PROLOGUE




Metropolitan Transit System, Harlem Line
Westchester, New York

As the train slowed for the next stop, the people in the aisle stood like a herd of animals grazing in a daze. Some were restless, ready to shove at the least provocation, to gain their exit from the overcrowded train. The lucky ones rose from their seats, grabbing packages from the overhead racks. A coat fell on the head of a man in front of Matthew. As some quickly exited the train, the standing herd came alive, scrambling for vacated seats before more people got on. An elderly lady took the empty middle seat next to Matthew. He hadn't noticed her before. Then he saw her companion standing just in front of him who gave him a wan smile as he looked up at her. Maybe a little younger, but definitely looking more worn around the edges. A pang of selfishness stabbed his conscience. It wasn't more then twenty minutes until his stop. He could stand that long but it didn't look like it would be an easy matter for her. He gave in to the prompting of his conscience and asked, "Would you like my seat?"
She gave him a big toothy smile and accepted thankfully.
Matthew gathered up his stuff, stood up and turned sideways in the aisle so she could get past him and take his seat. She started to pass him, but then stopped. She didn't sit down…couldn't sit down. He turned back and saw a long, skinny adolescent with head- phones clipped over a turned-around baseball cap, with a pierced eyebrow, sprawling in his vacated seat. Even the older woman looked a little surprised.
As he stood looking down at the young man, a new crowd of people flowed in from both ends of the car, weaving between those still standing, towards Matthew. His body tensed, anger gripping his groin. He started to clench and unclench his fists and bent his six-three frame toward the kid. With as much control in his voice as he could muster he said, "I didn't get up so you could take the seat. It was for this woman here," pointing behind himself.
The kid didn't even look up at him, his body jerking to the noise coming from his headphone, which seemed loud enough to explode his eardrums.
Matthew raised his voice, with less control this time and he repeated his words.
After a long pause, the kid looked up, his body still jerking to the noise in his ears, and muttered, "Tough shit! You own the train or something?" Then he averted his eyes as if Matthew ceased to exist.
Matthew, body tensed, tapped the boy on the shoulder, maybe harder then he needed to, he didn't know; he was distracted by the trembling anticipation gripping his stomach.
Without any warning the kid snapped up his head with clenched teeth and pushed Matthew's hand away. Maybe he was high, Matthew thought. He had been there himself in years past. On the other hand it was a normal defensive action. Maybe the kid felt guilty about what he had done, or ashamed about being called on it. None of it seemed to matter now. His actions were pissing Matthew off.
The teenager spit out some words…"keep your fucking hands off me man! You give up the seat I figure it's fair game. I had a tough day man, so fuck off! I paid for a seat on this train. I'm as entitled to one as that ugly old lady!"…and as he spoke he slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat and came out with a knife. He rested it in his lap with his fingers tensed around it, and a kind of 'go-ahead-make-my-day' look in his eyes.
Matthew stood up straight. He could feel the urge to take his hand and smash the kid's nose into his brain. One quick chop. He had done that once in self-defense, almost killing his assailant. It still haunted him how close he had come to nearly taking a life, and this wasn't a matter of self- defense. It was a matter of pride. He could feel the tension in his body and in the bodies of the people immediately around him. He looked around and sensed the developing fear, as people around him cleared the space, leaning away from him, from his clenched fists, the fire in his eyes, and the kid's unpredictable fury.
The older woman put a trembling hand on Matthew's shoulder. The look in her eyes took Matthew back. All he had wanted to do was give her his seat. Shaking her head sideways, she whispered silently with her lips, "No! No!" There was something else in her eyes….it wasn't fear or anger…it was sadness, like she had seen this sort of thing before. Matthew stepped back a half step. She was right. He didn't want this to end in a fight.
But he couldn't just let it go. He struggled with the demon taunting him with the humiliation of being defeated by the selfish genes sitting in front of him. Backing down would give approval to the kid's selfishness. His shoulders sagged a little in resignation, but as he looked into the older woman's eyes he was reminded of another pair of eyes…another older woman who had taught him a different way. A black-eyed Irish mystic who had come to him on Iona, when he was in training with the Minyan Community. She had helped him develop his gift, a gift that at first only she could see. She had taught him how to focus his energies. To heal with the power that flowed through him. It wasn't his power, it wasn't his energy. It was like a pent-up charge that flowed through him, but it wouldn't flow while he was angry either then or now. He started to breathe in and out. His anger had stopped his breathing. He started to say a prayerful meditation, eyes on the young man who was holding his knife more menacingly as he sensed Matthew backing off.
Matthew had to let go of his condemnation.
With each breath that he took in, he said to himself,
"May I dwell in the ground of all being…"
And then he let his breath out slowly and on the next intake
"May the world be free of suffering,"
and then on his next inhale,
"May I forgive my past histories."
"May I know the peace beyond all understanding."
And then looking into the eyes of the kid, he said in a low, almost inaudible voice on each successive exhale,
"May you dwell in the ground of all being…May your heart be free of suffering and may you know the peace that goes beyond all understanding."
Finally a peace from a place beyond his being came over him and in that moment he reached out and touched the young man's forehead with the palm of his right hand. It was a quick but soft movement. Not threatening. The palm of his hand felt like the end of a hot hose gushing out warm water through the young man's forehead into his body, but then he inhaled and the hose became a giant sump pump drawing the warmth back into Matthew's body.
The kid just crumbled into his seat, his arms went limp, and the knife fell to the floor, his head dangling to one side. Matthew could still hear the lower bass sounds of the noises emanating from the kid's headphones but his body had ceased jerking to its clashing.





CHAPTER 1



Mount Kisco
New York


Matthew Pasco stepped from his train in Mount Kisco still unable to shake his sense of unease. Icy snow shocked his face as he blended into the herd of people pulled back each night, as if on rubber bands, to the comfortable bedroom communities that surrounded the town.
There was a chaos of cars and cabs in the parking lot, but none for Matthew. He put up his hood, gloved his hands and started walking thankfully with the wind behind him. His rational mind tried to fight his premonitions, but like an aching tooth, they were intensified from the constant attention.
It was useless, he told himself, to worry about the rigged bids he and the kids had sent out for the landscapers so he focused his mind on the work to bring the landscapers' cartel to fruition as he trudged across the street, instinctively glancing behind him.
Moving more quickly as he passed the edge of the swamp that hemmed in the stores at the south end of town, he turned up the hill towards the big stone church.
Matthew approached the church from the back and turned again looking one last time over his shoulder. Reassured by the lack of people around him he pushed in through the basement door. Stamping his feet on the cold stone floor of the entry to shake the snow off his boots, he moved quickly through the darkened hallway without turning on any lights. The red glow of the exit sign over the door was enough as he passed through a familiar pair of doors into the church's undercroft. Everything about the space said old except the lingering odor of disinfectant from the recent washing of the worn linoleum floors. Light bleeding through from the kitchen gave form to shapes in the room and in the hallway beyond. The large room was empty except for three still noisily cleaning up after the soup kitchen's noonday meal. He would have liked to stop in to say hello, but he had his own helpers waiting for him.
He could hear the chatter and clatter from the youth group kids as he approached a computer-filled room. Entering quietly he could see everybody engrossed in something on one of the monitors, except EK and Helena off in a corner by themselves in deep conversation. He made a mental note that their playful flirting over the last month seemed a little too serious.
"His" kids were second generation Latinos, computer literate, thanks to the schools, and some of Matthew's most valuable resources. He bantered with them for a few minutes as he shook off his coat, connected his own computer to the DSL, and set up the access codes for the landscaper web page. As he weaned his volunteers from their other distractions, he inserted his compiler disk into their individual computers giving them access to encrypted data files. Matthew and the Minyan Community intended to conceal details of their project by using a multileveled web site for the exchange of information between the landscapers and the organization representing the Hispanics. Viewed in its entirety it would be seen as illegal.
Eventually, all the kids and Matthew started on the mundane data entry work. A good deal of his time was spent keeping them focused, coddling or cajoling the kids, especially Esterale, smart as a whip, but easily bored with the repetitiveness of her task. Promising a reward for the next fastest five entries he fished a candy bar out of his knapsack.
A hand on his shoulder made Matthew jump and knock over Julio's soda. Swinging around he nearly collided with Father Russo as he leaned into Matthew and whispered sharply, "You must have the kids go home. We have a problem. It's not an emergency, but it would be better if they were not here. Tell the kids it is because of the weather. I'll meet you in the kitchen after everybody has gone. Insist they all leave by the front of the church. Take them up yourself just to make sure. Tell them the back has not been shoveled, that it is not safe to go out that way. I'm going now to call the police."
Matthew raised his eyebrows, stood, and looked down at the little priest as if to ask a question.
"I'll explain later," the priest replied. After turning to say hello to Matthew's volunteers, addressing many by name he left as quickly as he had come in.
"Sorry guys, Father Russo has asked us to close up shop because the weather is worsening," Matthew said. "That, regretfully, includes the use of the computers."
In spite of groaning objections he got the kids moving, a difficult task with teenagers who wanted to procrastinate. In a cloud of noise chatter and clomping feet he herded them upstairs and out the front of the church onto Main Street.
He wanted to know what was going on, but Matthew compulsively went back and checked all the computers. He put the compiler disk, along with the cassette from the zip drive into a pocket of his tee shirt buried under other clothes; he packed his own computer, stuffed the data sheets the kids were working from into his knapsack, shouldered both, turned the lights off, locked the door, and then set off down the hall at a jog toward the large meeting room and into the kitchen. The priest wasn't there - only, to his surprise, the head of the local Hispanic Coalition.
"Romero, what are you doing here?" Matthew asked.
"Father Russo called me to rush over, he wanted me to identify someone."
"Identify some one?"
"That's all I know. He said to wait here for you, and he would be back for both of us. He had to get something."
Suddenly the little priest appeared, a little winded, in the doorway. He looked all of his 70 plus years. Stooped with tension he seemed smaller than his 5'-3" height. He stood with a long white chasuble on his shoulder, sadness in his dark eyes and a small bottle in his hands.
The strength in his voice belied his appearance and without any preamble he said, "Come! There is a dead body at the back door," then turning he walked out of the kitchen, through the big hall toward the back door that Matthew had come through earlier. Switching on the outside light, he opened the door. There, curled up in the entry, was the body of a man wrapped in a blanket, with a light covering of blown snow on his shoulder. His head was covered with a wool cap, his eyes closed, and his face had settled giving him a serene expression.
"My God," Matthew gasped, "let's get him inside."
"No! Better we let the police do that," the little priest said. "He is very dead. Frozen, I think. I don't know how long he has been here. Graciela from the kitchen stumbled over him as she was leaving. She kept her wits about her and came and got me."
"But…he wasn't here an hour …hour and a half ago when I came in. I would have seen him." He paused and said slowly, "He looks familiar.
Romero bent down and looked in the face of the dead man. The light from overhead was not bright and Romero's eyes were not good. He seldom wore the glasses he owned, and never seemed to have them when he needed them. He leaned very close to the face and then stood up and said, "It is Juan…Juan Perez. Of this I'm sure. He used to live over on Maple Street until he was ticketed in September for driving without a license. He didn't go to court. He was afraid he would lose his green card. Last week he was picked up standing in Kirby Plaza waiting for someone to hire him. The Coalition put up the money for his bond, but for some reason instead of going back to live with his friends he moved into a lean-to out in the swamp."
Romero leaned down again and touched the body and added, "The blanket around Juan is frozen. The lean-to must have offered no shelter from the rains, and now this," he said waving his hands in an angry gesture at the snow. "He didn't die here. He is as solid as a rock. Not in an hour. This could not have happened in an hour. He died someplace else, maybe last night. Somebody brought the body here."
"Who?" Matthew asked.
"Maybe others camping out in the woods. Maybe they didn't want the police looking around for him out there. I don't know, Matthew," Romero said with a sad shrug of his shoulders.
"Shall I call the police, Padre?"
"Now it is OK. The children and Graciela are gone. Romero, would you be willing to say you just found a body as you were leaving the church?"
"Si."
"Good. Use the phone in the kitchen while I give Juan last rites," the old man said, as he knelt beside the body and anointed the young man's head with the oil of unction.
"Please pray with me, Matthew."
The two men knelt over the body with the snow blowing in their faces, while Romero went back inside and called the police. As Matthew tried to center himself, a voice inside him nagged, saying it was too late for prayers. This man is dead. God! Why do you let these things happen? Yet he meditated as the priest prayed in the old way.
In minutes the police arrived. The station was so close they could have walked, but three cars with light-bars flashing sent snow and sand flying as they skidded to a stop on the street alongside the church two hundred feet from the station house. In another five minutes an ambulance arrived from the hospital, about a half a mile up from the church on Main Street.
Because of the wind and snow it was impossible to guess from which direction the body had been carried or dragged from to be delivered to the back of the church, but it was assumed that it was dragged up from the marsh. It took about an hour for the police to get the three men's statements, photograph everything and remove the body.
"I'm sending a few men back into the swamp to see if there are any more idiots trying to live out there. You willing to accompany them?" the sergeant asked Romero and the little priest, inferring they were Latinos.
"Yes!" replied Father Russo, immediately heading out toward the police station, his feet on slippery and uneven pavement. He nearly fell twice on the way, even with Matthew helping him. Because of the danger Matthew talked the priest into waiting at the police station for them and went on with Romero and the officers into the marsh. One of the policemen seemed to know exactly where the trail was that led toward the raised hummock areas that offered potentially drier land.
Agitated, Matthew felt the police knew about people living in the swamp, but had done nothing for them. Maybe they didn't want any more friction than necessary with the Latino community. Of late, there had been threats and counterthreats of lawsuits by the Town Board and the Hispanic Coalition.
There had just been an election, and some of the newer Town Board members were pushing hard to force the day workers out of sight. They wanted them to gather only in the north parking lot on the fringe of town near the railroad tracks, rather than at the more central Kirby Plaza parking lot. The day workers felt the north lot was too far out of the way. People looking to hire wouldn't know where to look for them. The issue was at a standoff for the moment, but volatile.
They entered the swamp with its dark play of shadows from the streetlights behind them. The stream to their right was ice-encrusted and crisscrossed the marsh like a snake through tall grass. Within minutes the two officers, followed by Matthew and Romero, came upon the first rise of drier land. They found one lean-to of frozen plastic layered over a fallen tree. The floor inside was covered with layers of scrap cardboard as an insulator, but taking off his glove and touching it, Matthew realized it was frozen hard to the ground. Beams of moving flashlight caught a couple of milk crates containing clothes wrapped in plastic bags. Closer inspection showed them to be as frozen as the cardboard. There was a beat-up lawn chair, but no other signs of habitation. The frozen Juan could have been dragged or carried from here up to the church. He had been a small, lean man weighing little more than a hundred pounds.
They moved deeper into the swamp. Not entirely frozen, they were forced to walk a narrow path infested with thorn bushes. It was the only way to the high rise of land ahead of them, but the bare thorns were a threat to the men's heavy winter coats. One caught the skin between Matthew's coat and his short gloves, tearing skin and drawing blood. He was more careful after that, protecting his wrist with his other gloved hand, praying that this search was a wild goose chase, and that nobody else would be fool enough to continue living in this frozen bird sanctuary, or dead for the trying.
They saw two lean-tos as they approached, one barely in sight of the other, the farthest almost hidden by the driving snow and closely spaced young saplings. The first had been demolished by the wind, the plastic whipping back and forth on a strand of rope between two trees, making staccato snapping sounds. The other one, more substantial, had a box-like shape to it, constructed of boards nailed to a few trees and covered over by a large blue tarp secured into the ground. Wind driven snow had started to pile up on one side. They found the lapped end of the tarp that acted as a door to the shelter. The sergeant pulled it back and went in. He stepped out almost immediately and, beckoning to Romero, said, "There are two guys in the shelter, huddled against the back wall. They look alive. I don't speak Spanish. You talk to them. Tell 'em they can't stay here. They have to come with us."
"What will happen to them when they come with you? You going to arrest them?"
"No, we'll take them down to the county shelter at the airport after we question them about the guy found at the church."
"You take them all the way down there, how will they get up here during the day to find work?" snapped Romero.
"I don't know, it's not my problem. They just can't stay out here in the marsh. Now go in and talk to them, damn it. I want to get back to the station house, it's fucking freezing out here."
Romero was being stubborn. Even Matthew was feeling the cold. His work boots weren't waterproof and by now soaked through and his feet hurt.
The cop was angry. "Listen Romero, I'm freezing my butt off out here for these stupid Spics. Get them out of there. These people are nothing but trouble in this town. If I had my way I'd ship you all out of town to the damn airport shelter."
Matthew butted in. "Maybe they can stay at the church. Do you have any objections to that?"
"I don't give a damn where they stay," said the Sergeant, "just as long as it isn't in the damn woods or under the heat lamps at the train station for the commuters to stumble over in the morning. The Town Supervisor is pissed. The Captain is pissed. Says we can't have people dying in the fucking woods. Gives the town a bad name. Some people will think we don't care. The press will be all over everybody once this gets out. I want these wetbacks out of the lean-to. That's all I give a damn about right now. Go in and talk to them Romero, or I'll go back in and cuff'em and arrest'em."
"On what charges?"
"Vagrancy? Does it matter? You know I can do it! What's with you? You want these people to freeze to death out here hombre? One is not enough for you? It' ain't my problem or the town's problem they got no work. I'm a policeman not some fuckin' social worker. Enough! You going in, or am I?" the Sergeant said, one hand on his gun, the other on his cuffs.
"I'll go. Let me borrow your light."
"Do you want me to come with you, Romero?" Matthew asked.
"Si."
Inside, Romero went over and started talking to the men in Spanish, the light pointed up at the ceiling and not in their eyes. He introduced Matthew as amigo. One of the men turned on another flashlight. Its weak batteries gave off a dim light. Matthew understood a word here and there, but not the conversation. It was too quick for his limited Spanish.
He looked around. They had sleeping bags at least, and a few crates - one had some food in it, the others had clothes in plastic bags. There was cardboard on the floor like in the other lean-to. Matthew bent down and touched it. It was cold but not icy. The tarp must have worked the day before to keep the rains out before the unexpected freeze came with the snowstorm.
Eventually, Romero turned to Matthew and said, "They will come with us. What other choice do they have? Only one has a green card. The other says he had one but somebody stole it. Unlikely. Maybe they won't ask. Hopefully the police will be happy just to get them out of the woods. We will take them to the church, but I don't think they can stay there for more than tonight. The last time we had people staying at the church they sent the building inspectors...said it was a violation...fined the church big money until we could relocate the men. Give me a hand getting their stuff together."
Romero went to the flap. "OK, Sergeant Golaski. We will be out in a few moments."
"You know him?" Matthew asked.
"Si, he is a good man most of the time. They must be leaning on him to act the way he is acting tonight. The rich people… the commuters are pressing the Town Board again to move us up to the north parking lot. Men like Golaski are the ones who get stuck with doing the prodding. Being the metal between the hammer and the anvil." Suddenly Romero's emotions got the better of him. "It's all bunch of bullshit. They just don't want us living here. Out of sight out of mind."
Romero turned to the men and said, "Andele! Pronto! Pronto!"
Everybody worked to gather up the men's belongings. Once their things where packed and pushed into the crates, the men moved out of the lean-to, along the trail to the police station. The Latinos were afraid to go into the station and kept pulling back. Romero took the sergeant aside and talked with him. Questions were exchanged outside the station house about the dead man and minutes later Romero and the men headed off for the church. Luckily, neither of the policemen bothered to ask for their green cards. Like the Town Board they just wanted the problem to go away.
Matthew went into the station to find the old priest, sitting with his stuff, almost asleep. Matthew shouldered his knapsack and computer, and then picked up the milk crate of clothes he was carrying and walked with the old priest back up to church. It was hard going; the wind and biting snow was in their faces.
It gave Matthew an eerie feeling to walk in through the back door where the body had been less than an hour ago. "How did it get there?" he asked the two Latinos. As with the police neither owned up to dragging it up from the marsh area.
Romero and the two Latino men had preceded Matthew and the priest into the large room, and they were already spreading their stuff out to dry. The kitchen lights were still on, and Romero was in there making coffee. It smelled good. He looked at his watch; seven thirty. Enough time for a cup, and to thaw out before he had to leave. He could easily make the eight ten train to Katonah. God, he felt frozen to the bone, especially his feet. He checked one of the radiators in the kitchen but it was cold.
"Romero, I'll be back in a moment, I want to get my boots dried out. Save me a cup of that stuff, will you?"
"Si."
Turning lights on as he went, Matthew started down the corridor past the classrooms toward the boiler room, which was under the front of the church. He found the room, and went into the roar of the big boilers that created the steam hissing in the radiators around the outer walls of the building, working overtime to keep the cold at bay. It was loud in the little room. He leaned against the wall and took his boots off, then his socks, which were almost as wet as the boots, rubbing, reddening his feet as he did. He placed his boots and socks next to the old firebox and then started walking back in his bare feet. The floors were cold. Turning lights off as he went, he inadvertently turned off the lights in front of him, but kept going anyway. He could see well enough with the light from the large room. It was then that he noticed a flickering of light through a crack under one of the classroom doors - the one he and his youth group used. Had he left a computer on? No, he was positive he hadn't left anything on. Or had he? He got his keys out as he approached the door, but they were unnecessary…the door just gave way as he pushed the key in, the inside of the jamb on the floor in front of him. The only light in the room was coming from one of the computers…a maze of numbers, symbols, and gibberish scrolling across the screen, creating a flickering of light in the darkened room. Matthew found the switch and turned on the lights, wishing he hadn't. He found the scene before him totally bewildering and completely outside of his frame of reference. Somebody had trashed the place. He had never seen the sort of destruction now before him, except maybe in a movie, and that wasn't real. This was.
All the computers in the room - the seven used computer systems that he had spent months scrounging around to get - all of them except the one that was on had been smashed in or thrown onto the floor, the screens obliterated, the casings around the computers smashed, the keyboards broken in half, one thing piled on top of the other. Involuntarily he leaned against the door and then slowly slid to the floor, staring at the mess. Who would do this sort of thing? Who would have the audacity to break into a church? It didn't make sense. Absently he rubbed his feet, still cold from his trek through the swamp. His whole body felt cold, depressed as if somebody had pulled the plug on his body's power supply…drained him of all his energy.
Dear God, what am I going to do? Move a muscle change a thought, get up, move. Nobody has been hurt. Computers can be replaced. But the data? He searched frenetically for the zip disk in the pocket of his shirt. His hand finally touching it, he relaxed a little bit. He had the compiler disk as well. He got up and went over to the working computer, turned it off and then booted it up, no problem. He typed in a few commands trying to access the Landscaper Cartel's database, without inserting the compiler. All he got was the same gibberish that had been on the screen moments before.
Somebody had tried to access the data in the computer without the compiler.
He left the computer on and went over to the pile of broken, decimated computers. If they couldn't get into the program, why did they destroy all the equipment? Anxiety started to build in his chest. Frantically, he started pulling the pile apart and counting, one, two, three, four ... shit! Where were they? ... five …one more, all I need is one more. But it wasn't there. Whoever it was had taken one of the computers. Which one? Whose system had they taken? What data did it have in it? Different computers had different files in them. Only the zip drive had it all. Only his portable had most of it, including the demo program. That was safe. But what had been on the system they had taken?
"Jesus! Mary! Mother of God!"
Matthew jumped as he turned and saw Romero in the doorway with a cup a coffee in his hand and anger in his face at what was before him.
"Somebody broke in, destroyed most of what we have, but left one of them on, and took another. Wait a second," he said and went back to counting. "Yes I'm sure of it. They took one of the computers, not any of the screens or the keyboards, but definitely one of the computers.
Romero came into the room and walked around. Finally, he handed the coffee he was carrying to Matthew. "Here, drink this. You look drained."
Both men were silent, with Matthew lost in the thoughts and questions cascading one after the other through his head as he sipped the hot coffee. It burned a little, but for some reason the pain of it felt right. Finally he broke the silence.
"We should call the police."
"What makes you think they didn't have anything to do with this? Or with Perez being put outside the church door?"
"Not the police!"
"Why not?"
"They're supposed to protect us. They wouldn't do something like this. Some of them even come to this church."
"It all depends on how you define 'us', Matthew. To listen to the Sergeant out in the marsh I don't think he considered Perez, me, or the two huddled out in the lean-to as 'us', now did he? Maybe you, but not us. You getting my drift? You remember his words?"
Matthew thought about that for a moment and then replied, "No, I guess not. So what are we going to do?"
"Nothing tonight. If we need to report it for insurance then I will do so tomorrow. For tonight we will hide the one working computer. Tomorrow we will see if any of the others can be fixed. And from now on we will have to be more careful. Somebody with some kind of clout must know about our Cartel project. Enough at least for them to want to find out more. Enough to risk doing this kind of destruction. I don't know how. Who knows, it could have been as simple as one of the landscapers we've recruited saying more then he should at one of the bars. Eventually it was bound to happen."
"You expected this to happen?" Matthew asked.
"Not this, Matthew. I thought we had a pretty good cover, what with it being a Youth Group activity. But someone is obviously trying to stop us. That I expected. Working to unionize the grape pickers in California I learned to expect the worst. It's about time you did too. We've been blessed just to get this far without something bad happening. Didn't the Minyan Community prepare you for something like this?"
"No...not really…and it could have been my fault they found out about what we are were doing here."
"Maybe, my friend," Romero said putting his hand over his mouth, "but what makes you think it is so?"
"Only a feeling I was being followed. I figured I was just getting
paranoid after the bids went out."
"Ah!" Romero replied, "How long?"
"Since last week - I'm really not sure."
"It could be," Romero said with a kindness in his voice, seemingly unwilling to condemn Matthew for what happened. "Maybe they have connected you with us. It's not too difficult. You stand out in a crowd of us. Just your size alone makes you stand out. Yes we will have to be more…how do you say it…circumspect from now on. Give them the illusion you have been scared off. I don't think you should be seen too much with us anymore."
"But how will the work get done?"
"We will find a way. Not to worry. Let us get this one computer safe. We will put it up in the Padre's office. And then you should get home before the trains stop running. What happened to your shoes?"
"They're in the boiler room. I'll get them after I disconnect the computer and help you take the stuff over to the rectory. What about the rest?"
"I will take care of it. You get your shoes on… Meet me in the kitchen. Hurry, it is almost eight o'clock. Your train will be soon." And then he added, "Don't mention this to the good Father, I will talk to him about it in the morning. He looks worn out and the death of Perez hit him hard. So many deaths make one sad. Especially such a needless death of a young man like Perez."
Matthew went off to the boiler room. His shoes weren't dry but he put them on. At least the socks were warm. He went back to the kitchen and said his good-bye to Father Romero and the two young Latinos, trying to act as if nothing had just happened.
Rushing, he headed out into the storm toward the train station, trying to walk quickly, but the ice under the snow made his footing treacherous. The snow blowing almost horizontally was brightly spotted here and there with hazy halos from the street lamps and the traffic light at the far intersection blinked its caution warnings, along with the signs over the stores of a few die-hard merchants, but not much else. One or two cars on the streets and only one in motion skidding up the hill towards him. No people. Turning the corner at the bottom of the hill he could see a snowplow working in the parking lot near the station now nearly empty, pushing the snow into a high pile. Even the spots reserved for cabs at the foot of the overhead walkway were empty, a bad sign; there might not be any more trains.
He climbed the stairs to the enclosed passageway that led to the platform between the two tracks, waiting under the overhead heat lamps. The enclosure itself cut out most of the wind. The only drawback was the strong smell of stale urine, but he could tolerate it in exchange for the warmth of the glass enclosed space and heat lamps. From his perch above the tracks he could see the light of any oncoming trains and make it down the stairs to the platform in a matter of seconds. For a while he was alone until three teenage girls came up the stairs. Poorly dressed for the weather they too huddled under the overhead heat lamps for whatever warmth they offered. One carried a bag from the Borders bookstore and he assumed they might have worked there.
Then, a man came up the stairs -he at least looked to be a man by his height and size. His face was hooded over with the strings of the hood pulled tight, his chin tucked in, and his head turned down and shaded in the shadow created by the overhead lights. He didn't stay in the upper level overpass, but walked down to the foot of the stairs and leaned against the wall enclosing the staircase and immediately started working to light a cigarette. It took him two, no three tries - the wind kept blowing out his matches.
About a minute later, another man came up the stairs - short, made almost round by his dark winter coat. From his height, Matthew thought he might have been Hispanic. Again, it was difficult to tell as he also had his hood tied tightly around his face, and wore a dark scarf around his mouth and nose to keep from breathing the bitter air. At least there are people, Matthew thought to himself. That means there might be a train coming soon. But from which direction? Back into the city or north toward Katonah? His anxiety was relieved as soon as he caught a glimpse of a train's light moving slowly down the track toward the station from the city. "Thank God!" he whispered to himself. There was still plenty of time to make it down the stairs. He was impatient to be home.
The girls immediately headed down the stairs, practically skipping past the big man as he took one long, last drag on his cigarette. Matthew shouldered his computer and followed after them, sensing the little round man not far behind him.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs and started to step around the man, puffing on his cigarette, he felt a push from behind. His legs became entangled. Falling, he flung his hands out in front of him, but landed first on one of his knees, rolling into his fall onto his shoulder, and landing on his knapsack.
Hands started pulling him erect; no…somebody was pulling the computer from his shoulder…the big man who had been at the bottom of the stairs.
Matthew reached up and tried to yank it back. Then he saw the flash of a knife in the man's hand. With a quick swipe, the shrouded man cut through the strap holding Matthew's computer case. The knife flicked near his eyes as it headed for his chest, to reappear with the straps of his knapsack wrapped around the blade until they too gave way to its serrated edge along with parts of his winter coat. Matthew struggled to get up, pushing with his elbows and arms until he was blindsided by a blow from behind. His arms came up instinctively to protect his head from another blow as he felt hands rolling him over, ripping the knapsack from his back. On his hands and knees now, he tried to rise to a standing position to defend himself, when a boot caught him hard in the side and he tumbled over again onto his back and then rolling into space he landed with a sharp pain in his ribs on the railway ties, inches from the edge of the tracks. Dazed, he lay there hearing screams...seemingly from some place above him…then an awareness of the vibrations from the steel next to his head. Painfully moving his body he saw the onrushing train slowing but still entering the station. A paralyzing fear and numbness held his body. He tried standing, but his knee gave out from under him, and he found himself kneeling as if in prayer, his legs straddling the inside rail. The train was almost upon him when he threw himself over the third rail, blessedly protected by a heavy covering or he would have been seared meat.
Landing again on his back, his eyes stared up at the overhead cantilevered platform as he wedged himself in tighter to its supporting structure as far from the track as possible. The screeching and hissing of the train's brakes was deafening as the sounds reverberated off the concrete wall next to his head. The train's braking steel wheels screamed the train to a stop, only inches from his head as they skidded past him.