The Darkness - Jason Pinter [109]
money. No more money. It's gone. I can't have any more."
"It's okay, we can just..."
"I can't have any more!" he shouted.
"Come on, buddy, that stuff isn't going to do anything
for you. Let's talk."
Then the man reached into his pocket and pulled out
a cell phone. "They won't take my calls anymore," he
said. "The last guy who came, Vinnie, he told me unless
I had cold hard cash he wouldn't sell me anything." The
man held up the phone like it was a soiled diaper, and
dropped it into the trash can. "Where am I going to get
more money? I can't find anybody to trade with me."
"Trade with you? What the hell are you talking
about? Listen to yourself, man. You don't need more,
you need help."
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Curt took out his phone and dialed 911. When the
operator picked up, he said, "This is Officer Curt Sheffield, currently off duty, I have a ten sixty-nine in progress. Adult male, mid-thirties, high on I believe this new
drug, Darkness. Guy looks pretty out of it and potentially
dangerous. Send a unit and an ambulance to Eighty-eight
and Amsterdam."
"Ten-four, Officer Sheffield. Ambulance will be en
route. Might have to wait for a squad car. Busy night
tonight. Can you watch him until the EMTs get there?"
Curt sighed. Always shorthanded.
"I'll do my best." He hung up.
The man's body was draped across the lamppost now,
as he barely looked able to stand. Curt took a few steps
closer, put his hand in his jacket pocket where he felt the
comfort of his holster.
"Listen, buddy. I got a few friends coming. They're
going to take care of you. They..."
"My wife," the man said.
"What's you say?"
"My wife is dead," the man said in a guttural rasp.
"She died."
"I'm so sorry... How did she die?"
"I killed her."
Curt stopped moving. His fingers went from tickling
the gun to gripping the pistol.
His eyes darted back and forth as he spoke.
"I wanted to sell her wedding ring. She told me I
couldn't. I could have bought so much with it, but she said
no. I didn't know what to do. I needed it so badly. So I
took a knife and I cut it off of her."
"Oh, Jesus..."
The man looked down, reached into his pocket.
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Jason Pinter
"Okay, my friend, I'm going to come over there. I
have a gun on me. Please, don't move any more and take
your hand out of your pocket."
Without warning the man yanked his hand from his
pocket. It took Curt a second to realize what he was holding.
In the man's hand was a severed finger. A glittering
diamond ring still attached to it.
"I don't know what to do!"
Suddenly the man dropped the finger, turned around
and ran out into the middle of the street.
"Stop!" Curt shouted, sprinting forward.
Half a dozen cars were speeding up Amsterdam, headlights blazing in the dark blue sky. Their horns started blaring
as the man weaved in and out of the way of thousands of
pounds of metal passing him by at forty miles an hour.
Suddenly there was a flash of metal, sparks, and a terrible
crunching sound as Curt stopped dead in his tracks. Curt saw
the man's body go flying, literally lifted into the air, where
it spun end over end until landing in a heap by the curb.
The car, a dark sedan, came screeching to a halt. The
driver leaped out of the car, hands holding his head in disbelief. Cars ground to a stop all around the sedan, whose
hood was dented, grill smashed inward. A slick of blood
pooling around the hood ornament.
And just below the front of the car was a sight that
would never leave Curt Sheffield as long as he lived.
Resting on the asphalt, in a perfect row as if placed
there gently, was a pair of slippers.
"Oh my God," he said. The man looked at Curt, his
mouth wide open. "You...you saw that. He ran out in front
of me. He...oh, sweet Jesus..."
Curt ran over to the body, knelt down next to it. The
man's face looked like it had been bludgeoned with a
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sledgehammer, and his limbs were twisted in a way that
God had most certainly not intended.
He ripped his phone from his pocket, dialed 911. "Ten
fifty-three," Curt said,