The Argus Deceit

by Chuck Grossart

  “Your dad said it was some guy named Hinckley.” Brody glanced in Joan’s direction. She was looking at him. He looked away quickly. “From Evergreen.” His neck was warm.

  “I know that’s what he said, but do you think he was working for somebody? Like Oswald was working for the CIA or Castro or some shit like that?”

  “I don’t know, man,” Brody said. He shifted his glance to Joan’s table and noticed she wasn’t there. Before he could look around the room for her, though, he felt Jason scoot over, making room on the bench for someone else.

  “Hi, Jason.”

  Joan. She sat down right beside him, straddling the bench and facing Jason. God, she even smelled incredible, all warm and flowery. All Brody could see was the back of her head, but that hair of hers was only inches away. It was a strange feeling and hard to describe, but it felt like a low-voltage current flashed through his body, as if every nerve ending he had was saying, Whoa! She’s right there! The feeling only lasted a second but still caused him to catch his breath. He tried to keep his eyes from wandering, but they had a mind of their own. She was so small, almost delicate in a way. She was wearing a concert T-shirt, probably the Journey one he’d seen her wear before, which ended at her button-up jeans, which hugged the curve of her—

  Brody looked away, trying to keep cool, and caught Tim Kolak’s eyes from across the table. Tim was smiling and did the hubba-hubba thing with his eyebrows. He’d seen Brody giving Joan the once-over, and Brody felt himself flush. They all knew he had a raging crush on Joan and loved to rib him about it. Kyle, Jason, and Tim all had girlfriends; Brody Quail, 16-year-old sophomore at Forrest J. Gerber High School, didn’t.

  Brody had kissed a girl before (more than one, actually), but other than that, he was definitely not in the same “experience” league as his friends.

  Joan had a boyfriend, too, which sucked. A junior. Wrestler. Brody didn’t know his name, but he’d seen him with her before. He wasn’t a small guy, either. Brody was crushing on a girl who had a boyfriend who could easily kick his ass.

  “Isn’t it scary?” Joan said. She swung her other leg over the bench and put her notebooks on the table in front of her. “Todd thinks it was the Russians who did it, because they’re scared of Reagan.”

  Todd. That was the wrestler’s name.

  “Brody doesn’t think so,” Tim said. “Tell her, Brody.”

  Joan turned toward him, and for a moment, Brody was lost in her eyes, so big and bright. She wore just enough makeup to be pretty. Her lips were parted, ever so slightly, and Brody imagined how soft they would feel against his. There was that shock again, a rush running through his body.

  “Oh yeah?” Joan asked. “You think Todd’s wrong?”

  Brody cleared his throat. “I don’t think they’d dare try to assassinate the president of the United States.” His voice actually cracked, like a little kid entering puberty. She held his glance, and Brody tried to look away but couldn’t. He cleared his throat again. “I don’t think they’d be that stupid.” In a way, he’d just called Todd stupid, too, and that was awesome.

  “Who do you think did it, then?” Joan asked.

  “Kyle’s dad said it was some guy from Evergreen.” Brody’s throat felt tight, and he was hot all over. His voice didn’t crack this time, though, which was a relief. “I’m sure they’ll figure it all out once they have a chance to question him.”

  He wanted to keep talking, to show Joan he was smarter than her big, bad wrestler dude, but just like that, she looked away and turned back toward Jason. “You’ve got Krichek for third period, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Jason answered. “Why?”

  “He said something about a test next Friday, but I didn’t catch what chapters it was covering.”

  “Um, seven and eight. I think.”

  She grabbed one of her spiral notebooks and flipped it open. Brody watched her write the chapters down, and then he saw it.

  His name.

  At first, he didn’t believe what he was seeing, but it was there. Drawn in balloon letters, at the top of the page, sandwiched between doodles.

  B R O D Y

  His name, not Todd’s. His heart leapt into his throat.

  Joan seemed to realize Brody had seen what she’d written and slammed the notebook closed. “Okay,” she said, “thanks, Jason.” She abruptly gathered her books and went back to her own table. The whole time Brody watched her, hoping she’d turn and look at him.

  She didn’t.

  When he was sure none of his friends were paying attention, Brody scribbled a quick note, tore it from his spiral notebook, folded it quickly, and put it in his back pocket. The move was dumb, maybe even childish, but what the heck. If the opportunity presented itself, and he had the courage to give it to her—

  Nah, Brody decided. She’d think I was in fifth grade or something. He’d throw it away when he got home.

  After study hall ended, Brody chose to ditch his last class of the day and head home to watch the news about Reagan. As he walked across the parking lot, he felt giddy about what he’d seen written in Joan’s notebook. His seeing it, though, had embarrassed her. She didn’t look at him during the rest of study hall and left quickly with the bell. Strange, but it didn’t change the fact that she had taken the time to doodle his name, in big, balloon letters even. She’d been thinking about him. Maybe as much as he’d been thinking about her?

  Brody dug in his pocket for his car keys as he approached his old, beat-up ’63 Impala. It had been his dad’s when it was new and was handed down to Brody to serve as his first car. The discount light-blue paint job from 1976 was beginning to fade, and the rust around the fender wells and rocker panels was really taking hold. The once–bright red interior upholstery was ripped in a few places (hidden by cheap seat covers) and the carpet was pink in places where the sun had taken its toll. Topped off by a dent in the left rear fender, one missing hubcap, a windshield that was too pitted to see through when driving into the sun, and a steel plate covering a hole in the driver’s side floor pan, Brody’s Impala was a certifiable piece of shit. It was loud. It smelled like old plastic. It smoked. It was a rust bucket. But it was his.

  No girl would ever swoon over a car like this. The guys driving the Berlinettas and Firebirds got all the attention.

  He opened the door and threw his book bag on the passenger seat, doubting Joan would ever want to be seen in a car like this. If she ever agreed to go out with him and if he ever got around to asking her, that is.

  No, who was he fooling? Tomorrow, she’d continue treating him like just another face in study hall. He didn’t have a chance. He remembered the note, pulled it from his pocket, read it, crumpled it up, then tossed it on the front seat. “Jesus, Brody, what are you thinking?” he said to himself.

  As he stepped into the car, a voice surprised him.

  “Brody?”

  He turned, and there she was.

  “Joan?” She stood beside the fender dent, books in her arms. She glanced down at her feet for a moment, then looked up again, smiling.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.” Hi? Is that the best you can do?

  “Are you leaving early?” she asked.

  “Um, yeah. I was going to—”

  “Ditching, huh?”

  He laughed a little. “Yeah. I wanted to go home and watch the news.” He regretted the words as soon as they slipped from his mouth. Go home and watch the news? Real cool, Brody. You sound forty years old. “And I have Martinson for last period, so I figured I could either sit there and suffer though his crap, or go home a little early.” That’s better.

  Joan nodded. “Hey, do you think you could give me a ride home?”

  She usually gets a ride from her boyfr—Todd. From Todd. He was really beginning to dislike that name. “Sure, hop in.”

  As she stepped around the rear of the Impala toward the passenger door, Brody hopped in and tossed his book bag into the backseat.

  Joan grabbed
the door handle and tugged.

  “It doesn’t work from the outside,” Brody yelled, leaning over and popping the lever. As he did so, he noticed the crumpled note sitting on the seat. He quickly grabbed it and stuffed it into his front pocket.

  “Thanks,” she said, placing her books between them on the bench seat and slamming her door shut. “I didn’t feel like walking today.”

  Walking? Brody wanted to ask why she wasn’t getting a ride home from Todd, like she usually did (at least that’s what he thought), but held his tongue. “I don’t mind,” he said, fastening his lap belt and cinching it tight. She was leaving early, too, he realized. Ditching, just like he was. A couple of rebels.

  He pumped the gas pedal and turned the key, silently praying the old girl would start and save him the embarrassment. With a cough, she did. Brody winced at the cloud of blue smoke in his rearview mirror, backed out of the parking space, then suddenly realized he had no idea where to go. “Um . . . where do you live?”

  “I’m only a couple of blocks away, on Lincoln,” she said. “Take the first left from Michigan, and I’m the third house on the left.”

  “Got it.” He’d noticed Joan hadn’t put her seat belt on. He really wanted to say something but wasn’t about to come off sounding like a dork again. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed down Central toward Michigan, suddenly self-conscious about missing a shift or grinding the gears, which would be very uncool.

  “I like your car,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I do. I love old cars like this. Impala, right? ’62?”

  Brody couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Close. It’s a ’63. It was my dad’s.” A girl who he’d admired from afar for most of the school year was in his car, a car she liked, and was actually talking to him. She could’ve walked home, as her house really wasn’t far away, but she’d asked him for a ride.

  B R O D Y

  He imagined the letters again, drawn with care in her notebook.

  “How fast have you had it?” she asked, grabbing the metal dash with one hand and pulling one leg up underneath her, turning her body to face him.

  “Not very. Maybe 80, 85.” He glanced over, took in her bright eyes, her smile. “It really starts shaking at 75, so I’m kinda nervous about going any faster.” Once again, he cringed at his own words. God, I sound like an old man!

  She laughed, and Brody immediately figured she was laughing at him, but after a second or two, realized she wasn’t. “Probably a good idea,” she said. “My dad had an old car when he was a kid, and one of the tie rods snapped. He swerved into a ditch and rolled a few times.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “I know. He was lucky to get out alive. Oops.”

  “Oops?”

  “You just passed Michigan.”

  Sure enough, he’d driven right by. Dork! “Sorry. I’ll take Washington. Does it go through?”

  “Yeah. That’ll work.”

  It all seemed so surreal. Joan was here, in his car, and he was driving her home. She was just inches away, too. He tried to keep his eyes on the road but couldn’t help stealing a glance or two; she was wearing sandals, and her toenails were painted the same color as her fingernails, black, like a punk rocker.

  He would ask her about Todd when they got to her house, he decided. That was the right thing to do. If they were still together, then this was nothing more than a ride home. But if they weren’t, then maybe this was the start of something more. He also decided to ask his dad what a tie rod was.

  Even though Brody had driven down this road a hundred times, he failed to notice the red light.

  Chapter 5

  BRODY52

  Joshua, Maine

  Friday, October 25, 1974

  The office clock chimed for the seventh time, and Brody pushed his chair away from his desk.

  His dinner was mostly untouched. Eating wasn’t a priority anymore, as dining alone was a constant reminder of what was missing in his life.

  How many times had he sat across the table from Reba, enjoying a meal they’d both prepared, or even takeout Chinese food? Those were the good times, the happy moments between two people who’d found the puzzle piece that made their lives complete. Sometimes they would talk about their day, sharing little bits of information that only the other could care about and understand. Or they would sit silently, with no need to speak, because they were together.

  He remembered when the kids were little and the dinner table was a chaotic jumble of voices and noises, all happy things from a more joyful time.

  Memories. So warm in their ability to bring past into the present, and so cold and cruel when the promise of what was to come has been ripped apart, never to be experienced again in even little ways. There would be no grandchildren, no visits from grown kids with their spouses, no family gatherings at the holidays.

  When Reba passed and his children viewed him through eyes clouded with uncertainty and disdain, those warm memories became cold as steel, tiny sharpened daggers that poked and prodded Brody every moment of every day. All that could have been, what should have been, was gone.

  Brody was nothing more than a discarded puzzle piece now, lost under a table, never to be set in place. No one would search for him. And it didn’t matter, for the rest of his puzzle was gone.

  Tick. She lives.

  Tick-tock. She dies.

  Memories of that horrid night were fragmented, random snapshots of what he could recall and what he’d been told by others. He hadn’t touched another drop since that night, not that it mattered now . . .

  The bottle had taken control of him slowly. Each day, a little more. Each week, a few too many. He’d fall asleep at his desk, passed out from the Scotch, until Reba would drag him to bed in the early morning hours.

  He had no reason to turn to the bottle; there was no undue stress in his life. Financially, they were more than comfortable, and his relationship with Reba was strong. They’d continued the successful business his father had started, grown it, nurtured it, and anticipated the day when their own children would take the reins, if it was what the kids wanted. A decade past, he and Reba decided to take the company public, and their accounts swelled with the windfall. He’d remained as chairman of the board, holding a majority of the company’s stock.

  Wealth can corrupt even the cleanest soul. God knows he’d seen it happen before to other couples, but not to him and Reba. Brody had never cheated, even though the opportunities presented themselves more than he’d care to remember. Some women were attracted to men with means. But no, he’d never faltered. And neither had she.

  They loved each other.

  But Brody also grew to love the bottle. At first, drinking was social, but he found he enjoyed the feeling of release alcohol provided, a way to relax and escape from his responsibilities. Insidious, it was. A creeping kudzu of addiction, noticed but ignored until the growth was too substantial to cut away. On the night Reba was killed, his vice had spread its tendrils throughout his house and his family, numbing him to the point of uselessness and strangling his ability to realize how far he’d fallen.

  He’d become an alcoholic. Reba knew it, and so did his kids. But Brody refused to see the truth.

  Until he saw Reba’s lifeless body.

  A gunshot to her head and three to her chest. A violent end to an unmerciful ravaging.

  They’d broken in at two in the morning. A botched robbery, the police surmised. Reba confronted them, fought back, and was raped, then killed. Brody didn’t wake until it was almost over. He was drunk, in his office. Passed out.

  Brody walked around the corner of his desk. The house was dark now, still and quiet. He didn’t need any lights, though, as he knew the doors and hallways of their home as well as he knew his own face. He stepped down the hallway to the top of the stairs, the moonlight seeping in through the one window he hadn’t covered, placed high in the expansive entryway foyer. The banister curved away from him, descending toward
the front door.

  They’d come up these same stairs, passed right by his office, and entered their bedroom. Brody turned and looked down the long hallway toward the closed door at the far end, cloaked in shadow. He hadn’t slept in that room since, instead spending his nights in the guestroom or on one of the couches downstairs.

  She’d died in that room. Violated and murdered, while he sat slumped in his desk chair.

  The struggle had woken him. He’d sat up, still wrapped in a boozy fog, not knowing what had startled him awake. Felix was out of the house, so Brody knew it couldn’t be him.

  Then he heard Reba’s cries, quiet but frantic, pressing through his closed office door.

  Tick.

  And the first gunshot. He’d been around weapons his whole life and knew exactly what he’d just heard.

  Tick-tock.

  At that moment, she was gone, but Brody wouldn’t know that until much later. The coroner said the first shot was to the head.

  He’d fumbled in his desk for the gun, cradling it in his lap while he searched the drawer for the box of cartridges. The room was spinning, his hands unsteady. He found the box, dropped it on the floor.

  bang bang bang

  Three more shots in quick succession.

  He sat bolt upright, the room spinning. The gun slid from his lap and bounced underneath his chair. He leaned forward, tore at the cartridge box with shaking hands, ripped the cardboard packaging away. He upended the box, dumping the shells on the carpet. He grabbed a handful. Reached for the gun.

  Then he heard them. Heavy footsteps, thudding past his office door. More than one person. They were running away.

  He pushed the cylinder open with his thumb, placed one, then two shells in their chambers as he rose from his chair. His legs were unsteady, the booze still wreaking havoc with his sense of balance.

  The third shell dropped from his fingers. Then the fourth slipped away. He’d been trained to load a weapon by touch alone, quickly, in complete darkness. Sober. What should have been muscle memory was now a mishmash of confused, jerky motions.