The Argus Deceit

by Chuck Grossart

  He pulled the door open and ran from his office, still trying to place another shell in the chamber. It, too, dropped. All the shells in his hand fell to the wooden floor, bouncing at his feet.

  He slapped the cylinder closed as he neared the top of the stairs and saw them racing down the steps, two at a time, heading for the front door.

  He yelled at them to stop.

  The police report said they found him at the foot of the stairs, unconscious, gun still in his hand. He’d fallen, drunken legs failing him when he needed them most.

  He’d woken two days later in the hospital, confused. His children were there, but their eyes were already hooded with the knowledge of what had happened. They’d read the police report.

  His blood alcohol level was off the charts when he was brought in. A pathetic man in a drunken stupor, too useless to do what a man was supposed to do: protect his home and his wife.

  The killers had been in the house for nearly two hours. Two hours while he slept away, two hours while they’d violated his dear Reba, two hours while she endured the ultimate indignity, knowing her husband was passed out in his office, right down the hall. Knowing he wouldn’t wake, but praying he would.

  She’d been bound and gagged for most of the ordeal. The police believed the gag came loose, and that’s when the killers had decided they’d had their fill of her.

  His children would never forgive him.

  One of them shall pass.

  And neither would he.

  Brody stepped down the stairs and approached the front door, his tortured soul squirming within a body that was, even now, whispering to him, driven by a jealous thirst. Take a drink, it said. Just one. Make the pain go away.

  He’d told Felix to remove all the liquor from the house, or at least he thought he had. It was still there, lining the wet bar in the study, along with a half-empty bottle of eighteen-year-old Scotch still tucked in his desk drawer.

  Whispering.

  He stood at the door, waiting.

  There would be a knock soon.

  As if on cue, Brody saw the glow of headlights out front. He pulled back the side curtain, peeked outside. A patrol cruiser.

  There would be two uniformed officers. They would be delivering news. Terrible news.

  One of them shall pass.

  A knock.

  Brody took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “Mr. Quail? Brody Quail?” one of the officers asked.

  “Yes, officer,” Brody replied, steeling himself for what he was about to hear.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but it’s your son. Raymond.”

  He’s dead. Died in a car accident.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We were notified earlier this evening that your son was severely injured in an automobile accident, sir. And I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but—”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “He was alone.”

  “Uh . . . yes, sir. He was the only occupant in the vehicle.”

  Brody nodded, surprised that the pain and shock he should be feeling simply wasn’t there.

  At that moment, the day ended for fifty-two-year-old Brody Quail.

  Chapter 6

  BRODY10

  Culver, Ohio

  Thursday, May 15, 1975

  “Murf!” Brody screamed, watching his brother step off the curb and into the street.

  Brody ran as fast as he could, weaving his way through the playground toward the side of the school building.

  The car was still coming. Brody saw the driver leaning toward the passenger seat, eyes off the road, concentrating instead on whatever lay on the seat beside him instead of the distracted first grader wandering out into his path.

  “Murf! Murphy! Look out!” His kid brother wasn’t paying attention, wasn’t listening.

  Jesus don’t let this happen don’t let this happen don’t let

  Brody was going to watch his brother die, right in front of him, just feet away.

  shouldn’t have yelled at him shouldn’t have yelled at

  Others on the playground stopped what they were doing, attracted by Brody’s shouting, watching the scene playing out on the street where the buses park.

  Brody wouldn’t be the only one forced to live with what he was about to see. They all would. A shared nightmare that would never fade completely, even years from now. Everyone would remember the day they saw six-year-old Murphy Quail disappear beneath the wheels of a tan ’73 Oldsmobile. They would remember the sound. And what was left in the road.

  “Murf!”

  Murf stopped in the middle of the street, his feet square on the yellow line, and turned toward the approaching car. In an instant, he realized where he was, and what was about to happen. He froze.

  Brody was fifteen feet away, cutting his glance from his brother, to the car, to his brother, judging the distance, calculating. The driver was sitting up now, his eyes wide, and his mouth forming a perfect O. Hitting the brakes wouldn’t make a difference.

  get him get him get him

  The world seemed to slow down, the air thickening.

  Brody was in the street, seeing the blur of the car out of the corner of his eye, hearing its engine, the whoosh of air as it drew close. His body recoiled, his mind screaming at him to stop. He hesitated, the natural instinct for self-preservation kicking in.

  But, no. Brody couldn’t let this happen. He had to try. Murf was his little brother, and he was supposed to protect him, keep him from danger. He could knock Murf out of the way, push him to safety. Brody could sacrifice himself. His little brother was a pain, but Brody would die for him. A thousand times over.

  grab him grab

  Brody willed his legs to move, his arms to grasp.

  He slammed into his brother, running full speed, hugged him, and dove.

  Bright sunlight glinting off chrome glared at him from the car’s bumper. So close. Had he reached out, he could’ve touched it, felt the smooth, cold steel right before it shattered his hand, then his body, and his life.

  He closed his eyes and wondered what it would feel like to fall beneath the car’s tires, feel its weight rolling over him. Would he live long enough to hear his ribs splinter or his legs snap? They weren’t going to make it. He should’ve knocked Murf out of the way. Now they would both die.

  Brody waited for the impact. Waited for the pain.

  There was screaming, squealing. A pain in his side.

  He lay still, curled into a ball, eyes clenched tightly.

  People were yelling, coming closer. He heard them running, shoes scuffing against the road.

  Murf wasn’t in his arms. Brody experienced a flicker of hope. Maybe he’d knocked Murf clear. Maybe he’d saved him.

  He heard Mrs. Carlisle scream. Brody could only imagine what she was seeing.

  But he didn’t feel any pain. He’d read that injured people didn’t feel anything right away, even if their guts were spilling out of their bellies. It was called being in shock, if he remembered correctly.

  Maybe he was in shock.

  “Jesus Christ, kid! Are you okay?”

  Brody slowly opened his eyes and looked up into a round face staring down at him. The driver. Same bald head and wide eyes.

  There were other faces, too. Kids, surrounding him. Then Rich. Gary.

  “You okay, Brody?” Rich asked.

  “Murf?” Brody sat up, realizing he was unhurt. Alive. “Murf!” He heard his brother crying.

  “Mrs. Carlisle’s got him, dude,” Rich said. “He’s okay.”

  Brody pushed through the crowd and saw Mrs. Carlisle holding Murphy in her arms, tears streaming down her face. She was stroking his hair, saying it was all her fault.

  He’d done it. Somehow, he’d done it. Murf was okay.

  “They ran right out in front of me,” the driver said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Shouldn’t be playing so close to the str
eet like that.”

  Brody wheeled, the heat rising in his face. He wanted to scream at the man, tell him he was a stupid jerk for not paying attention. But he didn’t. The man was an adult, and he couldn’t talk to him like that no matter how mad he might be. Instead, he unclenched his fists and went to his brother.

  He’d never seen Mrs. Carlisle cry before, and it upset him. Teachers weren’t supposed to cry. She set Murf down and pulled a tissue from her pocket. “Murphy,” she said, “don’t you ever, ever go out in the street like that again.”

  Murphy looked down, nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you okay, Brody? Are you hurt?” Mrs. Carlisle asked.

  Other than a dull ache in his side, which he figured came from hitting the ground, Brody felt fine. “Yes, ma’am. I’m okay.”

  Brody was shocked when Mrs. Carlisle wrapped her arms around him and hugged. He felt her tears on his cheek and noticed she smelled a little like his mother. Maybe they used the same shampoo.

  She stood, smoothed her skirt, and turned into a teacher again. “Everyone back to the playground. Come on now, let’s go,” she ordered, waving her arms to get everyone moving.

  Brody put his hand on Murphy’s shoulder. “Murf, you okay?”

  “I’m sorry, Bowdy,” Murphy said, using his little-kid voice, which usually meant he was upset and scared.

  Brody hugged him. “It’s okay, Murf. It’s okay.”

  “Did the car hit you?” he asked.

  “No,” Brody said. “It missed us both.” He tousled his brother’s hair. “We were lucky.”

  “Dude, you saved his life.” Rich was speaking. “That was awesome.”

  “You three, back to the school. Now.” Mrs. Carlisle, being a teacher again. “Go on. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Brody watched her fix her gaze on the driver, who was still mumbling about kids playing in the street.

  “I’m going to have a few words with that gentleman first,” she said, her voice a little different from what Brody was used to hearing. She’s going to rip him a new one, as his dad liked to say.

  “Really, Mom, it’s okay. It wasn’t that bad.”

  Brody’s mother had received a call from the school and was frantic by the time he and Murf had returned home. She’d spent the first ten minutes after they’d walked through the door crying and hugging them both. Then, just like Mrs. Carlisle had transformed back into a teacher, his mom turned back into their mother.

  “You’re supposed to watch him, Brody.”

  I was watching him, just not enough. “I know, Mom.”

  “And you, Murphy Joseph Quail, are old enough to know better than to play in the street. You’re not a baby anymore. You could’ve been hurt, or killed.”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand and stood. “Okay, then. Now go wash up for dinner.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brody said and headed upstairs to the bathroom, stopping to put his schoolbooks in his room. He noticed his mom had made his bed, like she always did, and thrown his dirty clothes in his hamper, like she always did.

  Brody plopped his books on his bed and noticed something lying on the floor. It was a stupid little thing, but he’d had it for as long as he could remember: the last surviving piece of a plastic dinosaur set he’d gotten when he was little. This one was bright yellow, a Tyrannosaurus rex. (It said so on the tail, right next to “Made in Taiwan.”) He picked the toy up and placed it on his shelf, right next to his 1/48-scale model of a World War II Grumman Avenger torpedo bomber. He didn’t play with dinosaurs anymore (he was too old for that now), but he couldn’t seem to let the little yellow T. rex go.

  “Brody! Hurry up—dinner’s ready,” his mom called from downstairs.

  “Coming,” he replied, deciding to skip washing his hands. He was starving.

  At that moment, the day ended for ten-year-old Brody Quail.

  Chapter 7

  BRODY26

  Garland Trail, Nebraska

  Tuesday, November 12, 1968

  Just as Brody expected, the guy behind him, Clumsy, moved first.

  Brody waited, counted the man’s steps, then struck to the rear with his elbow, smashing it home in the center of Clumsy’s face with a satisfying crunch.

  As the man collapsed to the sidewalk, a gurgling shout of pain pouring through the fingers covering his broken nose, Brody turned to meet Skinny, the second of the three thugs to lunge at him.

  Brody shifted his weight, let Skinny get just close enough, then grabbed a handful of his hair and spun, causing the man to lose his balance. Brody took his legs out with a sweeping kick, then drove the man’s head into the sidewalk, slamming his forehead against cement. He fought the urge to lift the man’s head and continue to bash it into the sidewalk, but he didn’t want to kill him. Once would be enough. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

  Muscles had taken a few steps but now halted his advance. “You’re crazy, man! You killed him!”

  “He’s fine. He’ll have a headache, but no, I didn’t kill him.” Brody took a step forward and watched Muscles’s eyes grow larger. “But you, on the other hand, I might.”

  Muscles held his hands out, took another step back, and nearly tripped over his own feet. “It’s cool, man, it’s cool.”

  Brody lunged and laughed as Muscles did trip, falling on his butt and scrambling to get away. The man took off down the street, leaving his friends moaning and bloodied on the sidewalk as he disappeared into the shadows.

  Yeah. That’s what I thought.

  Brody looked up and down the street. He was alone, and as far as he could tell, no one had seen what had happened, nor was anyone watching now. The man with the broken nose was lying on his side, still cradling his face in bloodied hands. He was bigger than Brody had figured, his gut poking out from the bottom of his shirt. Not much of a fighter, though. One shot to the nose, and he’d gone down like a little girl.

  Brody stepped closer and poked the guy’s belly with his boot. “Get up, fat man. Get your ass out of here.” Now that he’d had a good look at him, Fat Man seemed an appropriate name.

  “F-f-fuck you,” Fat Man said, little droplets of blood spraying from his lips.

  Brody had been in and out of jail recently, usually because he had trouble keeping his temper under control. His anger had gotten the best of him many times since he came home from Nam, but he’d been trying hard to keep it in check. He’d walked away from a few fights, swallowing his pride.

  Now would not be one of those times.

  These assholes had started it. He’d given them the opportunity to walk away, but they’d pressed anyway. And this guy was pissing him off.

  Brody kicked the man in the face, hard enough to send him to la-la land, and added two more to his flabby midsection. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon either.

  Again, Brody checked the street. Nothing.

  He checked the man’s pockets, grabbed his wallet, and stuffed the cash into his jacket. There wasn’t much, but every dollar helped. He did the same to Skinny, who was still facedown, motionless. He was breathing, which was a relief. Brody rolled him onto his side and made sure his mouth was clear in case he vomited.

  This punk didn’t deserve to die. He’d gotten the beating he deserved, though, and would lose his money because of it. Maybe he’d think twice next time before trying to jump someone who appeared to be an easy target.

  Brody tossed both of the wallets into a nearby trash can and resumed his walk toward his apartment.

  As he rounded the corner, though, his senses perked up once again.

  He was being watched.

  Brody stopped, turned slowly, and peered into the shadows. He couldn’t see anyone, but the feeling remained. Someone’s eyes were on him. Maybe Muscles had gotten some of his bravado back and wanted another crack at the one-armed cripple. Maybe he’d have a weapon this time.

  Brody moved his eyes slowly, concentrating on his peripher
al vision, where motion was easier to discern at night.

  He looked left, right, stopping every ten feet or so to stare, checking the edges of his sight picture. Seeing nothing. The feeling was strong, though. Too real to ignore.

  Brody decided to walk past his apartment. If it was Muscles, he definitely didn’t want the man (or his friends once they recovered, for that matter) to know where he lived. That could lead to a visit in the middle of the night, when Brody wouldn’t have the advantage. If they came to see him again, they wouldn’t rely on their fists. They’d have bats. Knives. Guns.

  Brody walked past his building without giving the place a second glance. He would take a left at the next street and double back around to catch his pursuer.

  And it was a pursuer. He was still there, just out of sight. Brody’s phantom companion must have seen him stop and look earlier, so Brody avoided the urge to do it again. Better to let the guy think Brody had decided everything was fine. The one-armed cripple was walking home, no worries now, keep following.

  As Brody approached the corner, the feeling became electric, a sense of dread washing over his body. The follower was close now. Brody turned.

  At first, he was surprised there wasn’t someone standing directly behind him. He was there, though, a half block away, silhouetted in relief from the glare of a streetlight at his back.

  Just standing there.

  Brody could make out no details from this distance, but it wasn’t Muscles. Nor was it either of his companions. This person was taller, more sturdy in build, and stood with an air of confidence the people who had attacked him earlier were lacking.

  Brody squinted, trying to see his face, his clothes, but all he saw was a dark cutout of a man, a shadow in the road. Perfectly still.

  Brody couldn’t describe what he felt, other than an overwhelming sense that he was seeing someone—some thing—that didn’t belong here, as if this figure had stepped through a door that was supposed to remain closed.

  He felt confusion. Dread. And for the first time in a long time, fear.

  “Hey,” Brody yelled, his challenge echoing down the shadowy street.