The Thought Readers (4 page)

I nod, urging him on.

“Here’s that address,” he says, grinning as he hands me a piece of paper. Then he asks more seriously, “Are you really going there?”

That’s an excellent question. If I do, she’ll think I’m a crazy stalker. Well, I guess if you think about it, I am kind of stalking her, but my motives are noble. Sort of.

“I don’t know,” I tell Bert. “I might swing by that gym and see if I can ‘bump into her.’”

“I don’t think that will work,” he says. “According to their database, her visits are pretty sporadic.”

“Great.” I sigh. “In that case, yes, I guess I’ll show up at her door.”

“Okay. Now the usual fine print,” Bert says, giving me an intense stare. “You didn’t get this from me. Also, the name I found could be a complete coincidence, so it’s within the realm of possibility that you might find someone else there.”

“I take full responsibility for whatever may occur,” I tell Bert solemnly. “We’re even now.”

“Okay. Good. There’s just one other thing . . .”

“What?”

“Well, you might think this is crazy or paranoid, but—” he looks embarrassed, “—I think she might be a spy.”

“What?” This catches me completely off-guard.

“Well, something else I should’ve said is that she’s an immigrant. A Russian immigrant, in case you didn’t get it from the unusual-sounding names. Came here with her family about a decade ago. When combined with these aliases . . . You see how I would think along these lines, don’t you?”

“Right, of course,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. A spy? Bert sure loves his conspiracy theories. “Leave it with me,” I say reassuringly. “If she’s a spy, I’ll deal with it. Now let me buy you a second breakfast and a cup of tea. After that, I’m off to SoHo to meet with FBTI.”

I make the trip to SoHo. The security guard at the FBTI building lets me in once he knows I have an appointment with Richard Stone, the CTO.

“Hi Richard, I’m Darren. We spoke on the phone.” I introduce myself to a tall bald man when I’m seated comfortably in a guest chair in his office. The office is big, with a massive desk with lots of drawers, and a small bookshelf. There’s even a plasma TV mounted on the wall. I take it all in, feeling a hint of office envy again.

“Please call me Dick,” he says. I have to use every ounce of my willpower not to laugh. If I had a bald head, I’d definitely prefer Richard. In fact, I think I’d prefer to be called Richard over Dick regardless of how I looked.

“Okay, Dick. I’m interested in learning about what you guys are working on these days,” I say, hoping I don’t sound like I relish saying his nickname too much.

“I’m happy to discuss anything outside of our upcoming announcement,” he says, his tone dickish enough to earn that moniker.

I show interest in the standard stuff he’s prepared to say, and he goes on, telling me all the boring details he’s allowed to share. He continues to talk, but I don’t listen. Tuning people out was one of the first things I mastered in the corporate world. Without that, I wouldn’t have survived a single meeting. Even now, I have to go into the Quiet from time to time to take a break, or I’d die from boredom. I’m not a patient guy.

Anyway, as Dick goes on, I surreptitiously look around. It’s ironic that I’m doing exactly the opposite of what everyone thinks I do. People assume I ask pointed questions of these executives, and figure things out based on their reactions, body language, and who knows what else.

Being able to pick up on body cues and other nonverbal signals is something I want to learn at some point. I even gave it a try in Atlantic City. But in this case, as usual, I rely on something that depends far less on interpretive skills.

When I’ve endured enough bullshit from Dick, I try to invoke a frightened state of being so I can phase into the Quiet.

Simply thinking myself crazy is not that effective anymore. Picturing myself showing up like a dumbass at that Brooklyn address Bert gave me for Mira, on the other hand—that works like a charm.

I phase in, and Dick is finally, blissfully, quiet. He’s frozen mid-sentence, and I realize, not for the first time, that I would have a huge edge if I were indeed able to read body cues. I recognize now that he’s looking down, which I believe is a sign that someone’s lying.

But no, instead of body language, I read literal language.

I begin with the papers on his desk. There’s nothing special there.

Next, I roll his chair, with his frozen body in it, away from the desk. I love it when people in the Quiet are sitting in chairs with wheels. Makes this part of my job easier. In college, I realized I could get the contents of the final exams early by reaching into the professor’s desk or bag in the Quiet. Moving the professors aside, though, had been a pain. Their chairs didn’t have wheels like corporate office chairs do.

Thinking of those days in school makes me smile, because the things I learned in college are genuinely helpful to me now. This snooping in the Quiet—which is how I finished school so fast and with such good grades—is how I make a living now, and quite a good living at that. So, in some ways, my education really did prepare me for the workforce. Few people can say that.

With Dick and his chair out of the way, I turn my attention to his desk. In the bottom drawer, I hit the mother lode.

FBTI’s big announcement will be about a device that will do something called ‘transcranial magnetic stimulation.’ I vaguely remember hearing about it. Before I delve deeper into the folder I found, I look at the bookshelf. Sure enough, on the shelf is something called
The Handbook of Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation
. It’s funny. Now that I know what I’m looking for, I realize that aside from reading body language and cues like that, someone doing this ‘for real’ likely would’ve noticed this book on the shelf as a clue to what the announcement would be. In fact, the shelf contains a couple more books on this subject. Now that I think about it, I notice they have less dust on them than the other books on the shelf. Sherlock Holmes would’ve been proud of my investigative method—only my method works backwards. He used the skill of deductive reasoning, putting the clues he observed together to develop a conclusion. I, however, find evidence to support my conclusion once I know what the answer is.

Returning to my quest for information about the upcoming announcement, I read the first textbook I noticed on the subject. Yes, when I have to—or want to—I can learn the more traditional way. Just because I cheated when it came to tests doesn’t mean I didn’t legitimately educate myself from time to time. In fact, I did so quite often. However, my education was about whatever I was interested in at the moment, not some cookie-cutter program. I cheated simply because I was being pragmatic. The main reason I was at Harvard was to get a piece of paper that would impress my would-be employers. I used the Quiet to attain the mundane requirements of my degree while genuinely learning about things important to me.

When I do decide to read, the Quiet gives me a huge edge. I never get drowsy, even if the material is a little dry. I don’t need sleep in the Quiet, just as like I’m not a slave to other bodily functions in there. To me, it feels like it took maybe an hour to finish the part of the book about the magnetic version of stimulation—and it was actually interesting in certain parts. I even skimmed a few other stimulation types, which seem invasive compared to TMS, as the book calls it. I didn’t absorb it all, of course—that would require re-reading—but I feel sufficiently ready to tackle the rest of the folder I found in Dick’s desk.

I catch myself writing the report to Bill in my head. In layman’s terms, TMS is a way to directly stimulate the brain without drilling into the skull—which the other methods require. It uses a powerful magnetic field to do so—hence the ‘Magnetic’ in the name. It’s been around for a while, but was only recently approved by the FDA for treating depression. In terms of harm—and this is not from the book but my own conjecture—it doesn’t seem worse than getting an MRI.

It takes me only a brief run through the papers in the folder to realize that the FBTI announcement will exceed everyone’s expectations. They have a way of constructing a TMS machine that is more precise than any before, while being affordable and easily customizable. Just for the treatment of depression alone, this device will make a significant impact. To top it off, the work can also lead to better MRI machines, which may open up a new market for FBTI.

Realizing I have enough information, I phase out.

Dick’s voice is back. I listen to his closing spiel; then I thank him and go home.

I log in to work remotely, and write up my report in an email. I list all the reasons I think we should go long FBTI and my miscellaneous thoughts on why it would be a good investment.

I set the delivery of my email for late Friday evening. It’s a trick I use sometimes to make it appear to my boss and coworkers that I work tirelessly, even on a Friday night, when most people go out or spend time with their families. I copy as many people as is reasonable and address it to Bill. Then I click send and verify that the email is waiting in my outbox. It’ll sit there ready and waiting until it goes out Friday night.

Given how much money I’m about to make for Pierce Capital Management, I decide to take the rest of this week off.

Showing up uninvited is not the only thing that makes me nervous about my plan to visit Mira. Another thing that worries me is the fact that the address in question happens to be in Brooklyn.

Why do people do that? Why live in the NYC boroughs? My moms are guilty of this as well—their choice, Staten Island, is even crazier. At least the subway goes to Brooklyn. Nothing goes to Staten Island, except the ferry and some express buses. It’s even worse than New Jersey.

Still, I don’t have a choice. Brooklyn is the location of the address, so off to Brooklyn I go. With deep reservations, I catch the Q train at City Hall and prepare for the epic journey.

As I sit on the subway, I read a book on my phone and occasionally look out the window. Whenever I do, I see graffiti on the walls of buildings facing the tracks. Why couldn’t this girl live someplace more civilized, like the Upper East Side?

To my surprise, I get to my stop, Kings Highway, in less than an hour. From here, it’s a short walk to my destination, according to my phone’s GPS.

The neighborhood is . . . well, unlike the city. No tall buildings, and the signs on businesses are worn and tacky. Streets are a little dirtier than Manhattan, too.

The building is on East 14
^th
Street, between Avenues R and S. This is the only aspect of Brooklyn I appreciate. Navigating streets named using sequential numbers and letters in alphabetical order is easy.

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.

“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 fuckers 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.

“Okay. Walk slowly to your body and touch it in such a way that I can clearly see it. Don’t Split, or I will shoot you.”

If ‘Split’ is what I think it is—as in phasing into the Quiet—then how would he be able to tell if I did do it? Though it seems unlikely, I decide not to push my luck. Not until I know the results of his tests.

“I’m ready,” I say, and demonstratively touch my frozen self on the forehead.