At other times of the year the campus was green and pretty. Now, though, on this leaden-gray early December day, it could only be called bleak and barren. A cold wind carried flakes of snow, cutting harshly through the clothes of those who hurried between the buildings. A heavily starched camouflage utility jacket really wasn’t enough protection from the elements, but the man wearing it took little notice of the mild discomfort. On the collar of the jacket was a tiny insignia, the three chevrons and rocker of a staff sergeant; on the pocket was the stenciled globe and anchor of the US Marine Corps.

Although he’d been attending classes on this campus for over three months now, no one knew the man wearing the BDU jacket and field cover well. He was not a large man, just average sized, supremely fit and not bad looking despite his short-cropped hair, but with a hard-faced presence about him that made him seem larger than he was. He was older than the rest of the freshmen, six years older in age, and older yet in demeanor. Unlike every other freshman in the class, there was no lightness of tone in him, no laughing, just strict business, dead serious about everything. He was unfailingly respectful to his professors and fellow students, but distant. Once a smart-assed young student just out of high school had tried calling him “Sarge,” only to receive an icy glare from him that would have frozen a tropic ocean. “Sergeant” wasn’t received much more warmly. “Mr. McCluskey” was safe; even his professors were uncomfortable using his first name, although they knew it from their class records. He was hard, very hard, so hard, one student had commented from well behind his back, that flint could strike sparks off his ass. No one disagreed.

While the other students were scurrying between buildings to escape the bitter wind, running in some cases, Mr. McCluskey wasn’t as he carried two textbooks and a clip board under one arm. He was taking his time, walking stiff and erect, and anyone who saw him would think that he was marching, not just walking. The only sign that he wasn’t a textbook Marine sergeant set down out of place on this college campus was that he usually wore blue jeans with his BDU jacket and combat boots. The jeans were, in fact, the one concession he would make, even to himself, that he wasn’t a Marine any longer.

He marched around the corner of a building and saw something ahead of him that didn’t make sense. At first he thought it was a bundle of rags just lying on the sidewalk as other students hurried past bent on getting out of the weather, but as he drew closer he could see that the bundle of rags was moving – and crying. Incensed at the students who had heartlessly rushed past, McCluskey broke from his steady march and double-timed closer. He could see now that it was a woman, one in sheer hysteria, lying in a fetal position on the cold sidewalk, head in her arms, crying her heart out, body wracked with sobs. He could no more have passed her by than the Marines could have stormed Iwo Jima armed with squirt guns; it was a small part of the reason he wasn’t a Marine any longer.

Stopping, he knelt down, put his hand on her shoulder, and in a gentle voice, asked, “What’s the matter, miss?”

He could see her raise her head to look at him, felt her grab his hand on her shoulder and hang on for dear life, as the crying continued unbroken. He noted that she was shivering, shaking, possibly from hypothermia; although fully clothed in jeans and a light jacket, she was in no way dressed to be outside for any length of time.

“Miss,” he said again, trying to be gentle. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, God,” she sobbed, her body wracked again. “I can’t go on!”

He’d seen women with their spirits broken before, in Sarajevo, Bosnia, and it was clear to him that this was another one. There was no way of telling what her problem was, but at least this time Serbians weren’t likely to be involved.

“Come on, miss,” he said gently. “Whatever the problem is, we need to get you inside before you freeze to death.”

“I don’t care if I die,” she sobbed. “I can’t go on.”

The man in the utility jacket shook his head. “Miss, I don’t know what the problem is,” he said in a considerably harder voice, “but I will not let you freeze to death while I look on. Now, will you get up, or do I have to pick you up?”

“Oh, God!” she continued to bawl, not answering him in the slightest, and he took that as an answer. With some difficulty, he broke his hand free, and reached around her back for her opposite shoulder, mostly to try and roll her a little so he could get a better grip – but the touch of his hand on her back brought an agonizing scream. “No!” she pleaded. “Don’t touch my back! Please! It hurts too much!”

“Your back hurts?” he asked, a little surprised at the response. “Where does it hurt, miss?” he continued, thinking it might be some sort of spinal injury. If she’d fallen, that was a possibility.

“All over,” she said. “Please,” she pleaded. “My arms, my armpits, fine, but not my back.”

“Very well,” he said, beginning to wonder a little what was going on here. “Miss, please put your hands on my shoulders and hang on.” It was a little awkward, but he got his hands in her armpits as she held on.

In a moment, she was standing on her feet, tears subsiding a little now, but not much. “T-thank you,” she managed among her sobs.

“Miss, can you stand up all right?” he asked, looking her over a little more carefully. He didn’t see any obvious marks or bruises from a hit to her face. She was a good looking woman, nearly as tall as he, and now not so hysterical. She had long, jet black hair that was a mess. “At least for a moment, while I pick up my books?”

“I-I think so,” she said.

In a moment, his books were in his left hand. “Reach around me, miss, use my shoulder for support if you need it,” he told her. “I think I can hold onto your other arm without touching your back if you need it. We’re going to take it easy, and just go into that building over there. Is that all right?”

He didn’t get much of a response, other than more sobs, but at least she was upright, and he’d have her out of the cold in a minute. That was something.

It went slowly; she obviously was hurting, not walking well. He began to have a sneaking suspicion of what must have happened, though the pieces didn’t all fit. In a minute, they were in the building, and the warmth, and just the being out of the wind, was welcome. As soon as they were inside, she turned to him, wrapped her arms around him, and cried against his chest. “You’re safe now,” he said, trying to soothe her. “Just hold on. It’ll be all right.”

“It can’t be all right,” she sobbed. “Everything’s all fucked up, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Miss, please,” he said. “Try to control yourself.” He took a deep breath and went on. “Miss, were you raped?”

“N-n-n-no,” she sobbed. “I almost wish I had been.”

“Miss,” he said. “I think maybe we’d better call Campus Safety,” he said. “They’ll get you to someone who can help you.”

“No!” she pleaded desperately. “Please, no! They’d call my parents, and … and …”

It really was the best idea, and he knew it, but something deeper was going on, and he could tell that, too. “How about if I help you to your dorm room?” he asked, knowing that it really wasn’t a good idea to have her left alone. Maybe she had a roommate, though, or maybe he could talk to the RA, or something.

“No!” she pleaded more vehemently. “They’d … they’d just come for me again, and hurt me more.”

“Who is they?” he asked suspiciously. Maybe Campus Safety was a better idea after all, whether she wanted it or not.

“They will,” she said hysterically. “God, I can’t face that again. Please don’t make me go back there! Don’t let them hurt me more.”

“Miss,” he said firmly. “Look at me. Do you know who I am?”

Something in the strength of his words caused her to stop crying for an instant and look up at him. “You’re … you’re the one they call ‘Hardass,’” she said in amazement.

“I hadn’t heard that name,” he smiled, “but I’ll take it as a compliment. Miss, no one on this campus has any idea of just how hard I can be over people hurting someone else, especially women. You are safe with me, and I will not let you get hurt.” His voice got very stiff, and he continued, “If ‘they’ come for you, whoever ‘they’ are, they will regret it.”

It wouldn’t be fair to say that statement turned the tears off, but it reduced them markedly. She didn’t say anything, but just stared at him, and the hope was evident in her eyes. “Now, Miss,” he said. “I really think Campus Safety is the best idea. Failing that, the Student Health Center.”

“But … don’t leave me,” she pleaded.

“On my honor,” he said flatly, “I will not leave you until you feel safe.”

“But … but … Oh, God, it’s not that simple,” she said, the tears starting to flow again. “Can’t you take me with you? I’d be scared to be here without you.”

“Miss, I live off campus, by myself,” he said. “Please think about how safe you might feel if you were alone with me in my apartment.”

“Please take me with you,” she said, the tears rolling again. “I – I’ll feel safer with you than I would on campus.”

He let out a sigh. It wasn’t a good idea. This was clearly a pack of trouble, and there was something much deeper going on than what met the eye. Perhaps if she could get off campus for a few hours, do something about the hypothermia, just pull herself together, she might be better. And he might get a little closer to the bottom of this. “Miss, it’s a walk of several blocks, if you’re up to it.”

“I … I can make it if I have to,” she said, calming herself.

“Very well,” he said, setting his books on the floor and starting to unbutton his utility jacket. “I regret I have nothing warmer for you, but perhaps this will help.”

“But … but you don’t have to give me the shirt off your back,” she said, just a little amazed.

“I can survive,” he said. “I have survived worse, and you’re the one who’s chilled.”

It took a while; she was not capable of walking fast, and he did find it chilly, walking through what was now a lot of blowing snow wearing only his T-shirt with the ‘USMC’ logo printed on it, but he made no mention of it to her.

His apartment building was several blocks away, and the door to his room was on a balcony up an outside staircase. “I’m afraid it’s not much,” he said apologetically as he opened the door, “but it’s home.”

Inside, it proved to be a simple studio apartment, and tiny. It was also quite Spartan, there was little there, no decoration on the walls, neat as a pin and absolutely ready for inspection. There was a breakfast bar with two stools, plus an armchair and studio couch, folded up, with a rolled sleeping bag sitting on the end. She didn’t get much of a look at it; in spite of wearing his jacket, she was still thoroughly chilled from earlier, and was obviously shivering and chattering, perhaps from fear as much as the cold. “It’s good to be here,” she said. “I’m c-c-cold.”

“No doubt, miss,” he replied, snapping the sleeping bag to unroll it on the couch, and zipping it far down. “I think we must deal with that first. Let me unroll my sleeping bag, and you can curl up in it. Then, I’ll get you something warm to drink.”

“Th-thank you, sir,” she said, obviously shivering. She saw the sleeping bag being held open for her, and she collapsed into it, face down.

Whatever was wrong with her back, it probably wasn’t spinal, he thought, as he wrapped the bag around her, so the obvious hypothermia was higher on the priority list. Even in the sleeping bag, he could see her shivering violently. In only a few seconds, he had hot water running in the kitchen sink, and in a few seconds more, the kitchen’s tiny microwave was running. In a few seconds more, he was kneeling beside her, holding a cup to her lips. “Oh, my God, that tastes good,” she said, tasting the cocoa. “What did you put in that?”

“A small shot of rum, miss,” he said. “Normally, alcohol is not a good idea when dealing with hypothermia, but I felt you needed the relaxing effects. Is that too hot?”

“No, I could stand it hotter,” she said. “But right now, it’s just fine. That way I don’t have to let it cool down.”

“Miss, I’ll make you some soup shortly,” he said. “You’ll feel better with something in your belly.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said gratefully. “Sir, you are very kind. It’s … uh, not what I would have expected.”

“Nothing more than the good manners I was raised with, miss,” he smiled.

“It … it just seems so strange. It’s not what I would have expected from a man. Especially one they call ‘Hardass.’”

“Then your expectations are low,” he smiled. “Miss, I was raised in a very strict family. I was taught politeness, courtesy, manners, and respect for others from my earliest memory. Even though I was to rebel from my family, much of the teaching rubbed off.”

“Rebelled from your family?” she smiled – the first smile he had seen from her. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t imagine it.”

“Oh, it was a quite serious rebellion,” he returned the smile. “To the point where we are not on speaking terms today. You see, my family are quite conservative Friends.”

“Friends?” she frowned.

“You may be familiar with the term ‘Quaker,’” he expanded. “Very ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ and ‘thine,’ though I’ve been able to scrub most of that from my vocabulary. They are, of course, quite serious pacifists. They were less than thrilled when I joined the Marine Corps. ‘Never dare to darken our doorstep again’ was the phrase used.”

“God, and I thought I had problems with my family,” she sighed, shaking her head. “Are you really a Marine?” she asked. “I mean, uh, the blue jeans, and like that.”

“I was a Marine staff sergeant until four months ago,” he explained. “When my enlistment expired, I felt that I could not re-enlist in good conscience, but to be honest, I find it hard to give up. Besides, I have the clothes, but little money, so I might as well get the wear out of them. I’m really nothing more than a student now.”

“What are you studying?” she asked.

“I’m studying to be a paramedic,” he said. “It seems like a good field for me. I’ve had some experience in that area, and some training that allowed me to make the decision. Now, miss, what about you?”

“Business administration and television production, not that this semester has gone very well,” she replied, leaning her head back to be able to finish the cup of cocoa. “Sir, may I have some more?”

“Of course, miss,” he smiled, taking the cup from her. “I’ll be just a minute.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Sir, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, and it seems like I shouldn’t be calling you ‘Hardass.’”

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” he smiled as he got up and headed for the tiny kitchen, only a few feet away. “Wade McCluskey at your service, miss. Feel free to call me by my given name. And I’m sorry to say that I don’t know your name.”

“Acacia,” she said. “Acacia Rose. I guess my parents had just a touch of smart ass when they named me.”

“Thorny Rose, indeed,” he grinned. “Being my parents’ eldest son, I was given my mother’s maiden name, as is the family custom. I doubt my parents have ever discovered the significance of that name. If they had, I am sure they would be quite ashamed.”

“This sounds like a good one,” she smiled.

“I doubt my parents would think so,” he laughed. He’d said two or three things in the last few minutes he would have normally not said to a casual stranger, but it seemed to be loosening her up, relaxing her. That was good, because when he got back to her problems, he expected more trouble. With that thought in mind, he decided to tell the story: “There was a man of that name, no relation as far as I know, who commanded Bombing 8 off the Enterprise at the Battle of Midway in World War II, sinking two Japanese aircraft carriers in the morning and a third in the afternoon. I have heard it said that what he did that day may have shortened the war by a year, so I bear the name proudly.”

“Yeah,” she smiled. “I don’t think that would go over too well with your parents.”

“Thy surmise is likely correct,” he said, using the Quakerism as he handed her another cup of cocoa, this time laced with a considerably stronger shot of rum. “If you don’t mind, miss, I admit to being a little chilled myself. If you don’t mind, I’ll take a moment to get on something warmer.”

“Please, go ahead,” she replied, sipping at the cocoa. “You look cold yourself.”

In a minute, he had on a warm-looking sweat shirt – with the USMC logo on it, of course – and, in that minute, she’d pretty well drained the new cup of cocoa. “That tasted wonderful,” she said. “I think I’m feeling a little better.”

“I’m glad, miss,” he said. “Let’s talk about your back a minute. It’s not your spine that’s hurting, I take it?”

“No,” she said, cringing now. “My whole back. I think it’s pretty bruised.”

“If you don’t mind miss, perhaps I’d better have a look. I can’t do the treatment here they would do at the Student Health Center, but I might be able to get some idea of how serious it is and do something about it.”

She looked on the verge of tears again. She frowned, almost crying, and said softly, “Go ahead.”

“I’ll try to be as gentle as possible,” he promised, kneeling beside her. He folded back the sleeping bag in the small of her back and lifted the tails of her jacket and shirt. She could feel him stiffen as he saw the sight there. When he spoke again, his voice was filled with a flatness and hardness that made her realize why he was called ‘Hardass’ behind his back. “What caused this?” he asked with barely restrained anger.

“A whip,” she sobbed.

He did not raise his voice a decibel, but sparks could have been struck off his words. “This goes up onto your shoulders, right?” he asked. “How far down?”

“Clear down onto my legs,” she whimpered.

“All right, Miss Rose,” he said, laying the sleeping bag down gently and getting up, heading for the phone.

“Wade!” she cried. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the police and EMS” he said. “I don’t know how you could even walk in that condition.”

“Wade! Please! Not the police!” she whimpered.

“And why not?” he said flatly. “Miss Rose, I killed the last man I found who treated a woman like that.”

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