by James Swain
“Thanks. Now tell me what’s going on,” Garrison said.
“Up until now, I thought the shadow people were trying to lure me over to the other side to have me killed,” Peter said. “Now I’m not so sure.”
“Then what’s their purpose?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe they’re trying to show me something.”
“In a good way?”
“I think so.”
“Hold on a second. You told me the other night that you were taken into the future, where Dr. Death shot you in the leg, and was just about to put a final bullet in your head when you returned to the present. That doesn’t sound very good to me.”
“Perhaps something else was going on.”
“Like what?”
Peter had journeyed to the other side many times, yet still could not fathom much of what he saw. He’d always assumed that as he grew older and more mature, the unexplained would untangle itself, and the truth would become clear. So far that hadn’t happened, leaving him to wonder if the other side would ever be fully explained. “I don’t know what the shadow people are up to, but I plan to find out. There’s a psychic in town named Selena who communicates with the shadow people on a regular basis. I need to track her down, and have a chat.”
“Think she’ll talk? You psychics are a cagey bunch.”
Garrison was right about that—psychics were as secretive with each other as they were with the general public. It came from a lifetime of secrecy, born out of growing up knowing you were different, and also knowing how that difference would be perceived. Getting Selena to talk wouldn’t be easy, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice. She was a keeper of secrets, and he needed to gain her trust.
“I’m willing to give it a shot,” Peter said.
“You and your girlfriend are free to go. I’ll deal with the cops. Call me if you learn something.”
“I’ll do that. Would you mind giving me another of your business cards? Detective Velasco kept the one I gave him.”
“What for? You’ve got my number in your cell, don’t you?”
“It’s my Get out of Jail Free card.”
Garrison pulled a dozen cards from his wallet and stuck them in Peter’s hand. “Take ’em all. Something tells me you’re going to need them.”
Garrison went back inside the watch shop. Moments later Liza came out the front door, and was soon snuggled up beside Peter. She had not enjoyed being detained by the detectives, even if just for a little while. Peter told Herbie to head to Washington Square Park, then pulled a club soda out of the minirefrigerator, twisted off the top, and handed it to Liza. She took a long swallow.
“Are psychics lives always this eventful?” she asked.
“Most psychics lead pretty normal lives,” he admitted.
“What makes you so special?”
That was a good question. Of late, there never seemed to be a dull moment. Perhaps one day he’d find out why, along with the other unanswered mysteries which consumed his life.
“I wish I knew,” he said.
* * *
The blind held a special place in most New Yorkers’ hearts. They rode the subways and walked the sidewalks with their Seeing Eye dogs without a worry in the world, their calm demeanor in sharp contrast to madness swirling around them.
Homer, the blind psychic, spent his days beneath the Washington Square Park’s famed marble arch. Built two centuries ago, the arch resembled an ancient Roman artifact, and dwarfed everything around it. Long ago, the police had run off the fortune-telling gypsies who’d held court at the arch, but out of kindness, had allowed Homer to stay.
Homer sat on a folding metal stool and told people’s fortunes. Part of his charm was that he dressed in a similar fashion to the professors at nearby New York University. Today he wore a brown cashmere sweater, a navy scarf, and brown corduroy pants. Unlike most fortune-tellers, he did not have a plate or tin cup for donations. If someone wanted to give him money, it was tucked into Homer’s breast pocket. If not, he did not complain.
Peter’s limo pulled up to the northern entrance to the park, and the partition slid back.
“Tell him to do his trick for you,” Herbie called from the front.
“What trick?” Peter asked.
“Homer can make himself invisible,” his driver said.
“Cut it out.”
“No joke. I heard a bunch of other limo drivers talking about it. One minute Homer is standing there, the next minute, poof! he’s gone. I hear it’s a real mindblower.”
“I’ll be sure to ask him.”
Peter and Liza got out and entered the park. The arch acted as a gateway to Greenwich Village, and was a favorite meeting spot. During the arch’s construction, a perfect set of human remains had been found in a spot directly below where the park’s only hanging had taken place. Rumors claimed the arch was haunted, and that the ghost of the dead man, a convicted ax murderer named Witten, ventured out at night to dance in the park’s enormous fountain. Peter had never confronted Witten, or his ax, and had assumed that it was only a matter of time before they became acquainted.
Homer was in his usual spot. As they approached, his head bobbed up and down.
“Hello, Homer,” Peter said. “It’s Peter Warlock.”
“Hello, Peter. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I brought a friend. Her name is Liza. Liza, meet my friend Homer.”
“Hello, Homer,” Liza said.
“Hello to you as well,” Homer said. “You picked a chilly day to visit the park. A group of classical musicians are warming up near the south entrance. You might want to hear them. They’re quite good.”
“Perhaps some other time,” Peter said. “I need to talk to Selena about the shadow people. You told me the other night that you knew her. Please tell me how to contact her.”
Homer scowled. “You know the rules, Peter.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Yet you ask me to break them.”
“This is urgent, a matter of life or death.”
“That does not change how the game is played.”
“It doesn’t?”
Homer shook his head. “No.”
“What rules? What are you two talking about?” Liza asked.
“Psychics play by certain rules,” Homer explained. “We are not supposed to ask each other questions about the mysteries of the universe for fear that one question will lead to another and then another until the end of time. The answers to these questions must be answered through self-discovery and inner examination. Then the truth will be revealed.”
“But a woman’s life is at stake,” Liza said.
“Do you know this woman?” Homer asked.
“I heard her voice on the phone. Her name is Rachael.”
“Well, then go find her, and save her,” the blind psychic said.
“But I don’t know who she is. Why won’t you help us?”
“Because it’s not allowed.”
Homer rose from his stool. The sun had come out and it was warming up. He removed his scarf, and Peter stared at the open neck of his sweater. Homer was not wearing the five-pointed star that he’d told Peter he wore to ward away the shadow people. Without thinking, Peter blurted out, “Damn it! Why didn’t you tell me that the shadow people weren’t a threat?”
“Because I’m not supposed to,” Homer replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”
“You’re leaving?” Liza said. “What kind of friend are you?”
“I’m Peter’s friend, and always will be,” Homer said stiffly.
“You’re not acting like a friend.”
“You’re not one of us, are you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not a psychic.”
“Afraid not.”
“An ancient Chinese philosopher once said, ‘A secret is no longer a secret by the time it gets to you.’”
“Come on, Homer,” Peter implored. “A w
oman is going to get murdered if I don’t figure this thing out.”
Homer started to reply, but pursed his lips instead. People lived and people died, but the rules that governed a psychic’s existence remained constant, and to break them was unthinkable. Picking up his metal stool, he folded it with a snap of the wrist.
“Would you mind hailing me a cab?” Homer asked.
There was usually a taxi or two parked at the park’s northern entrance, ready to whisk people uptown. Peter and Liza both turned around. Today, there were none.
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” Peter said.
When they both turned back around, Homer was gone.
48
“Where did he go?” Liza said in disbelief.
Peter scanned the area beneath the arch where Homer had just stood. It was not entirely impossible for psychics to make themselves invisible to the naked eye. Peter had seen it done, and hoped someday to master the art himself. Had Homer just made himself invisible?
The answer was immediately obvious. Homer had not.
Psychics could make themselves invisible, but they could not make inanimate objects invisible. And Homer’s folding stool was gone as well. Which meant the blind psychic had tricked them in the brief instant it had taken them to turn around to hail a cab.
“He’s somewhere nearby,” Peter said. “Start looking.”
“How do you know he’s nearby?”
“Because blind people don’t move very fast. Check the bushes.”
Liza scoured the nearby bushes while also checking a number of homeless men sleeping on benches. None proved to be Homer. Peter walked around the arch, looking for a hiding place that Homer might have ducked into. Liza joined him a moment later.
“So where is he?” she asked.
“Like I said, he’s nearby.”
“Peter, he’s gone. I looked everywhere.”
The greatest lie is the one which we tell ourselves. The lie Liza was telling herself was that Homer had slipped away and could not be found. But what if Homer was still right here, hiding in plain sight? That was a more likely explanation, even if the evidence did not support it.
He examined the spot where Homer had stood. His eyes drifted to the arch. Had the blind psychic somehow managed to get inside of it? And if so, how?
A door was usually the way people entered things. Peter went to the arch and ran his fingertips across the smooth marble. The original arch had been made of wood in celebration of George Washington’s birthday. It had been such a hit that a permanent marble arch had been commissioned and built. He ran his forefinger across a break in the marble, and saw that it was the outline to a hidden door. He’d passed beneath the arch countless times in his life and never imagined that it had a door that went inside. He felt Liza’s breath on his neck and glanced over his shoulder into her unblinking eyes.
“You are so smart,” she said. “Should we knock?”
“Let’s surprise him.”
“How are you going to get in?”
“Watch.”
Peter didn’t think Homer had locked the door behind him. Most people in a hurry usually didn’t. Kneeling, he slipped his fingers beneath the door’s sill and pulled. It popped open, revealing a darkened space inside. He entered while Liza hesitated.
“There’s no light,” she said.
Taking out his Droid, he went onto the Internet, which caused the screen to light up. It was as good as having a flashlight, and he pointed it into the darkness. “You coming?”
She entered and they ventured ahead. The air was dank and chilly and very still. Just to be sure he was in the right place, Peter pointed his Droid at the floor, and saw a fresh set of footprints in the dust. So this was how Homer made himself disappear.
They came to a spiral staircase. With his Droid, he looked up the twisting stairs. The staircase went to the very top of the arch. There were fresh footprints on the steps as well.
“I’ll flip you to see who goes first,” Peter said.
“Very funny. You sure you want to go up there? It’s awfully dark.”
Peter had never been afraid of the dark. Not even as a child had it bothered him. He wondered what that said about his personality as he headed up the stairs.
* * *
They were breathing hard by the time they reached the top. Peter checked out their new surroundings with his Droid, and found himself standing inside a vaulted room with an ornate tiled ceiling. He would never have imagined such a room existed on top of the Washington Square Arch. Tucked away in the basement perhaps, but not at the very top. Several windows were blackened by dust and age, and a smattering of light seeped through them.
“Who’s that?” Homer’s voice called out.
“It’s Peter and Liza. We found your hiding place.”
“Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“I won’t let an innocent woman die. Now, are you going to help us, or not?”
Homer let out a pronounced sigh. “Only if you promise never to ask again.”
“I promise never to ask you again. Where are you, anyway?”
“Sitting against the far wall. Whatever you do, don’t turn on the light.”
“There’s a light in here?” Peter asked.
“Long ago, this room was the park manager’s office, if you can imagine him climbing those stairs every day. The room has electricity and running water. It’s quite comfy.”
“Why don’t you want me to turn on the light?”
“Because it will anger my guests,” Homer replied.
“What’s he talking about?” Liza whispered.
“Beats me,” Peter replied.
Peter made Liza stand behind him. With the light of his Droid, he located Homer on the far wall, parked on his folding stool. Behind him stood a mob of angry ghosts hovering just off the floor. Judging from the forlorn expressions on their sunken faces, they had suffered heavily during their previous lives. One member stood out. Tall and thin, with a pinched face and a scowl, he had a bloodstained ax clutched in his hands. The infamous Witten.
Peter wondered how fast he and Liza could make it down the stairs. Probably not fast enough. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends?” he asked.
“These are the ghosts of the park. I’m sure you’ve heard of them,” Homer said.
“I’ve heard of Witten, but not the others. Who are they?”
“Remember, you only get to ask me one question.”
“I know who they are,” Liza interrupted. “Before Washington Square Park was built, this area of land was a potter’s field where the city’s poor and homeless were buried. I read it in a book. Those ghosts are people who are buried right here. Right?”
“There’s more to it,” Homer said.
Peter again studied the ghosts with his Droid. One held a bloody butcher’s knife, while another clutched a thick lead pipe. Their necks were badly discolored and pulled to one side. The city’s criminals were buried here as well, he realized.
“These ghosts are criminals, and were hanged for their crimes,” he said.
“Eek,” Liza said under her breath.
Homer nodded approvingly. This was how the game was supposed to be played. Peter noticed that the ghosts stood behind Homer instead of in front. Clearly, they sensed danger.
But from who?
Certainly not Liza. That left only one other choice.
They were afraid of him.
It didn’t seem possible. They’d all died long before he was born, and nothing in his life had ever touched them. He decided to find out, and took a step forward.
“Where are you going?” Liza said under her breath.
“Just wait,” he whispered.
The ghosts retreated into the wall, making them half visible, half gone. The fear factor was real. It had never been that way before. In the past, ghosts had been his friends, and he’d confided in many of them while growing up. Some deep spiritual change had caused his physical presence to be feared
by even the most dangerous of spirits.
“Tell me how to find Selena,” Peter said.
“Selena can be found at the corner of Forty-second Street and Seventh Avenue,” Homer replied. “She will explain to you the meaning of the shadow people. Go now, or you will miss her.”
Forty-second Street and Seventh Avenue was in the heart of Times Square, and some of the most expensive real estate in the city. No fortune-tellers or psychics could afford to work out of storefronts there. Was Selena a street person?
“Are you sure that’s where she is?” Peter asked.
“Positive. Tell her I said hello.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks for the help. Say good-bye to your friends for me.”
“Have a nice day,” Homer said.
Peter took a last look at the ghosts with his Droid. They had pulled out of the wall, and seemed relieved that he and Liza were leaving. That makes two of us, he thought.
49
Liza sat in the backseat of the limo with her head resting against Peter’s chest. Peter could not remember her ever looking so vulnerable.
“That was scary,” she said. “What were those things going to do to us?”
“Something unthinkable,” he replied.
“So why didn’t they?”
“I’m not sure. Ghosts are strange. They have the ability to see through things. You know, like when a person lies or tries to pull a fast one, a ghost will know it in a second. The ghosts inside the arch saw something inside of me they didn’t like, and got frightened.”
“Have ghosts ever acted that way before?”
What had happened inside the arch was a brand-new experience. Had his demon come so close to the surface that Homer’s otherworldly friends had wanted nothing to do with him?
“No,” he said. “Never.”
Liza clasped his hand and gave it a healthy squeeze. “Remind me to bring you along the next time I visit a haunted house.”
They rode the rest of the way uptown in silence. Liza still hadn’t run away from him. If anything, she seemed even more committed to making their relationship work. That was good, because he had a sneaking suspicion that there were plenty of other surprises still in store. The limo braked at the corner of 42nd Street and Seventh Avenue, and the driver’s partition slid back.