The Stranger

Chapter 31

Kuntz dumped both guns into the Hudson River. He had plenty more, no big deal.

He took the A train to 168th Street. He got out on Broadway and walked three blocks down to the entrance of the hospital that used to be called Columbia Presbyterian. Now it was known as Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital of NewYork-Presbyterian.

Morgan Stanley. Yeah, when you think of health care for children, the first name that comes to your mind is the multinational financial giant Morgan Stanley.

But money talks. Money is as money does.

Kuntz didn’t bother showing his ID. The security guards at the desk knew him too well from his too frequent visits. They also knew he’d once been NYPD. Some, maybe most, even knew why he’d been forced to leave. It had been in all the papers. The libtards in the media had crucified him-wanting him not only to lose his job and livelihood but even wanting him locked up on murder charges-but the guys on the street backed him. They got that Kuntz was being railroaded.

They got the truth.

The case had been in the papers. Some big black guy resisting arrest. He’d been caught shoplifting at a grocery store on Ninety-Third, and when the Korean owner confronted him, the big black guy pushed him down and threw a kick. Kuntz and his partner, Scooter, cornered the guy. The guy didn’t care. He growled and put it simply: “I ain’t goin’ wit’ you. I just needed a pack of smokes.” The big black guy started to walk away. Just like that. Two cops there, he’d just committed a crime, and he was just going to do as he pleased. When Scooter stepped in his way, the big black guy pushed him and kept walking.

So Kuntz took him down hard.

How was he supposed to know the big guy had some kind of health condition? Seriously. Are you really supposed to let a criminal walk away like that? What do you do when a thug won’t listen to you? Do you try to take him down nicely? Maybe do something that puts your life or your partner’s life in jeopardy?

What dumb assholes made these rules?

Long story short: The guy died and the libtard media had an orgasm. That dyke bitch on cable started it up. She called Kuntz a racist killer. Sharpton started with the marches. You know the drill. Didn’t matter how clean Kuntz’s record was or how many citations for bravery he’d received or how he volunteered with black kids in Harlem. Didn’t matter that he had his own personal problems, including a ten-year-old boy with bone cancer. None of that meant a damn thing.

He was now a racist murderer-as evil as any of the scum he’d ever busted.

Kuntz took the elevator to the seventh floor. He nodded at the nurses’ station as he hurried toward room 715. Barb was sitting in that same chair. She turned toward him and gave him a weary smile. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair looked as though it’d taken a late bus to get here. But when she smiled at him, that was still all he could see.

His son was sleeping.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey,” Barb whispered back.

“How’s Robby?”

Barb shrugged. Kuntz walked toward his son’s bed and stared down at the boy. It broke his heart. It gave him resolve.

“Why don’t you go home for a little while?” he said to his wife. “Relax a little.”

“I will in a few,” Barb replied. “Sit and talk with me.”

You often hear that the media is a parasite, but rarely was it truer than in the case of John Kuntz. They swarmed and devoured until there was nothing left. He lost his job. He lost his pension and his benefits. But worst of all, he could no longer afford to give his son the best treatment available. That had been toughest on him. Whatever else a father is in this life-cop, fireman, Indian chief-he provides for his family. He does not sit by idly watching his son in pain without doing all he can to alleviate it in some way.

And then, when he was at his lowest, John Kuntz found salvation.

Isn’t that always the way?

A friend of a friend hooked up Kuntz with a young Ivy Leaguer named Larry Powers, who had developed some new phone app that made it easier to find Christian guys to do home repair. Something like that. Charity and Construction, that was the pitch. The truth was, Kuntz didn’t really care about the business angle of it. His job was to run both personal and company security-protect the key employees and all trade secrets-and so that was his single focus.

He was good at it.

The business, it was explained to him, was a start-up, and so the initial pay was crap. But still it was something, a job, a way to hold his head up. It was also more about the promise too. He was given stock options. Risky, sure, but that was how great fortunes were made. There was a back end-a big, juicy back end-if things went very well.

And they did.

The app caught on in a way no one had anticipated, and now, after three years, Bank of America had underwritten their IPO-initial public offering-and if things went just okay (not super great, just okay), two months from now, when the company started trading on the stock market, John Kuntz’s stake would be worth approximately seventeen million dollars.

Let that number just sink in for a second. Seventeen million dollars.

Forget a comeback. Forget salvation. With that kind of money, he’d be able to afford the best doctors in the world for his son. He’d get Robby home care and the best of everything. He’d be able to get his other kids-Kari and Harry-into good schools, quality places, and maybe set them up in their own businesses one day. He’d get Barb some help around the house, maybe even take her away on a vacation. The Bahamas maybe. She was always looking at ads for that Atlantis hotel, and they hadn’t gone anywhere since that three-day Carnival cruise six years ago.

Seventeen million dollars. All their dreams were about to come true.

Now, once again, someone was trying to take it all away from him.

And from his family.