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  And of course he remembered enough from some history class that the Amish were known as the Pennsylvania Dutch.

  And Holy Smokes--is that what I caused? Could I have over-focused on Yonkers being originally a Dutch town, and this is what I get?

  Pike was thinking now, why did I have to get fancy here . . . what would have been wrong with focusing on New York City itself, and the Empire State Building for crying out loud?

  Highly unlikely you could have gone too far haywire handling it that way.

  But whatever, you had to establish the date at least, and the buggy was coming up on him, and it didn’t seem appropriate to stop these people and ask a question--much less that one--but enough was enough and as they passed Pike went ahead and called out to the kid in front holding the reins, “Hey is this July 3rd, 2016?” And the buggy passed and no one responded, except the kid turned toward Pike just a touch, it was almost imperceptible, but Pike could pick up the kid nodding that it was.

  So that was good--not that you were 100 percent convinced but you’d go with it until proven otherwise--and now the question was how the heck do you get out of Pennsylvania. Pike realized that Gee, he may have landed in Ohio or Indiana or one of those states too, since he was pretty sure the Amish population extended east . . . but five minutes later a regular car came by, and it did have a Pennsylvania plate, and the guy stops and rolls down the passenger window and asks Pike if he needs help.

  That’s the way it was in these rural communities, wasn’t it, that it would be unusual for someone not to stop.

  Pike was in luck, the guy didn’t ask too many questions, and it turned out they were outside of a town called Bausman, in Lancaster County, and that’s where the guy was headed, and he dropped Pike in front of a feed store where he said there was a bus three times a day to Lancaster, and from there you’d be on your way wherever else you needed to be.

  Pike thanked the guy, and he got the point about the bus, but he sure didn’t feel like figuring out any schedule much less waiting around for one . . . and there was a gas station up the street and you might as well trying hanging around there, and a few minutes later he got a ride from an older gal who was headed to Lancaster--her once a week stock-up shopping excursion she said, though her driving made him pretty nervous on these two-lane roads, but an hour and a half later she got him there okay.

  Now . . . what would be your best bet . . . and Pike found a map in a convenience store and it looked like 3 hours driving to Yonkers, and you weren’t going to find anyone from here going there, that would be a needle in a haystack. There was a train though, he found out, not a local deal but Amtrak itself . . . and dang, 141 miles station to station but over 5 hours travel time and $56 dollars.

  Ooh boy. Pike asked the counter guy to please check the schedule, and there was one tonight, but there was also one leaving in about 20 minutes, and Pike asked where, and the guy pointed, and Pike was out the door . . . jogging at first, then picking up speed, no idea how far the station was but it felt like you were close enough to the center of town that you had a shot at it.

  Meanwhile this running for stuff was getting real, real old . . . but Pike knew he could turn on the real jets if he had to and make it, the consideration being don’t attract attention while doing it.

  He entered a residential neighborhood, and then there was Lancaster Catholic High School he was coming up on, and on the other side of that you could feel some railroad activity across what looked like Route 501 and off to the right . . . and his instincts this time were good, and he spotted the old brick station with the three long half-moon shaped windows in the front facade, that a lot of similar old structures tended to have . . . and the train was sitting there on the platform when he got there, and who knows how long that’ll be for, so Pike got right on.

  Of course there was a 20 dollar surcharge for not buying your ticket at the station, so boom, that didn’t take much, his wallet was half empty before he got started. But at least you were going in the right direction, though you’d be getting in late . . . and Pike reminded himself next time don’t cut this stuff so close, give yourself time in case something goes wrong . . . but he was sure hoping there wouldn’t be a next time.

  Chapter 23

  On July 4th Don and his partner Otto were working the 4 to midnight shift. Don didn’t like working holidays period. But nighttime could be extra dicey, with people’s frustrations coming out and the extra festivities developing.

  The previous 4th of July for example, Don and Otto handled a call where one guy threw his brother-in-law out the window, and it boiled down to an argument about firecrackers.

  This time it was tame enough, they were mostly patrolling, not many calls, and all of them minor so far, and Don was hoping that was a good omen. But then they get the particular call, the projects on Nepperhan Avenue, south Yonkers, a 415F, which typically is a family dispute.

  A little guy opened the door and it still seemed okay, and as Otto asked the guy some questions trying to piece together who was what here, Don took a look at the rest of the apartment, and someone fired a blast through one of the bedroom doors and killed him.

  Not on the spot of course, Don lasted 9 days, beyond what any of the doctors predicted--which was that he shouldn’t have even made it to the hospital.

  Pike figured it was at least partly because he was a very tough guy, fighting with everything he had . . . but partly obviously, because he’d been empowered. Like Pike. And Dani. And the trucker’s brother. And whoever else.

  So Pike had taken the time back home to look up the incident, review it, catch the follow-ups.

  They’d arrested the mutant that night without incident--a Willis Roseboro, 27, an unemployed cement-worker. The courts seemed to act pretty quickly and efficiently in Westchester County, and by the end of September with a jury selected and ready to go, Roseboro pled guilty and was sentenced to 18 to 25 years at Attica Correctional Facility, avoiding the likely 25 to life outcome of a trial.

  Fine. The aftermath was clear, that wasn’t the problem. And like a lot of these trips were boiling down to--not real complicated--you had a couple ways to go.

  Did you stop the thing from happening--or try to anyway--or did you stop the guy from being there, so it wouldn’t happen?

  That was a muddled thought . . . but applied to Don’s deal . . . did you stop Roseboro? Like intercept him earlier in the day, don’t let him be there when Don and Otto show up?

  Or how about this one--you cause some kind of other disturbance at that location at that same time, and Don and Otto get sidetracked and don’t enter the apartment right away, or at all.

  Or--how about this angle, if all else fails--you stop Erline from donating the poor guy’s organs.

  Oooh man.

  The train was passing through New Jersey and Pike was plenty comfortable and you could pull a lever on your seat and put your feet up, but he had a headache coming on, partly because of ridiculous ideas like those last couple he just came up.

  You stick to the obvious, he reminded himself, you go with what has at least a semblance of a track record. You don’t go outside the box and reinvent the wheel.

  Meaning the second option, stop Don from being there, period.

  Pike wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t something you pinpointed, but that seemed the most reasonable . . . Maybe the safest too, you don’t want to ignore that part.

  The train was an hour late, so closer to six hours. Pike had this experience before once on Amtrak going to Reno for an 8th grade weekend field trip--the thing just stopped in the middle of nowhere for no reason. No announcements, no other trains which might be interfering--zippo. So you dealt with it. Pike was thinking what if you commuted to work on these things, like a lot of folks do back here--how would it be to have that happen frequently? This only reinforced Pike’s vision that when the time came to actually earn money, he was going work for himself--or at least don’t get trapped against your will.

  Either way they wer
e here now, Yonkers Station, and Pike grabbed his coat and climbed down and took a couple steps and thought--you know what?

  And he got back on. What’d we have . . . 8:15? You had about 24 hours until the . . . incident . . .but more importantly, where were you going to sleep tonight--and more acutely--why did you need to sleep anywhere tonight?

  So he asked one of the passengers who hadn’t gotten off, what next, direction-wise--and the guy told him well, ultimate direction-wise--after a complicated sounding change-over that Pike didn’t want to hear all about--it’d be Chicago.

  The guy pulled out a little brochure with schedules and such, and Pike realized they gave him the same brochure when he boarded, and he thanked the guy and found his seat again and the schedule was in the pocket--and Gee . . . loosely calculating it all out . . . it looked like first of all this thing sat for a few hours before going anywhere, which was fine . . . and then you could get off in Albany, and it wouldn’t be light by then, but good enough, you mostly the killed the night off--and then get back on one the other way in time to properly address the Don thing. If there ever was a proper way.

  So that’s what he did, and like he was hoping, the conductor didn’t bother him, since Pike faked being asleep when the guy came by collecting tickets from new passengers--and it wasn’t a bad ride at all, he got some actual sleep, and when he woke up Pike headed to the lounge car, and there was plenty of action in there, people laughing, having fun, even dancing to someone’s Ipad, though the music was topheavy that old 70’s stuff that Pike couldn’t relate to.

  It was a bit more dicey coming back, some serious time on a bench in the station in Albany reading a couple Sports Illustrateds that were laying around, and then an announcement that the return train had a connection issue--whatever the heck that meant--and Pike started to panic. Not full-fledged panic, you weren’t there quite yet--but it was a relief when the train did show up at 4:45 in the morning and you pulled into Yonkers station--for real this time--at just under 7:30.

  Mitch--for all the trash talking Pike gave him--was pretty darn thorough when he put his mind to it, and he’d come up with Don and Erline’s address, which Pike had in his pocket and was checking out now.

  He was also ravenous--he’d avoided the return fare by walking around between cars after he got on when you figured the conductor would be doing his thing, and then when he finally did sit down the guy either accidently let him go or had better things to do.

  But that said, he dropped 25 bucks in a hurry in that lounge car. It was mostly snacks but they were pricey and he gobbled them up.

  Downtown Yonkers--at least the early morning version--had undergone a facelift, you could tell that, but there was a seedy underbelly to the place, where you felt like what was there before what they were trying to replace was still poking through . . . Kind of like, Pike was thinking, you splash cologne on a guy who hasn’t taken a shower.

  It was also the 4th of July of course, so it wouldn’t be business as usual.

  The good part of what looked like was there before were several pizza stands, none of them open though unfortunately, though one guy was sweeping the sidewalk out front, and Pike asked the guy if he knew where Gliver Street was, and the guy got real serious and said he lived in that neighborhood, and what do you want to know for.

  Pike wasn’t sure what to say, and then the guy released his scowl and it was all a joke and Pike sort of nervously laughed it off, the guy did have him going there. Rough looking guy too, heavy-duty New York accent, someone who had a few stories in him for sure.

  And definitely Italian, and if you brought Don Pascarella up to the guy, who knows, Yonkers wasn’t that big a place was it, maybe he really would know the guy . . . and he could help you, shed some light, indirectly give you an idea? . . . Nah, awful concept Pike realized, would backfire all around.

  So leaving it alone, he got directions from the guy--there was a bus that went up Warburton Avenue and then you could walk it over the top of the hill, the guy said, which’d be your best bet--and Pike asked if he happened to be open for business yet and the guy said not yet, in fact not at all, it’s the 4th--but his buddy would be by the time he got up there, on Roberts, that that guy was always open, even holidays.

  So that part went fine, when he got there he stuffed his face--a couple slices and a baked ziti--Pike thinking a, train rides made you hungry, and b, we need more joints like this in California, but c, the only important part . . . what now.

  Bottom line, you better find Don somehow, otherwise what now is going to be a real moot point.

  Gliver Street was a dead end cul-de-sac with an extra loop in it, at the top of Wardell Avenue where it looked like the road used to go through but they cut it off to make a business park on the other side.

  No 29 was at the end where it started to curve. The neighborhood was mostly 2-family houses, and you could tell it was all one big development once. The houses were well-maintained and some had added ornate ironwork fences and gates and a couple had marble steps. Don’s was one of those, not a speck of anything out of the place in the exterior and you assumed there’d be many meticulous upgrades inside as well.

  There were kids out riding bikes and skateboarding and few were slamming around hockey pucks, and American flags were all over the place and you had that early 4th feel where fireworks were just starting to go off here and there.

  What it looked like, the owners typically lived on the first floor, since that gave them access to the backyard, and they rented out the upstairs apartment. Not a bad idea, that could help a lot.

  Mitch had done his homework there too, coming up with Don being the owner, not the renter, and owning the place since 2009.

  By the time Pike walked the long block to 29 he was as familiar with neighborhood as you needed to be. Now you just needed the guy home.

  Pike steadied his nerve and rang the bell. Nothing . . . He tried it again, and nope . . . As a final effort he banged on the door with the side of his fist. Pretty hard.

  An irritated-looking man came around the side of the house and opened the gate and said, “Yo brother. What’s up, you need me so bad?”

  It was interesting putting the real guy together with the image after all this time--in fact Pike couldn’t help it, it kind of blew his mind.

  But you had to stick to business, and he said, “You garden, this time of year?”

  The guy looked at Pike like he was crazy, and Pike was embarrassed, like he was having a senior moment you read about with old people--and why wouldn’t someone garden in the middle of summer . . . since it wasn’t exactly December right now.

  Pike was trying to make conversation, but that came out way wrong.

  But Don helped him out. “Today, you mean? Why, I’m in your way?” He was friendly, he had a warm smile, he reminded Pike a little of the guy sweeping the front of the pizza place, but a little softer.

  “Well sorry to catch you then,” Pike said. “I dunno, I was just . . . it seemed like a good day to . . . my parents are looking to move, and I was checking out neighborhoods. Why not, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Don said. “Don’t do nothing without minding your p’s and q’s. To the hilt, I’m saying. Your folks tol’ you I’m sure, you buy a house, that’s the most important move of your life.”

  “Big financial risk,” Pike said.

  “Not risk, no. Long as you don’t do nothing rash.”

  “Wrong word then,” Pike said.

  “You’re right in a way though,” Don said, “you buy investment property, you speculate--then you are opening the risk bucket.”

  Pike wasn’t sure where he was going but he wanted to keep the conversation alive. “How much difference--would you say--having the extra apartment makes?”

  “My tenants? Them’s good people. We lucked out. And sure, that’ll pay your taxes at least.”

  “Ah.”

  Don said, “You’re not from around here, you don’ mind me asking.”

  “Calif
ornia,” Pike said. What else could you say.

  Don studied him. “Well then, I give yous credit, helping your parents. We ain’t got enough of that, frankly.”

  Pike knew Don could have asked him more questions, cut right through the BS, but he left him alone, which Pike admired.

  Don said, “I’ll show you my tomatoes. I got 3 varieties. Lot of work though maintaining em’. Your family might reconsider based on that alone.” He gave Pike a wink and pointed to the back yard and Pike followed him. This was a nice man. This was going to be rough.

  Don had a lot more crops than just tomatoes back there and most of the space was taken up by raised beds. There was an elaborate looking drip system and even the deck coming off the house was full of stuff growing.

  “You have a green thumb,” Pike said.

  Just then there was another bang on the door, and Don looked at Pike and rolled his eyes, like what is going on today, and they went back to the front and there was a middle-aged guy standing there sticking out his hand.

  “Mike Keegan,” the guy said. Big grin.

  Pike felt ice cold water sloshing around in his arteries. One of Mitch’s guys--the transplant people--was Mike Hegan.

  Not the same--the guy had definitely pronounced it Keegan.

  So in any other circumstance that would be a simple coincidence.

  But not here.

  Pike knew, not here.

  Mike Keegan was explaining to Don that he was just moving into the neighborhood, and as Pike glanced back down Gliver Street there was a rental U-Haul there, that hadn’t been a few minutes ago when he walked past.

  Mike was a gregarious guy, talking a mile a minute, jumping around from one thing to the next.

  The bottom line was, he could use a hand, if possible, in getting an awkward couch inside and up the stairs.

  Don looked at his watch. It was after 2 by now, and you figured if he was working 4 to midnight that would mean getting to work, maybe 3:45 at the latest . . . so leaving here by 3:30. If Mitch had it right, Don worked out of the precinct house on Tuckahoe Road, and Pike had checked it out, it was 12 minutes give or take from Don’s house.