The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(45)

What I also notice is that no one seems to be displaying any animosity toward me. So either my nemesis is an excellent actor, or the Pusher from the hospital isn’t here.

The whole thing is beyond tiring. Maybe it’s all that going-to-bed-early stuff from the last two days messing up my circadian rhythm, or maybe I’m still not fully recovered from my injury. Whatever it is, I’m beginning to get a serious craving for my bed back at the hotel.

Hillary is the last stop on this intro-tour. “See, I promised I’d give him back to you,” Liz says to Hillary, smiling. “He’s all yours to brainwash. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of.”

“I heard you might know about something I find kind of interesting,” I say to Hillary when Liz is gone.

“Sure, what is it?” she asks, grinning at me.

“I was hoping you could tell me about the Traditionalists,” I say.

Her grin disappears without a trace. “You’re new, Darren, so you don’t know that this is a sensitive subject for me. But it is, and I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, her voice unusually harsh.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that. Let’s talk about something else.” I feel like an oaf. Her face is so expressive that upsetting her just feels wrong. Like being mean to a little girl. It must be her petiteness messing with my brain.

“Do you want to get out of here?” she says consolingly. “I’m starving, and they never have anything edible.”

I don’t point out the large buffet filled to the brim with choice finger foods and consider this for a moment. I’m tired, but something about Hillary makes me want to get to know her better. I’m not sure what it is. It’s almost as though there’s some kind of connection between us.

“I’m game, but I have an errand to run on the way. Do you mind if I stop by the Apple store for a minute? They’re open late, and I urgently need to get a new phone.”

“No problem.” She grins at me. “Let’s go.”





Chapter 21


As we get out of the cab, I finish texting everyone my new phone number.

The place we end up is one that Hillary describes as a raw vegan restaurant. She swears it will be the best meal I’ve had in years, but as I look at the menu, I’m rather skeptical. As expected, they have many salads, but I’m surprised to find that they have other options as well.

“I guess I’ll order coconut water for now,” I say to the dreadlocked waiter who smells suspiciously like weed.

“That’s an excellent choice, full of electrolytes. It’s very good for you,” Hillary says, smiling. “I’ll have the same.”

“I’ll also get the spiral zucchini pasta with cashew-nut Alfredo sauce,” I say hesitantly. This is the most promising-sounding dish on the menu, but that’s not saying much.

“You should leave room for dessert. They’re amazing here,” Hillary says, ordering her own choice: a kale salad with honey-glazed pecans, plus guacamole with ‘live chips’—whatever that is.

“So what did you think about our little community?” she says when the waiter leaves.

“They seem like good people,” I answer honestly. “I can’t wait to get to know everyone better.”

“They are good people. I wish the rest of the Guides were more like them,” she says, almost wistfully.

I figure she must be talking about the Traditionalists, but I don’t press her, given her earlier reaction. Instead I say, “Yeah, I know what you’re saying. Some Guide is trying to kill me.”

“Kill you?” She looks stunned. “Why? How do they even know you exist?”

I share as much as I can for the umpteenth time today, telling her the same story I told Liz and Thomas. “So you see, someone is trying to kill me, but I have no idea how they know that I exist.”

“Is that why you were asking about the Traditionalists?”

“Yeah, Thomas said it sounded like something they might do, and he said that you were the best person to ask about it,” I say carefully.

“Then I guess you had a good reason to ask before. But I don’t understand why they would want to hurt you. I mean, with Thomas, I can see it, but you . . .” She narrows her eyes, studying me intently.

“I don’t know why he made that guess,” I say, not wanting to raise the question of my heritage. “Maybe he was wrong.”

“Maybe,” she says. “I guess I can tell you what I know, in case it helps.”

“That would be great.”

She squares her shoulders. “Okay, to get a sense for the Traditionalists, try this thought experiment. Take the close-mindedness of any sort of extreme fundamentalist, add eugenics, dogma, fear of the unknown, and mix in an overwhelming, blind, and bigoted hatred of the Leachers.”

“Okay. I’m picturing this and not liking the results.”

“Well, that’s just step one. Step two: now imagine growing up with people like that as parents,” she says somberly.

I blink. “Oh, is that why—?”

“Yeah, that’s why I was touchy earlier. But don’t worry about it. You didn’t know.”

“Still, I’m sorry I upset you.”