The Darkness - Jason Pinter [108]
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eye, but this guy was swaying slightly, looking like every
few seconds he had to remind himself not to topple over.
It was a chilly night, and clearly the man had either gone
out knowingly underdressed or was so zoned out that he
hadn't noticed.
Suddenly he found himself walking over to the man,
balancing the pizza in one hand while checking his gun
to make sure it was at the ready. Curt had never been
forced to use his gun off duty, but something about this
man made him tense up. It was the jittery movements,
how he looked like he might fall asleep one moment and
then suddenly jerk awake the next. He looked like a
classic user, and Curt had learned long ago that someone
high could only be trusted as much as the drugs allowed
them to be.
Curt approached slowly. His hand was getting warm
from the bottom of the pizza box. As he got closer, he
called out, "Hey, man, you okay?"
The man didn't respond, just kept swaying. His right
arm shot out and caught a lamppost to steady himself.
"I said, you okay, man?"
Then the guy whipped around, and the look in his eyes
made Curt glad his gun was so close. His eyes were bloodshot, but they were wide open, crazylike, and he stared at
Curt with a mixture of confusion and apprehension, like an
animal cornered who might bare its fangs out of pure panic.
Curt slowly knelt down and laid the pizza on the sidewalk. He hoped this guy was just drunk, and that he could
throw him in a cab, be done with it and retreat to his pepperoni. But getting closer, he knew it wouldn't be that
simple.
"Hey, man," Curt called out. "You're not looking so
hot. Why don't you head home. Sleep it off."
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The man shook his head. Slowly at first, but then more
rapidly until Curt was worried he might hurt himself.
"Whoa, slow down there. I'm a cop. See?" Curt took
out his badge, showed it to the guy. "My name's Officer
Sheffield. I'm here to help."
"No," the man moaned. "No. No. No. Nooooooo. "
"It's okay. We've all had bad days. Why don't I call a
cab..."
"It's all gone," he said, his body swaying faster than
the breeze.
"What's gone?"
"All of it," he said. "All of it. It's gone."
"I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm sure
you have some in your fridge."
"No. I can't get anymore."
Curt kept playing along. "Why not?"
"Money," he said, his voice like tar pulled through a
pasta strainer. "I need it to buy more."
"More what?"
"Darkness," the man said, his eyes fixated on Curt.
Sheffield felt his body tense up. The drug was too
early in its life for cops to fully know how users reacted
to it, how their bodies responded. Each drug did different things to people who took it, and as a cop you learned
how to deal with each of them. You had to be supple with
your voice, malleable with your body language. The
wrong tone or stilted reaction could set someone off,
putting you or others at risk.
Curt didn't know how to deal with people who used
this new drug. They were unpredictable, but if anything
the last few days had proven without a doubt was that they
were uncompromisingly violent. He'd been trained on
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how to deal with addicts of various substances, but this
seemed to go well beyond the training manual.
"Why do you want more, man? What say we get you
somewhere safe. St. Luke's hospital isn't too far from
here. We'll get you a nice bed, get you cleaned up..."
"I don't want to be cleaned up!" the man yelled. Curt
stepped back, the look in the man's eyes giving him
pause. He thought about calling for an ambulance, figuring whether he liked it or not this guy could use a night
in detox. The only worry was whether in the time it took
for an ambulance to come, this man was intent on hurting
Curt or someone else.
"Hey, I hear you. That stuff is good. But being able to
think clearly, ain't nothing you buy can replicate that
feeling."
"You're wrong," the man slurred, his eyes closed as he
smiled. "I feel...alive. I feel...fine." Then his mood
turned sour, the smile disappearing.