Parker 05 - The Darkness (37 page)

enough to keep someone from saving their own ass.

This drug, though, was different. The narcotics division was sweeping all those back alleys, talking to all

their sources, offering all their informants good, hard

cash for one tip that could loosen the first thread.

So far, they'd come up empty-handed.

And it wasn't because the informants had suddenly

grown balls or a sense of loyalty. It's that they didn't know.

However this product was being moved, it was being

done away from the streets, away from the bottom feeders, away from the men and women who sold the very

same drugs they ingested.

This was different. And that's what scared Curt the most.

This city had the best police force in the world, but

now that force was being slashed like an unfortunately

located forest. A thousand cops, vanished from the streets,

victims of a mayor legally beholden to a budget that had

come in four
billion
dollars in the red.

Curt stopped to pick up a pizza on the way home. Half

mushroom, half pepperoni. He had no bigger plans than

to throw on his Rutgers sweatshirt, lounge on the couch

with a few slices and a few beers and flip between games

and late-night Cinemax.

As he approached his apartment building, he noticed

a man hanging on the street corner. He was wearing a

T-shirt and sweatpants, and had a pair of slippers covering

his bare feet. Ordinarily such a thing wouldn't catch his

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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. "There's no more

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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"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, his mouth dry, the words tumbling

out. "Officer needs assistance. We have a motor vehicle

accident. One civilian is down and hurt, potentially fatal.

He's not breathing."

Curt put his fingers to the man's neck, searched for a

pulse.

He felt nothing.

Picking up the man's wrist, he tried again. Still nothing.

No use. He was long gone.

"I think I lost him," Curt said into the phone.

When he was assured an ambulance was en route,

Curt stood up, took in the scene unfolding in front of him.

Cars were lining up down the street, drivers getting out

at first to see what was causing the traffic holdup. Then

when they saw what was going on, phones came out as

they called 911. Onlookers began to crowd the sidewalks.

A few people started heading toward the body. Some

looked concerned, fearful, but a few had a glint in their

eyes that Curt didn't like. He knew that not everybody

was concerned for this guy's well-being.

Curt stood up, pulled out his badge. Let his arm hang

loose so his jacket opened up a bit, revealing the gun and

holster inside.

"NYPD!" he shouted. The surge stopped. A few people slipped back into the crowds and disappeared, disappointed they didn't have a chance to search the man

for jewelry or money. "An ambulance is on the way. I'm

going to need everyone to back away and clear room."

He walked toward the crowd, and they stepped back,

obeying. Then Curt remembered something.

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He turned and jogged back to the street corner where

he'd seen the man. Reaching into the garbage can, he

managed to find the man's cell phone he'd dropped

inside. He wiped off the crud and liquid, relieved to see

the machine was still working.

He clicked it on.

The home page blinked on, and an LCD screen read

Gil's Phone.

Gil. That was the dead man's name.

Then Curt scrolled through the numerous functions

until he found a button marked Recent Calls.

He clicked on it, and saw Gil's call log from the last

twelve hours. Incoming calls marked with an orange

"down" arrow, outgoing with a red "up" arrow.

Then Curt felt his breath catch in his throat.

There was one phone number that stood out. Gil had

called it no less than ten times in the last three hours.

And the number had a 718 prefix.

Without hesitating, Curt called the number from

Gil's phone.

It rang twice, and then was picked up.

"Mr. Meadows, we've already explained to you the

situation. Until you have legal tender available, we cannot

serve you. Goodbye."

The person on the other end hung up.

And as soon as they hung up, Curt called one more

number. A number he never thought he'd be calling to

help him do
his
job.

Curt had never gone undercover. He wasn't sure he