“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 woman 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.