car up to a block ahead of us pull over. When someone is about to cross the road, I change that person’s mind.

I’m halfway to my destination when I hear a siren.

Shit. Not that.

I know I can tell the police officer that I have an injured detective in the back, which should resolve the situation fairly quickly, but I have an even better idea.

I phase into the Quiet and enter the cop’s mind.

I Read him first. He clocked me driving at 120 miles per hour and was planning on giving me a Breathalyzer test—to start. I Guide him to forget about the speeding and forget about me too. What he will do is rush to check out reports of gunshots near the crossing of Seaview Avenue and Hylan Boulevard, which is next to the hospital.

When I phase out, I let the cruiser pass me and tail him. He’ll clear the way for us. This works like a charm. The rest of the way to the hospital is even quicker, thanks to our escort. In less than ten minutes, I’m running into the Staten Island University Hospital ER with Lucy in my arms.

“I need help!” I yell.

No one responds.

I look around and make eye contact with a nurse or a clerk who’s sitting behind a desk. She clearly heard me. I run over and stare her down.

Her face is stern and she looks at me unsympathetically. “Can I help you?”

“Do you need to f*cking ask?” I say. “I’m holding a person, in my arms, who’s clearly injured.”

“I need you to calm down, sir,” she says with attitude.

I’m overcome with so much anger that I phase into the Quiet. Entering her mind, I frantically Read her for any useful information.

Dr. Jaint is the best surgeon in this hospital. Great. He’s going to help us today, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

Next, I pilfer her mind to learn the codes and procedures regarding this type of situation. Then I begin Guiding her.

Officer down, I mentally tell the disgruntled nurse. As I Push this into her brain, I realize it isn’t even false information. My mom is a detective.

Just in case, I continue: The f*cking governor’s daughter is hurt. If you f*ck this up, you will never work again. Hell, the governor will hire a hit man to kill you if this woman dies. Dr. Jaint has to be the one to save her, and it has to be this hospital’s quickest rescue in history.

I add a few more crazy details along those lines. I don’t care if the story adds up. I don’t care if she has amnesia afterward. All I need is swift and immediate action.

I finish with one last instruction: When this is all over, you will look for a different job. Try something in the janitorial industry.

Then I get out of her head and leave the Quiet.

I see an expression of genuine concern on a face that seemed to have lost this ability. Good. She makes phone calls, announces codes and names over the intercom, and even pulls out a walky-talky. I hear something about a ‘code ten’ and something along the lines of ‘Dr. Jaint, please prepare for surgery.’

In less than a minute, a nurse shows up with a stretcher. Unlike the woman whose mind I just violated, this one looks extremely competent. Still, I’m not willing to rely on the presumption of competence. I give this one a Push too. Help her like your life depends on it.

I follow the stretcher and clear our path from people the way I did with the cars.

Yes, I’m allowed to be in here, I make everyone believe as we enter the operating room. You’ll answer my questions as though I own this hospital.

“Where’s the doctor?” I ask.

“I saw him in the cafeteria,” a nurse answers, looking confused.

I transition into the Quiet and run to the cafeteria. I’m moving so fast that I trip and fall twice. This is the Quiet, I remind myself. Time is standing still.

I recognize Dr. Jaint by his nametag. I get inside his head and sear a list of simple but potent Guiding instructions into his brain:

Run to the operating room.

Everything you hold dear—your family, your life—depends on saving this woman’s life.

I phase out and watch as the nurses prep the OR. Lucy is hooked up to a bunch of wires and machines.

I have to Read someone because, in my current mental state, I don’t understand the medical jargon they’re spewing at each other.