The Thought Readers (Mind Dimensions #1)(13)

“Are you a Reader, Darren?” the guy asks, recovering some of his composure. “Because if you’re a Pusher, I will unload that gun in your face as soon as we Universe Split, or Astral Project, or Dimension Shift, or whatever it is you people call it. As soon as we’re back to our bodies, you’re dead, Pusher.”

He has an unusual accent—Russian, I think. That reminds me of Bert’s theory that Mira is a spy. Maybe he was right. Maybe she travels with a whole gang of Russian spies.

I only understand one thing about what the Russian guy is saying: he knows that I’m at his mercy when we get back. That means that he, like me, understands how the Quiet works.

The terms he’s using sort of make sense to me. All except ‘Reader’ and ‘Pusher.’ I know that even if I were this ‘Pusher,’ I wouldn’t want to admit it and get shot. He probably realizes that as well.

“I am sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I admit. “I don’t know what a Reader or a Pusher is.”

“Right,” the guy sneers. “And you’re not aware of our bodies standing over there?”

“Well, yeah, of that I’m painfully aware—”

“Then you can’t expect me to believe that you can Split, but not be one of us—or one of them.” He says that last word with disgust.

Okay, so one thing is crystal clear: Reader is good, Pusher is bad. Now if only I could find out why.

“If I were a Pusher, would I just show up here like this?” I ask, hoping I can reason with him.

“You f*ckers are clever and extremely manipulative,” he says, looking me up and down. “You might be trying to use some kind of reverse psychology on me.”

“To what end?”

“You want me dead, that’s why, and you want my sister dead too,” he says, his agitation growing with every word.

I make a mental note at the mention of ‘sister,’ but I don’t have time to dwell on it. “Would showing up like this be the best way to kill you?” I try to reason again.

“Well, no. In fact, I’ve never heard of Pushers doing their dirty work themselves,” he says, beginning to look uncertain. “They like to use regular people for that, like puppets.”

I have no idea what he’s referring to, so I continue my attempts at rational discourse.“So isn’t it possible that I’m simply a guy searching for answers?” I suggest. “Someone who doesn’t know what you’re talking about?”

“No,” he says after considering it for a moment. “I’ve never heard of untrained, unaffiliated people with the ability to Split. So why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here, outside my door.”

“I can explain that part,” I say hurriedly. “You see, I met a girl in Atlantic City. A girl who made me realize that I’m not crazy.”

At the mention of Atlantic City, I have his full attention. “Describe her,” he says, frowning.

I describe Mira, toning down her sex appeal.

“And she told you her name and where she lives?” he asks, clearly suspicious.

“Well, no,” I admit. “I was detained by the casino when they thought we were working together to cheat the house. I learned a few of her aliases from them. After that, I got help from a friend who’s a very good hacker.”

There I go again, using honesty. I’m on a roll. I don’t think I’ve ever said this many truthful statements in such a short time.

“A good hacker?” he asks, looking unexpectedly interested.

“Yes, the best,” I reply, surprised. That’s the completely wrong thing to focus on in this story, but as long as he’s not angry and trigger-happy, I’ll stick with the subject.

He looks me straight in the eyes for the first time. He seems uncomfortable with this. I can tell he doesn’t do it often.

I hold his gaze.

“Here’s the deal, Darren,” he says, his eyes shifting away again after a second. “We’re going to get back. I won’t shoot you. Instead I will snap your picture. Then I’ll text it to my sister.”

“Okay,” I say. I’ll take a picture over a bullet any day.

“If you do anything to me before she gets here, she’ll have proof that you were here,” he elaborates.

“That makes sense,” I lie. So far, there’s very little of this that makes any sense at all. “Do whatever you think will help us resolve this misunderstanding.”

“The only way to resolve it is to get proof that you’re not a Pusher.”

“Then let’s get that proof,” I say, hoping I’ll get bonus points for my willingness to cooperate.

“Okay,” he says, and I can tell that his mood is improving. “You must agree to submit to a test, then. Or a couple of tests, actually.”

“Of course,” I agree readily. Then, remembering the red stain on his coat, I ask warily, “Are they painful, these tests?”

“The tests are harmless. However, if it turns out that you’re a Pusher, you better pray my sister isn’t here at that point.”

I swallow nervously as he continues, “I would just shoot you, you see. But Mira, she might make your death slow and very painful.”

I rethink some of my fantasies about Mira. She’s sounding less and less appealing. “Let’s just do this,” I say with resignation.