The Thought Readers (Mind Dimensions #1)(12)

It’s late in the afternoon, so the sun is out, but I still feel unsafe—as though I’m walking at night under an ominous-looking, ill-lit bridge in Central Park. My destination is across a narrow street from a park. I try to convince myself that if people let their children play in that park, it can’t be that dangerous.

The building is old and gloomy, but at least it’s not covered in graffiti. In fact, I realize I haven’t seen any since I got off the train. Maybe my judgment of the neighborhood was too hasty.

Nah, probably not. It is Brooklyn.

The building has an intercom system. I gather my courage and ring the apartment door from downstairs.

Nothing.

I start pressing buttons randomly, trying to find someone who might let me in. After a minute, the intercom comes alive with a loud hiss and a barely recognizable, “Who’s there?”

“UPS,” I mumble. I’m not sure if it’s the plausibility of my lie or someone just working on autopilot, but I get buzzed in.

Spotting an elevator, I press the up arrow, but nothing happens. No light comes on. No hint that anything is working.

I wait for a couple of minutes.

No luck.

I grudgingly decide to schlep to the fifth floor on foot. Looks like my assessment of the neighborhood was spot on after all.

The staircase has an unpleasant odor to it. I hope it’s not urine, but my nose suggests it is. The noxious aroma on the second floor is diluted by the smells of boiled cabbage and fried garlic. There isn’t a lot of light, and the marble steps seem slippery. Watching my step, I eventually make it to the fifth floor.

It’s not until I’m actually staring at the door of 5E that I realize I don’t have a good plan. Or any plan at all, really. I came this far, though, so I’m not about to turn around and go home now. I go ahead and ring the doorbell. Then I wait. And wait. And wait.

After a while, I hear some movement inside the apartment. Focusing, I watch the eyehole, the way I’ve seen people do in the movies.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think a shadow comes across it. Someone might be looking at me.

Still no response.

I try knocking.

“Who is this?” says a male voice.

Shit. Who the hell is that? A husband? A boyfriend? Her father? Her pimp? Every scenario carries its own implications, and few promise anything good. None I can think of, actually.

“My name is Darren,” I say, figuring that honesty is the best policy.

No answer.

“I’m a friend of Mira’s,” I add. And it’s only when the words leave my mouth that I recall that she lives here under a different name. Ilona or something.

Before I can kick myself for the slip, the door swings open. A guy who appears to be a few years older than me stands there looking at me with tired, glassy eyes.

It takes a moment for me to notice one problem. No, make that one huge problem.

The guy is holding a gun.

A gun that looks bigger than his head.

The fear that slams my system is debilitating. I’ve never been threatened with a gun before. At least, not directly like this. Sure, the bouncers in Atlantic City had guns, but they weren’t aiming them in my direction at point-blank range. I never imagined it would be this frightening.

I phase into the Quiet, almost involuntarily.

Now that I’m looking at my frozen self with a gun to his/my face, the panic is diluted. I’m still worried, though, since I am facing the gun in the real world.

I take a deep breath. I need to figure out my plan of action.

I look at the shooter.

He’s tall, skinny. He’s wearing glasses and a white coat with a red stain on it.

The white coat looks odd—and is that red spot blood, or something else? Questions race through my mind. Who is he? What is he doing in there that requires a gun? Is he cooking meth? It is Brooklyn after all.

At the same time, I can’t shake the feeling that the guy does not look like an average street criminal. There is keen intelligence in his eyes. His uncombed hair and the pens and ruler in the pocket of his white coat paint a strange picture. He almost looks like a scientist—albeit on the mad side.

Of course, that does not rule out the drug angle. He could be like the character on that show about a teacher who cooks meth. Although, come to think of it, that same show made it clear that you don’t do that in an apartment building. The smell is too strong to keep the operation hidden, or something like that.

Now that I’ve had some time to calm down in the Quiet, I get bolder. I begin to wonder if the gun is real. Or maybe I’m just hoping it’s fake. Gathering my courage, I reach out to take it from the guy’s hand.

When my fingers touch his, something strange happens. Or stranger, rather.

There are now two of him.

I look at the picture, and my jaw proverbially drops.

There is a second guy in the white coat, right there, and this one is moving. I’m so unaccustomed to the idea of people moving while I’m in the Quiet that I lose my ability to think, so I just stand there and gape at him.

The guy looks at me with an expression that’s hard to read, a mixture of excitement and fear. As if I were a bear standing in the middle of a Brooklyn apartment building hall.

“Who are you?” he breathes, staring at me.

“I’m Darren,” I repeat my earlier introduction, trying to conceal my shock.