The Metamorphosis of Nicholas Stryker

By Douglas J. Rodoski

Photos by Se Choi

Austin Kemp rose from his sweat-dampened bed and walked over to the mirror above the sink in his one room apartment. He leaned in and tried to pull the tortured dreams of the previous night into focus. It was always like this for him; he would recall something significant but indistinct. He knew that his dreams resolved issues in his life, and he felt distress when he could not pull them to the front of his mind to view.

In the interim, he viewed his own countenance at his leisure. Tall and wiry, he was tattooed from ankles to earlobes. His forearm tattoos only partially hid the scarred flesh and the telltale pinholes of on again and off again drug addiction. The tattoos themselves had a dark theme to them; angels, demons and predatory birds. The eyes looking back at him were bloodshot; he looked down and away to gather himself.

His father’s words on the phone last night still rankled. “When my campaign plans are all settled on the Seacoast, I will send for you and have some work ready,” Republican presidential candidate Ronald Kemp had told him. 

Send for me? thought Austin Kemp. Fuck you! I want a real position now, with real money. I helped you forge the “Build a Better America” campaign, didn’t I? I need money now, Austin thought, to get the landlord off my ass, to stay high, and to get back into my MMA training. 

Austin resolved to do something in the next few days to get his father’s attention, and the attention of the cronies who followed him around with their noses jammed in his tailpipe.

Austin dropped the switchblade and brass knuckle dusters into the pockets of his denim jacket and headed out the door.

***

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Stryker, first name Nicholas. I like to be called Nick for short. Three deployments to Iraq with the U.S. Army were not too personally traumatic, however, I think about them constantly. I have been working as a private investigator out of Port City, New Hampshire after receiving my license in Concord last year. I enjoy the work, and it is something I have always wanted to do since being a fan of hard-boiled detective fiction growing up. I must admit that I have not myself lived the adventures of Mike Hammer, or more recently Jack Reacher. That being said, I am always hopeful.

On this October morning, I awoke again from turbulent dreams, trying to pull the pieces of last night’s images into focus. Dreams or nightmares? Sometimes I would wake up with the conviction that I had committed some heinous crime, feeling dread about the consequences. Other times, I would travel back in time to the deployments; images of cadavers from a 2009 battlefield damage assessment I assisted with in Tikrit, Iraq, or feelings of anger at the Army higher command’s micromanagement of our missions.

Sometimes, my dream state would circumvent an event in my past, in childhood — an event that remained shrouded in sketchy detail. I would awaken and feel guilt and shame; I could not recall why.

This was such a morning. I rose and stretched, turning my head left and right to clear the cobwebs. I crossed over to the sink with the mirror above it. A somewhat tall and slightly graying almost-aged-forty self gazed back at me. Though I wasn’t the athlete I was in high school, I still showed some signs of physical fitness. Lately, I had gotten back into stretching and jogging, which relieved stress and hopefully would help me lose weight.

I donned a favored leather flight jacket and strolled through the pleasant 45-degree October morning temperature in the direction of Heritage Square, where my office was located. One of the mantras of my life, a personal philosophy if you will, was to not let myself be surprised. By anything. Not tragic days like 9/11. Not the reappearance of creditors long forgotten. I always say that if surprised by good luck, make sure to take advantage of it and reward others who were helpful to you. If bad luck is on your doorstep, remember to start working immediately to rectify it. To get off the X — to use an Army phrase; move to a better spot or situation as soon as possible.

So, I should not have been surprised when, as I approached Heritage Square, I could hear the left-wingers chanting on one side of the street and the right-wingers chirping on the other side before I could actually see them.

The presidential primaries were approaching.

I always argue that I have no anger management issues — others often disagree. The fact is, I start each day looking forward to good things, then often walk right into people that seem intent on messing with my positive outlook.

On this morning, as I dug into my pockets for my office keys, left and right-wingers, or liberal and conservatives if you will, tried to hand me pamphlets. Everything from pro-life to pro-choice to LBGTQ rights to Kemp’s Build a Better America campaign. Since I had gone back to college a few years ago, taking advantage of Seacoast University on the GI Bill, I commended myself for enhancing my already open-minded mentality. 

That being said, the gauntlet outside my office building regularly tested my patience.

I politely declined the pamphlets and turned to go inside the office when a hand grasped my arm at the elbow. I turned to see a stocky middle-aged dude with a Kemp T-shirt, his unshaven face thrusting his chin in my direction.

“You’re military, ain’t you?” he said. “What’s wrong, you’re too good for us?”

Feeling my anger flare — I was just trying to go to work! — I reached across and grasped the thumb of the hand holding my elbow, twisted it counterclockwise, and gave the guy a hearty two-handed shove that sent him reeling backwards and almost falling.

I had taken my sunglasses off and squared with the man, expecting more to happen.

Peripherally, I noticed two things at once. (This always happened to me under pressure — I see things around me in great detail. And I remember them.) Two uniformed Port City police officers were crossing the street quickly in my direction. Also, an attractive red headed woman across the street — with the liberal demonstrators — lowered her “Hands off My Body!” sign and was watching me with interest. Her gaze was palpable. Not unfriendly, but interested.

One police officer got in front of me, the other went to the guy I shoved. With the cops there he was talking big trash, until two of his buddies quieted him and led him away.

I explained to the policemen what had happened, and asked if the Chief was in his office today. Chief of Police Dave Jensen had deployed with me twice; our current jobs often overlapped. They told me the Chief would be in after 2 PM today. The older policeman, Officer Koharski, according to his name plate, smiled and said, “Try to stay out of trouble the rest of the day.”

I thanked both cops and entered my office building.

Taking the stairs to my office — I liked the exercise, and with local construction causing recent power outages, I never wanted to be the one needing rescue in an elevator — I arrived at the third-floor landing and went down the hallway to my office. 

It was small, yet comfortable. I had placed the desk facing the door, with the window to my left so that my back was never to it. I opened it and breathed in the fresh fall air that contained hints of espresso from the coffee shop nearby. 

As I went through the mail that was placed under the door, which I now left open for possible business opportunities, I heard the chime of the elevator opening down the hall, and soft footsteps approaching in my direction. 

The young woman who I had seen in the square a few minutes ago stood framed in the doorway. She was tall, perhaps five ten, and seemed to move with athletic grace. Her green eyes complimented her shoulder-length red hair very nicely. Even from a few feet away, her fragrance was very pleasant. I smiled and said good morning.

“Good morning,” she said. She hesitated, then continued. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion; I could see from across the street where your office was when you opened the window. I just wanted to thank you.”

I gestured towards one of the folding chairs that I keep for potential clients. “Please,” I said, “sit down. I’m Nick.”

“Kara Harmon, nice to meet you,” she said, sitting down nearby. She was wearing jeans and a Seacoast University sweatshirt. I guessed her age to be about thirty. 

“Nice to meet you, Kara. What would you like to thank me for?”

“Well,” she began, “the guy you got into it with had been harassing me and the college students on the other side of the street for about an hour. Nothing threatening, just rude. Anyway, he’s gone now thanks to you.”

“Glad to help,” I said, smiling. “Even inadvertently. I see from your sweatshirt that we went to the same college.”

“I graduated eight years ago. When did you attend?”

“Five years ago,” I told her. “I went back to school after my last deployment; I was a nontraditional student, as they say. It was a lot of fun.”

“Now I work as an occupational therapist on the Seacoast. Anyway,” she said, “I was curious. You seem like a nice guy. Do you often get aggressive like that?”

“Only when needed,” I said. “Do you think that I should have done something different? I noticed you looking at me out there.” 

“One of my projects at school was on how to deal with difficult conversations. My classmates and I explored a few different options. One thing we came up with was listening to the other side before one reacts.”

“To be honest, Kara, the guy this morning crossed the line when he put his hands on me. I didn’t feel much like learning his point of view in the moment.” I was warming to the subject, and to this young woman. That being so, I was also feeling somewhat contentious. “The sign you were holding made that point, right? Even if the topic was different.”

Kara seemed to get a little more serious. “Listening is the better part of communication,” she said.

I smiled at her. “And sometimes you don’t have to search for a fight, the fight finds you.”

Finally, she smiled again. “This might make for an interesting conversation, if I didn’t have an appointment in twenty minutes.”

“Could I buy you a cup of coffee sometime?” I asked. “My schedule is flexible.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was scrambling for work lately. And nearly broke.

“10 AM tomorrow, at Café New England?” she suggested. That was the place across the street from my office.

“Sounds good, Kara. I’ll meet you there. And nice to meet you today.”

She flashed me a brilliant smile and left. 

Okay, I was a few years older, but feeling smitten. I sat for a little while, thinking about my new acquaintance. Her fragrance remained there with me, long after she had left. Aloe or something. She had been like a Bath and Body Works advertisement, with arms.   

I was disrupted from my reverie by the chime of the elevator stopping on my floor again. This time there were no soft footsteps approaching my open door. This sounded instead like more than one set of construction boots, worn by gentlemen of some size and heft.  Thinking of the confrontation outside my building earlier, I opened the bottom drawer of my desk. I rested my right hand on the reliable and recently oiled 9mm Beretta semi-automatic pistol with the full clip of ammo that I keep there and sometimes carry on me in my work. Just in case.        

Lo and behold, it was in fact two gentlemen of size and heft who entered my office without asking. One stood just inside the open door, and the other one walked up to my desk and glared down at me. I stood — empty handed for the moment — and gazed at the guy across my desk. 

“You really a private detective, bud?” he said with a sneer.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just like the sign says. And who are you guys? The Off Brothers, Jack and Jerk?”  

His sneer turned into an angry grimace. The guy by the door took a step towards me; his buddy waved him back.

“Real funny, wise ass,” the first one said. “I’m Nate, and this is Terry. We are part of the Build a Better America campaign. For candidate Ronald Kemp. You didn’t have to be rude to our friend today, ‘ya know? We’re just doing some recruiting.”  

“Why don’t you try another building?” I suggested. “There might be some wingnuts around who are interested.” These clowns had struck a nerve with me. I had learned recently, through my work, that Ronald Kemp had his hooks in the local power structure and had facilitated the eviction of many people in Port City who were in the way of his proposed new developments. Anyway, I was patriotic, and although I wanted America to keep growing, I did not want to see it done through these guys.    

Nate frowned even more deeply. Terry behind him spoke up. “C’mon Nate. He’s wasting our time.”  

“And you’re wasting mine,” I said.    

Nate seemed to rally, wanting to make an impression. “Okay, wise ass. Just remember that Mr. Kemp is better to line up with, not against. He has a lot of resources. Could be he owns this building already. Maybe your apartment. He has contacts in Concord and everywhere along the Seacoast. Hope your license to practice stays intact. You want to end up jobless and homeless?”  

“I’ll try not to soil myself, thinking of all of that,” I said. They both turned and walked out.

I stayed standing there for a long time. After about ten minutes, my hands stopped shaking, and I went back to my mail. 

***

I had lunch in my office and decided to walk over to the Port City Police Department, as I was enjoying the fall weather. I walked past the dwindling crowd of protesters in the square and along Kensington Street, traveling away from the river. I passed by Café New England and smiled as I thought about my date tomorrow with Kara. 

My smile faded as I walked — adrenaline had begun to flow, and as always when this would happen with me, my hands ached. Perhaps this is due to the fine bones in the hands being so close to the skin, but why the adrenaline? I could sense that I was being watched, and/or followed. Each one of us, I believe, has a sixth sense which dates to early stages of human existence. As just one example, survivors of shark attacks often report they experience a remote feeling of alertness before the attack, when they become aware of something that locks on to them. I remembered to not let anything surprise me, and as I walked, I checked my six o’clock position (in military tactics, that area right behind my back) in handy store windows from time to time. 

I spotted no one, but I remained alert and continued to the police station.

I paused at the steps of the station and admired the brick edifice of safety and public service. Originally it was the old Port City Hospital, and the front entrance had a driveway leading to it that went up and down a hill to facilitate expedient ambulance service. Having walked up the hill, I turned and looked back at North Pond nearby. The surrounding trees welcomed fall with early color changes. I breathed in the cool air and thanked myself again for making a home in New England.

I entered the police station, looking forward to seeing my friend the Chief, and make sure there was no backlash to this morning’s incident.

The receptionist, a female sergeant, looked up from her typing and inquired, “Can I help you, Sir?”

“Hi, I’m Nick Stryker and I’m here to see Chief Jensen…” I was interrupted by the stiff fingers of a large hand jamming into my midsection. The hand was attached to a muscular forearm, belonging to a tall and aggressive-looking police officer who glared down at me and asked, “You have an appointment, Stryker?”

Officer Charley Rogers had taken a disliking to me a couple of years ago, and it lingered. He was not fond of me frequenting the station, and in particular, he did not like the bond I had with his boss. Or maybe since he was a Marine, he didn’t like Army guys. I was never sure, and although we had never engaged in a physical confrontation, one always seemed to be brewing.

“No appointment, Officer Rogers,” I said, and brushed his hand aside. “By the way, is it bad cologne day, and nobody told me?”

The guy could be intimidating, but damned if I would let him know that.

Now the dispatcher cut in. “Charley! You needed to get those reports down to the Corrections office an hour ago. Are you going now? Charley!”

Officer Rogers gave me a crappy glance and stepped back. “Always got someone blocking for you, Stryker. Right?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” I said.

He went out the front door and the dispatcher answered the phone. She hung up and said, “Chief Jensen will see you now. You know where his office is?”

I smiled, thanked her and strolled down the near hallway.

My friend the Chief was on the phone. He smiled and waved me to a seat. When he finished his call, he stood and we shook hands. Over his shoulder, I could see framed awards and certificates, but also pictures from our shared deployments.

“You can’t seem to stay out of trouble, can you, Nick?” He smiled. “Officer Koharski told me what went down this morning. You still sore about what happened to Matt?” 

“We both should be,” I said. 

Dave nodded solemnly. I thought about our friend Matt whom we had deployed with. Last year, he was pushed out of his apartment in Manchester with a 30-day eviction notice so the Kemp company could facilitate the development of new condos. Matt was found last January, dead from exposure in nearby woods. He had been trying to survive through subzero temperatures in a camping tent from Dick’s Sporting Goods.

“Anything new with you?” I asked Dave.

“Just more work at the quarry. After two drownings last year, from kids messing around, we are trying to get authorization to finally drain it and backfill. For now it’s just fenced off.”

We chatted for a bit longer, and I wished him a good day.

“Try not to start any more shit!” Dave said, smiling. 

***   

The next morning, I stopped by my office first, then walked across the street to the coffee shop. The protestors and activists were not quite amped up yet. Someone was putting up banners and a couple of folding tables in preparation. 

I had a feeling of anticipation that I had not felt for a while. Going somewhere to link up with a new female friend still gave me a nice buzz. I could smell the coffee as I approached.

Before I entered, I stepped around a homeless guy holding a cardboard sign. His scraggly red hair peeked out from beneath a tattered baseball cap, and his jacket sleeves were rolled up displaying tattoos.

He reminded me of Matt.

I shook off the dark memory — more time for that later — and walked into the coffee shop. I sat down at a booth towards the rear. Moments later, Kara swept in, and her face lit up when she saw me.

I stood up and greeted her.

“It’s on me today, Kara,” I said. We went to the counter and ordered. Back in the booth, we surveyed each other. I noticed now that she had a dusting of freckles across her cheekbones.

“So,” she began, “it was nice to meet you yesterday. I’m meeting with some of the kids from college here in about an hour, but no hurry. How long have you lived and worked here, Nick?”

I told her how I was born not too far from New York City, then enlisted in the Army after 9/11. And then how I got to know the New Hampshire Seacoast when I dated a girl in the area. I decided to make it my home.

“I was born and raised in Boston,” Kara said. “My parents are still there. I wanted to come up here for college, so I attended Seacoast University.”

There were quiet moments to our conversation, when we drank our coffee and gazed out the window bordering the booth. My gaze fell upon the homeless man again, who seemed young to me, and I found myself telling her about Matt.

“What bothers me is that the people in his block of buildings were given 30 days to move, and six months later, Big Construction hadn’t broken ground yet on the new condos. I researched it, and it turns out that the construction company was a Kemp subsidiary. And Matt, who never used drugs and was a hard worker, became homeless and died. I made some calls, and it turns out local attorneys were behind the rushed eviction notices, and due to some stupid gag order, they are required not to divulge who was paying them. I mean, what the hell.”

Kara was looking at my hands, which were balled into fists.

I lay my hands flat on the table and tried to smile. “Anyway, I try to focus on nice things too. Like running in to you.”

We agreed to meet downtown at the head of the Riverwalk the following day at 8 AM. 

The next day, I arrived early for my date, feeling a rush of anticipation and delight in meeting with Kara again. She walked up about five minutes later, wearing a ski jacket and muffler against the cold morning wind. I had a sweatshirt on beneath my leather jacket. We greeted each other and she motioned for us to start walking. 

I was surprised and pleased when, after a few minutes, she linked her arm around mine as we walked. I did not want to get too presumptuous at this point, however, I appreciated her gesture.

And we talked. 

I told her portions of my life and listened to parts of hers. As we strode along the river in the direction of the harbor, she explained how one of her occupational therapy classes involved the therapeutic use of meditation.

“I’m interested in you, Nick,” she said. “I think the sources of your anger are quite legitimate, and if you examine them further, you might find some peace. And other healthier ways to deal with confrontation.” She went on to explain that attunement, unconditional positive regard, self-disclosure, and balancing the power differential are important. 

“So, you’re disclosing, with me Nick, that things in your past are bothering you. And as we talk, we are balancing the power differential by being attuned to each other.”

As we talked, I did in fact feel an easing of tension, and a self-imposed will — aided by Kara — to survey the personal archaeology of my life. There were things buried in the strata of my past that caused me to line my feet up a certain way, so to speak.

We said goodbye and agreed to meet up again at the same time and place the next day. Kara headed downtown to meet her students. I went downtown to rent a vehicle for the next few days, then parked handy to my office building.

When I went home that evening, I sat by a window and watched the sunset, and thought about Kara. And when nightmares came to me that evening, I awoke with a start to an epiphany.

Kara reminded me of someone in my childhood; the redheaded girl from across the street who had been bullied. She had overdosed and died. The conversation her father had with my parents two days later replayed in my head, so vividly it was like yesterday. “I want you to thank your son for being nice to my daughter,” the girl’s father had told my dad as they talked in the kitchen, and I listened from a neighboring room. The slow burn of always believing that I could have done more to be her friend scalded me over the years, never seeming to go away. 

Kara had pulled this connection out of me during our morning walk along the river. It was perhaps the main reason for my tortured dreams and occasional insomnia. I looked forward to sharing this with Kara during our next walk.   

***

Austin Kemp sat slouched on the park bench near Heritage Square for most of the morning. People walking with their families, or walking their dogs, were giving the disgruntled-looking  character a wide berth, sometimes even crossing the street.

At 11:15 AM Austin noticed his cell phone vibrating in his pocket and answered it. Nate.     

“Austin, your dad reach out to you yet?”

“Fuck no, not yet.” Austin growled.

Nate paused. “Okay. I might have some work for you. For cash. Are you feeling fit to work like before?”   

“Don’t worry about me, bud,” Austin retorted. “What have you got?”

“Some red-headed broad has been a real pain in the ass at Heritage Square, a real liberal-wing nut,” Nate said. “She’s the one with all the college kids. Got into Terry’s face last week about your dad’s history of evictions. What a bleeding heart. She was downtown today too. Ya think you can shake her up just a little? But don’t bring the cops into it.”

“Hell yeah,” Austin said. “I’ll show up in the square early tomorrow and start following her.”

“Good man,” Nate said, and ended the call.

Austin could feel the rush of adrenaline starting to flow and smiled.

***

I arrived at the start of the Riverwalk at the same time as the day before. After five minutes I just thought Kara was running late. After 10 minutes, I checked my cell phone. We had exchanged phone numbers yesterday; there were no missed calls or messages.

After fifteen minutes, started to feel the hair stand up at the base of my neck.

I looked around. The first bend in the Riverwalk had bushes that obscured my view partially. I saw a splash of color half-hidden — I began running and came upon Kara lying face down around the bend. She had blood splattered across her forehead; she was lying prone on her stomach with her head turned to the left. I checked her pulse by laying my fingers alongside her neck and detected a low but present throbbing of life. I called 9-11 and decided not to move her, not wanting to make a head or neck injury worse if that was the case.

I covered her with my jacket and waited, my heart in my throat.

First responders arrived in three vehicles; I explained what I had witnessed, and the paramedics let me ride in the ambulance. The driver ran code en route to Port City Hospital.

An hour later I was seated in the hallway outside of Kara’s room. She was undergoing tests for a concussion and had not regained consciousness yet. Chief Jensen arrived, and I explained how I had found her.

“Miss Harmon could become conscious again at any time; at that point she could try to identify her assailant. It is in her best interest and ours to keep a guard on her door 24/7. We’re shorthanded at the best of times, Nick. I thought you might help us fill the guard roster duties.”

I thought about Kara and the recent walks along the river, and of our bonding moments in the coffee shop lately.

“You got it,” I said. 

***

Entering the hospital to begin my shift on guard duty, the backs of my hands were aching — enough to make me wonder if I had seen something alarming out of the corner of my eye. I paused outside the entrance, and carefully surveyed the parking lot. The perimeter lights were above the tarmac; beyond them the last streaks of sunset were visible. 

It was then that I noticed the old beat-up pickup truck, with the red bed cover.

The license plate was similar to the one that I spotted outside the coffee shop a couple of times when I visited with Kara. Maine plates. And the same cracked taillight on the right side.

I went back inside and approached the stairs. Halfway to the fifth floor I realized I was taking them two at a time. 

I arrived to find the Chief getting briefed by the off going guard, Officer Koharski. Koharski smiled when he recognized me and departed. Dave gestured me off to the side, as there were interns frequenting the hallway.

“Hi, Nick. Kara’s vitals are stable; she has begun to talk, but only in her sleep, so maybe it won’t be much longer.”

“I would sure like to get my hands on the bastard who did this,” I said.

“I understand,” my friend said. “However, I need you to notify me immediately about any identification she makes, once awake.”

“Okay, boss. I’ll swing by in the morning once I’m off shift,” I said.

There was a chair in the hallway for the guards. I delayed sitting and ventured in to check on Kara.

This was the first time I had seen her up close, after the incident. 

Her lovely red hair, which once fell below her shoulders and across her chest, had been chopped away by the doctors. Amid the red bristle of her new crew cut, stitches were evident along her scalp in three spots. Her enchanting green eyes were now hidden by the swelling of both sets of eyelids. I could see her chest rise and fall gently as her hands lay one on top of the other across her stomach.

“Are you okay, Sir?” inquired the young woman in nurse’s scrubs who had entered without me noticing. She was looking at my hands, which were balled into fists.

I relaxed my hands and tried to smile to ease the tension. “I just came on guard duty and wanted to see her for myself. I’ll stay out of your way.”

I took a seat on a padded stool in the far corner as the nurse tended to Kara, checking her IV and vital signs with reassuring aplomb.

Finishing up, she told me I could stay in here as long as I was quiet. We smiled at each other, and she left.

My brain examined the coincidence of the crappy pickup truck outside the coffee shop showing up near the scene of the crime. And I hate coincidences.

I looked again at Kara. Her hands had telltale bruises in the area of the knuckles. A forensic expert I had met a few years ago once told me these were called defensive wounds, indicating that that victim had fought back. 

Off to one side, next to her left hand and almost hidden in the top blanket of the hospital bed, was a small book. Out of a nosy impulse I picked it up and looked at it; it appeared to be a diary.

Mentally asking for Kara’s forgiveness in advance, I took the book back to the stool and opened it. I began reading.

I found an entry that was apparently from the most recent days.

“…met with N. at the coffee shop, he looks like a hard character, however seems very thoughtful…”

“…I really like his leather jacket.” ( I smiled at that one.)

“saw Red again. This time he parked his pickup close to where the students were…”

 Fingers of alarm crawled up my back.

“…gave Red a few dollars from my change today…”

Was this the homeless young man who was staged out in front of the coffee shop on some days? The one that reminded me of my veteran friend Matt?

Her diary also included beautiful artwork of butterflies, and the different stages of metamorphosis.

I got up and placed the diary lightly by her hand. I then went to the hallway and looked down into the parking lot. The red pickup truck was gone. I recalled the license number, however. 

At 10 AM the following morning, I sat at my desk and looked at the information that had been forwarded to me from my contact at the DMV. The red pick up truck belonged to Austin Kemp, who I recognized from headline news as the son of presidential candidate Ronald Kemp. The profile detailed the points taken off Austin’s license, as well as charges for a prior felony and work history. Something was trying to speak to me in the back of my mind. The picture of Austin reminded me of Matt, who had died last year homeless. And it came to me now — the panhandler in front of Café New England looked like this picture too, only with shorter red hair.

An hour later I was seated across from Chief Jensen’s desk at the police station. 

“Dave,” I said. “I have something to show you.”

I handed my friend the flimsy duplicate of the plates on the red truck. Attached with a paperclip was the profile on Austin Kemp, showing the points off of his license and also prior charges.

“Nick, I’ve been told by my chain of command to not divulge any more details to you regarding this case.” 

It caught me off guard. Not only did my friend’s tone seem unfamiliar to me, I particularly did not like his posture or attitude changing all of a sudden. 

To make matters worse, he then asked me, “Does that put you out, personally?”

I try not to be surprised by anything, but this was off the charts. 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” I asked. “Of course it’s personal, I found the girl lying in the street. And this draws a line back to Kemp’s son.”

Dave seemed to turn back into himself for a moment. “Our Special Victims Unit has priority on this one. They will take it from here.”

Still, I felt my anger flare. “So, who got to you in the last 24 hours? Special interest groups? Kemp himself? Does he have something on you?”

Dave’s face got red, his neck too.

I went on. “Look, Dave, our veteran friend Matt got pushed out on the street and died last year. Kemp is pushing people around to suit his special interest groups. Now Kara can identify her assailant and you’re letting it slide?”

Dave now turned in his seat to face me directly. He pointed a thick finger in my direction.

“Leave it alone.”

I was stunned.  “What’s that?”

“I said, leave it alone.”

Now I was on my feet in one motion and found myself standing over my friend. 

“You better tell your buddies on the campaign committee,” I said, “that Watergate was pissing on the sidewalk next to this story, and I’m going to shout it from the rooftops if you don’t start talking straight with me right now. What do you think, Dave, that Kemp is the only one who can end your career?” I grabbed his collar with both hands. “I’LL END YOUR FUCKING CAREER! I always had your back before this. YOU’RE GOING IN THE TANK WITH THESE BASTARDS!”

We stood like that for a moment. Someone knocked on the office door, and Dave told them to go away.

Finally, he looked up at me. “Kemp dug into my files and found, with someone’s help, that I had moved some evidence around on a case six years ago. I was trying to move things along on a conviction, on someone who kept getting off in court. Kemp is holding that and something else over my head.”

I turned on my heel and strode to the door. 

“Where are you going?” Dave asked.

“To see Kemp. At his compound near North Hampton.”

Dave was quiet for a moment. “At midnight tonight, I am meeting the Special Victims Unit at the hospital. We’re planning on moving Kara to a safe house and medical facility nearby. If you want, you can meet us here at 10:30 PM.”

I nodded and headed out, slamming the door.

I drove my rental car southbound along Route 1A. The sun was setting to my right, sending colored rays of light to the left into the eastern sky over the water. I longed to take Kara down this way, when she was feeling better.

The Kemp compound, one of several in the Northeast, was originally owned by a movie star, and had been abandoned during the eighties and nineties. It very much looked like a fortress, with turrets and rounded rooms up high, and was set on a hill a short walk across Route 1A from the Atlantic Ocean. I drove past it once, turned, and went back a second time, noting that there was a lone upstairs light on, and several downstairs.

I parked in the gravel driveway next to an all-black limo-type vehicle, and a gray late model pickup truck. I suspected that he would have security systems in place, and left my pistol in the car, locking up.

Although consumed by my mission, I paused on the front doorstep and studied the Atlantic behind me. The bright colors over the sea were fading, and there was very little wind or breeze. I had never seen the ocean so quiet; a source of ambiance for another time when I could enjoy it. 

I pressed a lit button and announced myself into the intercom. A tall, uniformed chauffeur or security type drew open the door.

“Hello. Nick Stryker to see Mr. Kemp.”

“You have an appointment?” the man said.

“No, I have a message from Chief Jensen though. I was told to deliver it in person.” I thought that this would get me over the threshold, and it did.

I was ushered down a short hallway towards what looked like a dining room in the middle of the first floor. Kemp was in a large, padded chair at the end of a polished table. He spun and gazed up at me. It was my first time meeting him in person. Even seated I could see he was tall, with thick gray hair brushed back from a wide forehead and piercing blue eyes. He looked at once welcoming, but skeptical. 

“Mr. Stryker. I’ve heard a lot about you. Do you have a message from Chief Jensen for me?”

“To tell you the truth, that was a ruse so I could get to see you.”

Kemp looked mildly amused. “Then what can I do for you?”

I decided to get right to the point. “A friend of mine is in a coma right now. She was stalked and beaten by someone in Port City last week. I kept track of a red pickup truck that was prominent in the area during critical times. It turns out it belongs to your son Austin.”

“Are you accusing my son of stalking and assaulting Kara Harmon? I would advise against it.”

“I want you to account for where your son was during the morning of the attack.”

Kemp was silent for a moment, seeming unrushed to answer. Then he said, “Austin comes and goes as he pleases. The young woman in question was an irritant to my supporters; however, in no way did I instruct anyone to do her harm.”

“How about your cronies? Or your son acting on his own?”

Kemp started to smile, then his face went blank. “Nate and Terry aren’t the brightest in the world, however I don’t see them in that role. Or my son either.”

“What of the evictions? I had a veteran friend who was served a notice by one of your construction lawyers, and ended up in the street and died. That bother you?”

“Young man,” Kemp said, “certain obstacles to progress need to be removed, if we are going to “Build a Better America.” The friend you reference could easily have picked up a second or third job and found new housing….”

Kemp stopped then, as I was now standing over him with my fists balled up. I sensed one or two of his associates behind me.

“Lawrence,” Kemp said to one of them. “You can show Mr. Stryker to the door.” Lawrence went to take me by the elbow; I yanked my arm away.

“I can find my own way out,” I said. 

***

At 10:25 PM, I parked my rental car in front of the police station. I did not bother to go in the front to the lobby, but walked around back where I knew the others would be.

Dave was there, along with an ambulance and two patrol cars. Officer Koharski was in one, another policeman in the other. Officer Charley Rogers gave me a crap look and did not say anything. 

Dave nodded at me. “Nick, we are going to convoy over to the hospital from here. I will ride with Koharski as the lead vehicle, then the ambulance, then the second patrol car. You can follow as a trail vehicle.”

As I got in my rental to follow, Rogers climbed in the passenger seat. I started to object.

“Chill out, Stryker. Chief wanted me to go along.” By now the other vehicles were leaving; I had to follow.   

“I don’t know why the Chief wanted to do it this way,” Officer Rogers said.

“The call to move came down really quick,” I said, trying to at least partially mitigate the situation.

My hands were pounding from the adrenaline.

At the hospital, we all lined up at the emergency entrance. Kara, unconscious on a stretcher with an IV attached, was brought out and placed in the ambulance. Dave signaled all of us to follow and we headed out again.

Up ahead the lead vehicle and ambulance were moving at a modest speed, steadily progressing towards the safe house and medical facility. Traffic was light, just a few random cars and delivery trucks making early runs. We passed a Bank of New England sign that announced in green neon that at 2:23 AM it was 38 degrees fahrenheit outside.

As we rolled along Route 1, I saw the lead car escort the ambulance around a right-hand corner, heading inland away from the river. Recent memories of walks along the river with Kara flooded my mind. I put the right turn signal on and slowed to make the turn.

“No…go left here,” Rogers said.

“But the ambulance…’” I objected.

I could hear the service pistol slide out of Rogers’ holster; then I felt cold metal as he pressed the barrel into my right ear. “Do what I tell you,” Rogers said. “Or I’ll paint the inside of the car with your brains.”

I switched the turn signal and did as I was told, turning left onto an auxiliary road that swung down to the river and went north next to it. Soon we were driving along the elevated road with woods to my left, and the bluffs, illuminated by the moon, showing to my right as they stretched down to the river some fifty feet below.

I decided not to talk for now, not trusting my voice. I damned myself for letting Rogers get in the car in the first place. 

I continued to drive at a modest speed along the river. My mind worked on viable actions in a rapidly diminishing window of reaction time.

“I’ve had it with your shit, and it ends now,” Rogers said. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you know how big Kemp is, in this state and others? You’re a nobody. That woman is not going to get a chance to identify her attacker, she’ll be dead in an hour. You think that ambulance is going to a safe house? They’re taking her to the quarry. Your buddy the Chief will be visiting the big police station in the sky soon, too.” All this time Rogers was looking ahead while speaking. Now he turned to face me.

“What’s wrong, Stryker? Am I upsetting you?”

“You’re telling me a hell of a lot,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess you do have two brain cells to rub together,” Rogers said. “I wouldn’t be telling you all of this if there was any chance of you telling another human being later.” He pointed up the road ahead of us. “There’s a side road leading to some abandoned warehouses up ahead, you’re going to pull in there.”

I thought about Kara’s head being bashed in, to the point where there was internal hemorrhaging. I thought about the homeless people on the seacoast who had defecation dropped on them by drone vehicles. I thought about the times my friend Chief Jensen had my back, throughout deployments and stateside. I thought about old white guys lining their pockets at the expense of the public.

I thought about Kara.

I leaned forward as if to look for the turn ahead, then slammed on the brakes and tore the steering wheel to the left as hard as I could. I had to take the chance that if Rogers’ pistol fired, his aim would be off. The weapon did fire, but only after it had slipped away from my head. The stench of cordite soon filled the car. I had a hold of Rogers’ left wrist, and I slammed his gun hand on the open windowsill to my left until he released it. I could hear it clatter against the outside of the car.

Now we were completely turned around and facing the way we had come. Rogers pulled his right hand back, and I back fisted him in the face with my right, then slammed my foot down on the accelerator.

The violent lurching of the vehicle gave neither of us much leverage for close combat; still, I had to take my chances. Grasping the steering wheel again I swerved left and right as I kept gaining speed. The tires on the left at one point started to slide over off the road on the bluff side, which would have ended badly with sharp rocks awaiting at the end of the fifty-foot drop. To my right I saw a concrete pipe from past construction activity, and jerked the wheel so we were racing toward it.

I deliberately drove into it, glass and metal twisting and breaking throughout the car. I was counting on the airbags to deploy, but they did not. Instead, I reached across with my right hand and as Rogers had both his hands on the dash to lessen the crash, I grabbed as much of his hair as I could and started to bash his face and head into the dashboard. I backed up, steered around the concrete pipe, and accelerated again.

I submit that through the violence and strain, it appeared that I was viewing my surroundings through a red haze, an experience I had never had before. Rage and grief were pounding through my own body, as I continued to bash Rogers’ head into the dash and other sharp parts of the car interior.

Finally, his eyes rolled up in his head, blood and snot flying on to me and all around the interior of the car. I could both feel and see the vitality leave his body, and he slumped down onto the floor mats. I reached down and checked the pulse in his throat; it was still there.

Now I reached across and opened his door from the inside, and while I accelerated, I pushed him out. I sped away from the construction concrete and back towards Route 1, heading for the quarry.

I remembered the quarry from past headlines. Attempts to drain it were made years ago, a difficult task with runoff from rain and snow from nearby highland areas. Every once in a while, law enforcement dive teams would check for drowning victims. These days, it was all fenced in and posted.

Turning on to the last road by the quarry, I cut the headlights and pulled over under the cover of nearby trees. I would walk the rest of the way, looking out for Austin and any other of Kemp’s cronies. 

Staying along the tree line and out of streetlights, I crouched and checked the position of the pistol under my jacket. I advanced on the front gate to the quarry area, which now was wide open. The broken lock was on the ground nearby.

Finally, I crouched by a large boulder near the entrance. Visible in the gathering gloom, the lead patrol car was standing empty. Looking underneath it, I thought I could see someone lying on the ground on the other side. The ambulance was just beyond it, near the waterline of the quarry. The second patrol car was out of view somewhere.

I thought about my actions within the last hour. I would have to articulate why I had acted as I did to the authorities. Food and shelter insecurity was bad enough; what was it like to lose all of your freedoms? 

In a zig-zag sprint, I approached the first patrol car. Flattening myself against the left rear quarter panel, I looked around the edge of the car. There was, in fact, a uniformed body laying on the ground. Officer Koharski. I crawled up to him and saw red stains on the ground near his head and neck. A check of the pulse in his wrist and neck resulted in absolute silence along my fingertips.

Now I heard a scraping and squeaking sound that seemed so out of place in this already surreal atmosphere. I soon realized that the gurney and stretcher with Kara upon it was being pushed towards the water by Austin Kemp. I stood to full height, and leveling the pistol, I approached Austin.

“Hold it right there,” I said.

Austin spun, clearly surprised, and glared at me.

“Where are the others?” the absence of the two attendants and my friend Dave bothered me. Along with everything else.

“What are you going to do, Stryker? Shoot me here? Why don’t you put the gun down and be a man. Charley Rogers told me how others always go to bat for you. You think you can take me without the gun?”

I circled him, pistol in hand, to get a better angle to see my surroundings. Kara lay there inert, and seemingly still unconscious. It was while I was using my peripheral vision to spot the others that Austin, with blinding speed, spun in a reverse move and kicked the pistol out of my right hand. The weapon skid along the gravel and almost went into the quarry. 

Now Austin was between me and the pistol. He assumed a fighting stance, his left foot forward and both his hands spread. I recalled how his bio spoke of MMA training. I was out of my class, yet had to do something to keep Kara safe. 

I saw another kick coming, and managed to block it by crossing my forearms and pushing down. Once again, Austin did a reverse spin and was able to nail me in the temple with his construction boot. I literally saw stars and fell away from him, landing face down.

Struggling to maintain consciousness, I realized that I had fallen down on a sharp object.

My pistol was right under my chest.

Austin slipped towards me with athletic ease, stopping when I rolled over and leveled the pistol at his chest.

And realized that Kara would not want me to take a life.

And realized that I saw so much of my deceased friend Matt in this guy.

It took all of the willpower I had to lower the weapon, and fire it through the top of his foot. Austin shrieked and collapsed into a fetal position. I immediately took handcuffs from Officer Koharski’s belt and attached them to his hands. 

With Austin sitting on the ground moaning, I got Kara away from the water. I lifted her from the gurney and carried her to my vehicle. From there I pulled forward to keep an eye on Austin and called Agent Callahan of the FBI.

***

A week later, I attended a pre-trial hearing in Concord. Although no state lines had been crossed, the FBI was taking the lead in the subsequent investigation due to the fact that members of the Port City Police Department were persons of interest. 

The pre-trial hearing determined that there was enough evidence to convict Austin Kemp of assault on Kara, even though he insisted she fell when she was trying to get away from him. Newfound camera surveillance revealed he in fact put his hands on her at the time of the assault. 

Austin was also suspected in the killings of the two police officers, Koharski and my friend Dave. It was believed that Dave’s remains would be revealed when the quarry was finally drained. 

Ronald Kemp’s lawyers insisted that nobody was acting on his orders; on local evictions or the assault on Kara. Even though Kemp was booked and released on bail, he still intended to run for the presidential nomination in the spring. 

Kara was at a secure medical facility in Boston, having confirmed that her attacker was in fact Austin Kemp.

***

Interviews of potential jurors were in progress when I went to my office for the first time since the violence at the quarry.  Even though it was cold outside, I opened my window so I could smell the coffee and hear the hustle and bustle from Heritage Square.     

I mourned the passing of Koharski and Dave Jensen, the latter of whom I was deployed with. I insisted on not taking depression medication. That being said, the dark cloud of recent events hung over me like an unwanted guest. During sleep, and the waking hours too. 

On the wall near my desk, I carefully placed Kara’s artwork front and center. Checking my phone, I saw her text message from this morning.

“Feeling much better. Hope to see you soon.”

And I reflected on my metamorphosis of self. With the help of this young woman, I sorted out my own tortured past, and realized that even though violence was needed recently, there might be a better way to live one’s life.  

I flipped through Kara’s diary again, having saved it for her that night at the quarry. I found a parable relayed by her, written in her flowing hand.

It said:

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy. “It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”

He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

The End