“An excellent idea,” Max said. “Concentrate on the buildings.”
Times Square had become a dead zone, and Peter tried to block out the carnage, and determine the exact day he was seeing in the future. Taking Holly’s suggestion, he studied the office buildings, and spotted the digital news ticker that ran across the front of the ABC News building that included an ESPN ticker for sports. The score for a Yankees game against the division rival Rays caught his eye. He was an ardent baseball fan, and knew that the game was to be played on Tuesday afternoon at the stadium in the Bronx.
“It will happen in four days,” he announced.
“Are you sure?” Max asked.
“Yes, Max. I’m looking at the score to a baseball game that hasn’t been played yet.”
“Well, at least we have some time,” Milly said, sounding relieved.
Peter began to fade. Entering the spirit world was exhausting, and took all of his strength. He started to pull out of his trance, then stiffened.
“What’s wrong?” Holly asked.
In the median of Times Square stood a menacing figure dressed in black. His hair was shorn to within an inch of his scalp, his face chiseled. He was unaffected by the scores of dying people, and looked like the Grim Reaper.
Peter had run out of gas. Pitching forward, his forehead hit the table with a bang.
“Oh my God, Peter!” Holly exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
Peter waited for his mind to clear. Lifting his head, he looked into Holly’s sweet face.
“I’ll live,” he replied.
“You scared me.”
“I think we’re done,” Milly declared. “Good job, Peter.”
“Yes, Peter, that was a splendid effort,” Lester said.
Everyone rose and patted him on the back. Each week, they gathered in Milly’s apartment and conducted a seance to see what evil was coming in the days ahead. In that regard, they had succeeded. Only, as Peter knew, the hard part was now to come.
They retired to the living room, and took their usual spots. Peter abandoned the comfy leather chair he usually sat in, and stood at the window, gazing at the blazing lights of Times Square thirty blocks away. In four days, it would be turned into a living hell, and he wrestled with how to deal with it. It was Milly who broke the silence.
“Tell us what you’re thinking,” she said.
Peter turned from the window. “We need to act quickly. The usual method of contacting the authorities isn’t going to work. We must get their attention right away.”
“He’s right,” Reggie said, chewing on his pipe. “We can’t send them a letter, and expect they’ll open it in time. Something else has to be done.”
“I agree,” Milly said. “Any suggestions?”
“We could bombard them with anonymous e-mails,” Holly offered.
“Anonymous e-mails can be mistaken as spam, and never seen,” Reggie reminded her.
“You’re right. Sorry.”
“How about a good old-fashioned phone call?” Lester suggested. “We can buy one of those devices that alter a person’s voice, in case the call is taped.”
“Phone calls can be traced,” Milly reminded him.
“Even cell phones?” Lester asked.
“Naturally.”
“How about running a banner behind a plane? Those usually get people’s attention.”
Lester had a knack for finding humor in just about any situation. This time, no one laughed, and the living room fell deathly quiet. Down below, a police cruiser passed the apartment building, its mournful siren punctuating the still night air.
“There’s no getting around it,” Peter said. “We need to make direct contact with the authorities. Since I’m the one who saw the attack, I should do it.”
“You can’t go to the authorities,” Milly said. “Look at what happened to poor Nemo.”
Peter knew perfectly well what had happened to Nemo. Once the government had discovered that Nemo was psychic, they’d stuck him on an estate in Virginia, where his handlers put him through vigorous interrogation sessions in an effort to find out what the government’s enemies were plotting. It was a wretched existence, and Peter hoped it never happened to him, but that still didn’t change the situation.
“I still have to do it,” Peter said.
“But why risk direct contact?” Milly asked. “Isn’t there some other way to tell them?”
“How do I pass along information that I don’t understand? I saw people dying in Times Square, but there was no blood, or gunfire, or explosions. Did some kind of bomb go off? Or was it something else? The authorities are experts at figuring out puzzles like this. I have to tell them what I saw. It’s the only way to prevent a catastrophe from happening.”
Milly sprang off the couch and crossed the room to where he stood. She grabbed his forearm and gave it a healthy pinch, just like she had when he was a little boy.
“They will never let you go, Peter. Once you start talking, they’ll realize you’re not normal, and then it will be over for you. Is that what you want? Never to see any of us again? And what about your career? Are you willing to toss that away as well?”
Peter said nothing. An uneasy silence fell over the group. Madame Marie cleared her throat. Everyone shifted their attention to hear what the old Gypsy had to say.
“I know you like my own son,” Madame Marie said. “You are a headstrong young man, and prone to making rash decisions. Think about this before you act. You have four days in which to make a decision. Use them wisely.”
“Yes, Peter, do think about it,” Max added. “There’s a lot at stake here.”
“A good night’s sleep will do the trick,” Lester joined in.
“That and a hot toddy always worked for me,” Reggie added.
They were the closest thing to a family that Peter had, and he would weigh their words carefully. Tomorrow was Saturday, and he had a matinee in the afternoon, and another show at night. He bid them goodnight, and Milly walked him to the door.
“Please let me know what you decide to do,” she said.
“I will, Milly. Thank you for your advice.”
“Like you ever listened to me.”
“I’ve always listened to you.”
“But have you ever obeyed?”
“Be safe, Peter,” she said.
“And you as well,” he replied.
His limo was idling at the curb, waiting to take him home. He spent a moment trying to clear his head. A little voice was telling him to go to the police, and tell them what he’d seen. It was the right thing to do, only it would lead to questions that he wasn’t prepared to answer. His friends were right. He needed to sleep on it, and come up with a better plan of attack.
A chill swept through his body. He looked up and down Central Park West, sensing another presence. Was Nemo trying to contact him? His friend could do that, and without thinking, he stepped off the curb. In the clouds was a translucent face that looked like Nemo’s.
“Peter, watch out!”
A city bus was hurtling toward him. He jumped back onto the curb, then gazed into the sky. Nemo was gone. Holly stood behind him, her teeth chattering from the cold. He draped his leather jacket over her shoulders.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
“A little star-gazing. What’s the mood upstairs?”
