Shadows of Reality (The Catharsis Awakening Book 1)

by Christian Martin Jr.

  The transition from summer to autumn was a welcomed reprieve. The call load slackened, people just seemed to be more content with their lives, and even motorists slowed down close to the speed limit. Matt was thankful for the time of year—thankful that families seemingly were getting along instead of fighting and doing horrible things to each other.

  At the intersection, he looked into the darkness to his right. Matt knew this stretch of highway ran straight through a large aspen grove, not more than 100 yards away, that advanced up the mountain slope. Even though it was the middle of the night, he envisioned all the vehicles that in the coming weeks would be stopping and plugging up that stretch of roadway. People from all walks of life will carelessly meander in front of oncoming traffic; gawking at the gold in the trees, and the traffic complaints will soar with road rage incidents called into the dispatch center.

  Matt huffed at the thought: it had been an absolute wonder that no one has ever been killed at this time of year by a passing motorist running over some unaware pedestrian, fixated on getting the shot with their new digital camera.

  As the near future events unfolded in his mind, out of the corner of his left eye, he caught a glimpse of a figure running on the other side of the roadway, just beyond the reach of his headlights shining straight across the two lanes and into the trees.

  Matt’s head snapped forward. He became more aware of sight and sound. He scanned the tree line across the highway, above the groomed slope in front of him that the department of transportation prides itself on—that man-made frontier separating civilized travel and the wilds of the forest. He guessed the figure was about five-foot tall.

  Was that a guy? A teenager?

  The figure had run just inside the trees. Matt turned on his spotlight and panned the woods ahead—nothing: the figure had vanished when he looked straight at it.

  Hmm…eh, just an animal, he thought. He switched off the spotlight.

  He continued to stare at the slope and tree line when another figure darted to his left on the edge of his peripheral. It was black: darker than the night around it. The thing scampered, ducked, and leapt between the pines. Matt whipped his head to the left, but the figure simply and suddenly disappeared.

  Matt didn’t bother to turn on his spotlight again to pan the area to his left, he simply let out a deep sigh. His thoughts raced through archived bits and pieces of information he had either heard or read about sleep deprivation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a decent night’s sleep.

  Maybe it’s just the lack of—

  Another figure appeared where he had seen the first one. This time, through his right peripheral, the black thing moved quickly along the tree line on the other side of the highway. He slowly turned his head forward, and the figure faded into the forest.

  Matt’s radio broke the silence. He rubbed his eyes and looked down at his police radio. A familiar female voice broadcasted Matt and Jake’s callsigns, “104 and 109, copy a BOLO to air in five seconds.” They were the only two county deputies on duty at the time.

  I’ve got your Be-On-the-Look-Out, BOLO, whatever…I just saw three—Matt didn’t have time to finish his sarcastic thought.

  “104 and 109, Be-On-the-Look-Out for a black Chevy Corvette with a Colorado temporary tag in the rear window,” crackled the radio. “Vehicle is driven by a white male. Party is wanted out of Denver for attempted homicide. Per authority of Denver PD, the vehicle was last seen headed toward the gaming district, approximately…ten ago. Subject is considered armed, dangerous, and will shoot at police if contacted. At twenty-two-oh-seven.”

  Matt picked up the microphone with a half grin, thinking how Alie’s voice was always calm and soothing; he keyed up the mic, “Comm center, 104.”

  “104, go ahead,” answered Alie.

  “Did Denver give us a year of the vehicle? Also…how about a better description of the driver.”

  “Sorry, sir. That’s all that Denver gave us.”

  “Copy, thank you,” acknowledged Matt.

  “At twenty-two-oh-eight,” Alie replied with the time.

  Thoughts of dark figures and sleep deprivation all dissipated. It wasn’t the typical fight or flight dump of adrenaline into his system—it had been a long time since that had occurred—yet Matt’s mind, heart, and soul came alive. His thoughts centered on what course of action to take if this guy entered the county.

  Several minutes ticked by before Jake got on the radio. “Comm center, 109,” his voice intoned.

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “I think I’m behind that BOLO: I got a Black Vette with a temp tag, driving northbound from the county line, headed toward Black Hawk.”

  “Copy, northbound from the county line,” Alie replied. “Do you have a number on the temp tag?”

  “Negative. There’s one in the rear window but I can’t see the numbers due to window tinting.”

  “Copy, sir…” Alie paused, “104, did you copy direct?”

  “That’s affirm, ma’am, I’m en route.”

  “At twenty-two-thirteen.”

  Matt wasted no time in arranging all the pieces over the radio: from getting more cops from the surrounding agencies to working through the strategy with Jake on where to stop the Vette. Not to miss a detail, he also considered how to contain the innocent public, traveling in and out of the county and unaware of the dangers around them.

  On cue from Matt over the radio, Jake stopped the Vette just south of the city limits of Black Hawk on one of the few straight sections in the twisted mountainous highway. To contain the innocent motorists with the possibility of a shootout looming, a state trooper was positioned just south of Jake, who stopped the northbound traffic. Up ahead, a couple of Black Hawk officers stopped the southbound traffic.

  Matt wheeled in behind Jake’s patrol truck with his department issued AR-15 rifle already primed with a round in the chamber, and in his right hand—a deft movement of driving and disengaging the rifle from the rack, at the same time, that he practiced many times before. Without thinking, he clicked the safety off, expecting the worst, and within moments he was kneeling in the roadway, pointing his rifle at the Vette’s driver-side door. He took a couple slow deep breaths, just as he had trained himself and others to do, to calm the mild bump in his heart rate—an effective trick to minimize the physiological reactions of the fight or flight response that can hit anyone in such a situation.

  Matt smiled, pleased with himself while looking down the open sights of his rifle, which hardly bounced up or down from his slowing heart beat. A thought sped through his already busy mind of how it took a unique individual to do what they do: a training speech he gave recently—that not all have the right mindset to deal with the violence and ruthlessness of human nature gone bad. He shrugged the thought off and focused on the Vette’s door.

  The sights were fixed, unwavering and exactly where they needed to be: center mass of the driver’s body as Jake ordered the suspect out of the car. Jake barked another order for the suspect to lay face down on the road while keeping his arms and hands in the air. Matt’s smile became a full-fledged grin when he saw the suspect dive toward the pavement, eagerly compliant with Jake’s commands.

  With the suspect lying face down on the ground, Jake quickly handcuffed him, then rolled him over on his side to pat him down for weapons. Finding no weapons, Jake sat him up to finish the pat down. Once everything was removed from his pockets—keys, wallet, and a package of condoms—he was lifted to his feet, and escorted to the rear seat of Jake’s patrol truck. With a slam of the door, the suspect was temporarily incarcerated in the mobile prison.

  After Matt’s announcement over the radio to dispatch of the suspect in custody, the trooper and the Black Hawk officers broke off their hastily assembled blockade and joined Matt and Jake—allowing the innocent travelers who waited, whether patiently or not, to continue on with their journey. A half-dozen officers loosely huddled together between Jake’s patrol truck and the Vette as motor
ists headed southbound—those headed home after a spree of gambling and some who just got off work from a casino—but most were headed north: into the gaming district.

  “I think this guy went too easy!” exclaimed Jake to the officers standing around.

  “Oh?” quizzed a Black Hawk officer standing on the edge of the huddle.

  “Yeah, man,” Jake chortled, “this guy practically dove head first into the pavement before I even told him to move.”

  Matt chuckled, smiled, and nodded his head in agreement; then he realized he was slumped over and looking straight down at the road. The little effects he experienced of the fight or flight response were now leaving his system; he rolled his shoulders back and straightened his posture. The chitchat of the other officers became muffled voices, mingled with the traffic, while they waited patiently for dispatch to confirm the identity of the man they just arrested.

  Matt peered into each car window as it slowly rolled by, red and blue flashing lights from their patrol vehicles bounced and flickered on each passing window. Behind the reflections, dazed looks and unblinking eyes stared back at him in wonderment at all the commotion.

  A driver honked and held up his middle finger toward Matt. Motionless and rigid like a statute firmly planted on the asphalt, Matt glared back at the impatient driver—now late to donate his hard-earned cash to a slot machine—as he slowly drove north. The traffic was now a logjam going into Black Hawk.

  They’ll never understand the great pains that went into protecting them if something went—

  Matt’s earbud crackled, interrupting his trance, “109, clear to copy?” He instantly spun around and faced the group of officers at the sound of Alie’s voice over the radio.

  “Go ahead,” Jake answered his call sign.

  “109, the temp tag and party is not a match for DPD…your party is clear and valid on a Colorado DL.” The radio momentarily went silent with a short crackle and hiss. Alie keyed the mic once more, “According to Denver, they located that vehicle about twenty-minutes ago…sorry, but they didn’t get that info to us until now: after our request to confirm.”

  “Copy, ma’am,” Jake stoically replied.

  “At twenty-two-twenty-eight.”

  “Really?” Jake exclaimed in disbelief, “I told you, he went too easy!”

  “Oh man,” Matt sighed. With a rigid gait, he walked slowly to Jake’s rear passenger door. He tightened his lips and prepared to let the innocent man out of the backseat. It was like a bad joke for everyone involved.

  Some officers nodded, some shook their heads, while all looked at the ground—as though they were searching for answers in the asphalt for what just occurred. Matt slowly pulled out a business card to give to the man who was just exonerated by dispatch. He took a deep breath as he readied himself for the typical speech: I’m sorry for the situation, sir. You and your vehicle fit the description of a wanted person.

  When the man was let out of handcuffs, Matt did not hesitate: he shook his hand, thanked him for his cooperation, explained why he was stopped, and why he was ordered out of his car and onto the ground at gunpoint. He felt he owed at least that much to the man standing before him, who looked like he had just seen a ghost. Now free to leave, he returned to his Vette and sat for a long time, silently shaking in his seat from the surreal experience.

  Matt turned to the assisting officers, shook each of their hands and thanked them for their efforts before they returned to their respective jurisdictions. As police vehicles began to pull away, Matt and Jake remained standing on the shoulder of the highway; their own patrol vehicle emergency lights continued to illuminate the dark edges of the road, red and blue lights flashing all around them. The driver of the Vette slowly pulled onto the highway and continued on his way.

  “No one will believe any of this, Matt. No one!” Jake blurted while slightly bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  “I know,” was the only thing Matt could think of in response.

  “Oh man, Sarge…” Jake was still high from the stop, almost euphoric with the adrenaline and everything else that had dumped into his system. The kind of dump that hits cops with such force that it would cripple an ordinary mind. Matt studied his partner: his gestures, rocking back and forth from heel to toe, and his head nodding; it was all in cadence with some internal harmony of sorts. “When that car went by…it was like…‘Oh yeah, game on!’”

  Matt smiled with a slow nod of his head as he watched him bounce; like he was pumped full of a drug, an addictive drug, one that takes its toll over time—an adrenalin junkie, Jake still loved it, still enjoyed the rush of it pumping through his system.

  “You know, Matt, we could write a book about the shit we see everyday. You just can’t make this…shit up!” Jake’s voice crescendoed; his internal harmony let go with a sudden lurch toward Matt. “Everything matched!”

  Matt raised a hand to catch the big guy from toppling onto him. Both laughed while Jake settled back down on his heels. With the other hand, he patted Jake on the shoulder. “Good job, brother…good job. Be safe, and I’ll see you a little later,” Matt told him before leaving the scene.

  “Hey, you too,” Jake said, still wearing his childish grin.

  Matt climbed into his vehicle to continue the shift—on to the next thing, the next call. He stared out of the front windshield as he drove off, and his shoulders slumped forward now that he was out of Jake’s sight. Matt slowly shook his head while thinking of the adrenalin dump Jake was still feeling—for himself, it was more caustic to his system than euphoric. He felt an exhaustion from deep within: the consequences of the fight or flight, the effects of sleep deprivation, and the effects of always operating in a hyper-vigilant mode. Scraping away another layer within, ablating his mind, emotions, and body.

  The dark figures reappeared several more times during the course of the night. They darted, scampered, and moved just outside of the headlights in his peripheral vision, but always vanished when he looked straight at them.

  He desperately needed someone to talk to. Someone who would listen. Matt felt that he needed to vent about the goings-on of the night, a pouring out of his soul. But to whom?

  Jake? SWAT buddy, friend, and all the years worked together. With a sigh, he rejected the thought: he’s still a subordinate. Although a loose friendship existed, the boundaries of being a sergeant and leader had long ago been established. A leader cannot show his weakness to his subordinates!

  The department’s psychological services?

  Out of the question. Matt considered this for as long as it took the time to say, No way! Too many deputies over the years had been ostracized for seeking mental help. He witnessed too many times how that staff would scorn that individual. An indelible mark left on them that never went away until they were finally forced out of the office by upper management’s gossip or undue scrutiny over petty things—most times, both.

  An image of Trish flashed through his mind. Years of communication miscues immediately dashed any hope of sharing anything with her. He had tried before, many times, but she was too busy with the kids and her own job to actively listen to him.

  Matt parked his patrol truck in a quiet, dark subdivision road. He turned the headlights off and stared into the night. He couldn’t find the words to describe to himself what he felt, or didn’t feel any longer. Like a toddler who is unable to explain what hurts and has to resort to crying, Matt sat quietly and wept.

  4

  DYSFUNCTIONAL

  It had been a week since the incident with the black Corvette. A week since seeing the first of many strange figures scampering in his peripheral. A week of a slowdown in the call volume as the nights became longer and colder. Another week of living in a rut.

  Matt entered his house after the end of his shift and found Trish sitting on the couch reading a book. This wasn’t her routine to stay up late, but it wasn’t completely unusual for her to be awake when he got off work at two in the morning.

  “Hi,” Matt
said with little emotion.

  “Hey,” Trish replied in their nonchalant way of greeting of each other.

  Matt walked past her into the kitchen for a glass of water, and then plopped down on a chair at the kitchen table. With the lack of a dividing wall separating the kitchen and living room, the space between the two melded into each other, giving a sense of being in the same room.

  What little strength remained in him leaked out, and he found himself staring mindlessly at the grains of wood in the table. Matt felt the hypervigilance—that state of heightened awareness while on duty—subside as though he could feel the level of a tide recede within. Even an uneventful shift creates anxiety: anticipation of a bad call—to go from zero to sheer terror in a matter of seconds—can erode the emotions and confuse the internal processes.

  “How’d it go tonight?” Trish asked while she inserted a finger between the book’s pages as a place mark.

  “It was okay,” he replied while beginning to trace the grains of wood with his finger. “Boring. Not one call for service. Approved some reports…drove around in subdivisions.”

  “Hm…how are you doing?”

  “Well…” Matt began to reply as he took a deep breath. He paused for a moment at the thought, how interesting that she even asked. Then, a cascade of other thoughts: past conversations of attempting to tell her his dreams and deepest fears; answering horrific calls and the inevitable adrenalin dumps…only to be met with a vacant look with no, to little reaction from her.

  Then there was the matter of the dark figures, images, beings—hell, whatever they are!—that he had started to see at night over the past week. The feeling that perhaps he was losing his grip: at the end of a rope and somehow the last strand was about to give way. Then, the incessant pattern and history between them all narrowed to ‘How are you doing?’

  So, what to say now?

  “I don’t know…burned out,” Matt finally said with a light exhale.

  Trish nodded her head a few times.