The Argus Deceit

by Chuck Grossart

  Felix nodded slightly, nothing more. He was silent for a moment longer, then added, “I assume you’ll be taking your dinner in the office, sir?”

  Brody stared at the bedroom door. Closed. “Yes, Felix, that’ll be fine.” At the mention of dinner, Brody realized how hungry he was. “After I deal with our visitor.”

  “Very well, sir,” Felix said, and they both walked down the hall and the stairs, heading in different directions when they reached the landing, Felix toward the kitchen and Brody toward the front door.

  Felix had reengaged the dead bolt after answering the door, and Brody flicked it open, hearing the clunk as the rod retracted into the heavy oak. He swung the door open, wondering who it could possibly be, and his breath caught in his throat. His knees suddenly buckled, and he fought to steady himself.

  A woman.

  “No, this can’t be,” he said, the words squeezing through his throat, tight with an onrush of emotion.

  It was her.

  His Reba.

  She looked at him coldly, without the sense of wonder he was experiencing as he gazed upon the person with whom he’d spent so many years.

  The woman he’d allowed to die.

  But no, she was standing there, as real as day, with confusion in her eyes.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  Her words cut through his heart like a dagger, and he gripped the door handle for all he was worth, trying to maintain his balance. Why hadn’t Felix warned him? Why hadn’t he prepared him for what he was about to see? When her name finally passed his lips, he was shocked how his voice sounded, as if he were a child again . . . small, afraid, wounded. “Reba? My God, Reba?”

  She shifted her head to the right ever so slightly, her eyes locked to his face. “That’s not my name,” she said as she took a tentative step back.

  The dress was right; she’d worn it at their company picnic a few years back, captured for eternity in one of the pictures on his office wall. Her hair, the shape of her face . . . all Reba! But the eyes, there was something wrong with her eyes. This woman looked like Reba, but someone else was peering at him through those eyes, someone wearing her body like a disguise. Brody watched as she pulled at her clothes, examining the fabric, then moved her attention to her hands, turning them, looking at the palms, then the backs of her hands, and a look of terror crossed her face. “Oh my God.”

  Behind him, from upstairs, he heard the bedroom door open, the hinges squeaking. He heard footsteps pounding down the hallway. Brody tore his gaze from his (dead) wife and looked at the hallway railing at the top of the stairs.

  There was a figure standing there, a blank nothingness with the silhouette of a man, as if someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut the shape from reality itself, leaving a shadowy hole in its place.

  And it spoke.

  “Get out,” it hissed. “Leave this place.”

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

  Chapter 14

  BRODY10

  Culver, Ohio

  Thursday, May 15, 1975

  “Not now, Murf.”

  “Can I play?”

  “Scram, Murf. Get off the field.”

  “I wanna play, too.”

  Brody took his brother by the arm. “Not yet, okay? You’d get—” For some reason, Brody couldn’t force the word from his mouth. He knew the word, but it just wouldn’t come out.

  Squished, just say it. Say it.

  He shook his head, trying to clear the sudden dizziness he was feeling. “Look, just go over there and watch,” Brody said instead, pointing to the edge of the playground. “You need to stay out of the way, okay?” He watched the smile fade from Murf’s face. “You might get hurt out here.”

  “Mom says you have to play with me.”

  “I know, but not right now. Not this game.”

  “Ready?” Bullard called, getting ready to punt the ball to their side.

  “Hey, Quail! Get your brother out of here.” That was Rich, staring at him. So was everyone else. Brody felt the heat rise up the back of his neck, but he wasn’t angry at his brother.

  “Go on, Murf. Go stand by the girls or something. Maybe you can cheer me on?”

  “Okay, Brody,” Murf said, clearly deflated, then trotted off the field.

  “Okay, Rich,” Brody yelled. He didn’t like the way Rich shook his head at him. Give me a break, Rich, he’s just a little kid.

  Bullard kicked the ball, and as it arced through the sky, Brody stole a quick glance at his brother. He was walking back toward the school, head hanging down. He wasn’t staying on the playground like

  squished

  he had told him to.

  Gary Thompson caught the ball, but Brody didn’t care. A tiny pang of panic pierced his chest, and he ran off the field. He didn’t know why, but Brody couldn’t let Murf continue to walk toward the school.

  the street it’s the street

  Brody looked but saw no cars. Maybe he was being overprotective, but something was screaming inside his head. He had to keep his brother from getting to the street.

  As he passed the line of girls sitting Indian-style, he caught Debbie Wilson staring at him. She looked confused, wondering why he was leaving the game. Brody smiled, but she didn’t smile back. There was a girl sitting behind Debbie, off by herself, whom he didn’t recognize, but her presence wouldn’t register until later, when she would be screaming at him.

  “Murf!” Brody called. “Hey, Murphy!”

  His brother wasn’t listening. His head was down, and he was heading toward the street, where the buses parked when school was out. There was no way Murphy couldn’t hear him.

  “And where do you think you’re going, Mr. Quail?” said Mrs. Carlisle, the playground monitor.

  Brody pointed at his brother. “I’m getting Murphy, Mrs. Carlisle,” Brody answered, silently adding that she should be the one to get him since it was her job. “Look.”

  She did but didn’t appear overly concerned. “You need to get back to the game, Brody,” she said. Her voice was flat and her eyes looked weird, like dolls’ eyes. Brody wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Mrs. Carlisle look like that before. “Right now,” she added forcefully.

  Brody looked at his brother. He was heading right for the street, and there was a car

  squished

  coming.

  He could see the blur of the car out of the corner of his eye. He could hear its engine, the whoosh of air as it drew close.

  He was dizzy again and felt a sudden hunger in his gut, as if he hadn’t eaten all day. He swayed slightly on his feet as Mrs. Carlisle continued to stare blankly at him, not paying any attention to Murphy, who was going to wander out into the street and into the path of the car. He pointed at his brother again, trying to get Mrs. Carlisle to look, really look this time, and counting the seconds until he would have to act. Murphy was getting closer to the street, and the car was

  the driver was 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

  getting closer, too. Mrs. Carlisle glanced at Murphy again, clearly seeing what was going to happen, then simply repeated what she’d said earlier. “You need to get back to the game, Brody.”

  “I’ve got to get my brother,” Brody said. He usually didn’t disobey teachers, or any adult for that matter, but he wasn’t about to let Murf get hurt. He turned away from Mrs. Carlisle and ran toward Murphy, catching up with him before he got to the street. “Murphy! Didn’t you hear me? Where the heck are you going?” Brody grabbed his brother by the shoulder, but Murf easily shrugged off Brody’s grip. What the . . . ? Murphy continued to walk in the same direction, head down, ignoring his brother.

  Brody grabbed him by the shoulders, tried to pull him back, but couldn’t. His hands slipped off again, unable to stop Murf. Brody glanced at the car; it was still coming, and Murf was stepping
off the curb. He was going to get hit if Brody didn’t tackle him, right now.

  Brody wrapped his arms around Murphy’s shoulders and pulled, but found himself sliding across the asphalt, his tennis shoes scraping the road. Brody kicked and pulled, but Murf (a first grader) motored ahead like a bulldozer, as if he were the strongest person on the planet, dragging Brody with him.

  “Dammit, Murphy! Stop!” Brody yelled, but his brother wasn’t listening. Brody tugged and pulled to no avail. The car was so close now, the driver looking up at the last instant. Brody could see the man’s face, which had no emotion, no look of surprise or shock. Just a blank look, as if running over a couple of kids wasn’t much of a big deal.

  Brody’s sense of self-preservation screamed at him to let go, to dive out of the way, but he wasn’t about to let the car slam into his brother without trying to save him, even if it meant he would get hit, too.

  But this isn’t right. Not right at all.

  Brody took one last look at the car, the chrome bumper reflecting both of their bodies, and yanked his brother’s body as hard as he could (with no effect), gritted his teeth, and closed his eyes.

  When the impact came, he—

  “Hey, Quail. You okay?”

  Brody could feel the hard ground under his back as he struggled to open his eyes. He didn’t feel any pain, but he had to be pretty messed up. He once read that people went into shock when they were hurt badly and didn’t feel anything right away. He was almost afraid to see what had happened to himself. And to Murf, who wasn’t in his arms anymore. The car had smashed into them both.

  “Boys, what happened?”

  Mrs. Carlisle’s voice again. What do you mean, What happened? You were watching, and I told you! You saw what was going to happen!

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Carlisle,” someone said. It sounded like Rich. “He just fell over. Nobody hit him or anything.”

  “Brody?” Mrs. Carlisle again. Her voice was soft and concerned, no longer flat and emotionless. More normal. Brody opened his eyes and saw her face hovering above. She looked more like the Mrs. Carlisle he was used to. “What happened, Brody? Did you hit your head?”

  He wasn’t in the road, that much was clear. He was back in the field where they were playing the game. For a second, he imagined himself getting hit by the car and flying through the air and landing in the field, but that couldn’t have happened. “Is my brother okay?” Brody asked, amazed at how much effort it took to talk. He still felt dizzy and weak.

  He watched Mrs. Carlisle look at the crowd of kids that had gathered in a circle around him, then she motioned with her hand. “Come here, Murphy.”

  Then Murf was there, looking down at him, tears in his eyes. “Are you okay, Murf?” Brody asked, starting to think that the whole thing had been nothing more than a dream. He must’ve passed out during the game and imagined it all. But it seemed so real, except for the part about Murf transforming into some sort of deaf-and-dumb Incredible Hulk . . .

  “I’m okay, Bowdy,” Murf said, reverting to his baby voice as he usually did when he was scared or sad. “Are you sick?”

  “No, I’m . . . I don’t know. I think I fainted or something.”

  “We really didn’t hit him, Mrs. Carlisle,” Rich repeated. “He just fell over.”

  “Can you stand, Brody?” Mrs. Carlisle asked.

  Brody sat up a little, resting on his elbows. Every single kid on the playground seemed to be standing there staring at him. He was still dizzy, but not as much as before. His stomach, though, was a different story. He was starving. Weird, because he’d eaten lunch earlier. Right?

  Standing a few feet away was Debbie Wilson, who had shouldered her way toward the front of the crowd and was looking at him with concern in her eyes. She’s worried about me. How cool is that!

  “Boys,” Mrs. Carlisle said, “give him a hand.” Rich and Gary stepped forward and helped Brody to his feet. “Let’s get you inside and get some water in you,” she said. “Murphy, you can come, too. And the rest of you, go on. Everything’s fine.”

  “You all right, man?” Gary asked.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” Brody replied, stealing another glance at Debbie, who was looking over her shoulder as she walked away. Brody smiled at her, and she smiled back. He felt better already.

  Murphy reached for his hand, and together they followed Mrs. Carlisle toward the school. He wasn’t embarrassed to hold his little brother’s hand. After what he’d imagined while he was passed out, he didn’t care what anyone thought. He gave Murf’s hand a squeeze. The whole dream had seemed so real, though Murf didn’t actually have superhuman strength and Mrs. Carlisle didn’t usually act like an uncaring robot. But the rest of it . . . sure felt real.

  Mrs. Carlisle would probably call his mother, and she’d be all worried. Great.

  His friends had already formed back up into teams and were getting ready to start the game again. The girls had made their way back to the edge of the field to watch. Debbie was standing close to another girl, someone Brody didn’t recognize. They were having an argument. Brody stared at them as he passed. Some of the other girls were standing now, too, all facing the new girl, who looked scared. Brody was a little surprised he hadn’t seen her before. She wasn’t quite as pretty as Debbie, but she was still pretty in her own way. She had red hair, swept to one side and lying across one shoulder, and bright green eyes. And then he remembered.

  He had seen her. In the dream.

  Brody stopped. Murphy kept walking and yanked his arm. “Come on, Brody,” Murphy said. “We have to follow Mrs. Carlisle.” Brody pulled his hand away from his brother.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Brody heard Debbie say loudly. Her voice. Weird. Just like Mrs. Carlisle’s. In the dream.

  Brody felt dizzy again and swayed on his feet. Was it happening again? Had he passed out walking across the playground, and was he dreaming now?

  The new girl was ignoring Debbie and looking right at him. She narrowed her eyes, as if trying to decide if she was seeing what she thought she was, then moved past Debbie, breaking through the circle of girls around her, and walked right toward him.

  Brody saw Debbie turn around and saw the same blank look on her face that he’d seen on Mrs. Carlisle’s. The other girls didn’t move a hair and remained standing in place, looking toward the center of the circle where the new girl had been.

  They all look the same, Brody noticed, and with a quick glance to his left, he saw that Mrs. Carlisle had stopped, too, and was looking at the new girl. Just as before (the dream) there was no life in her eyes, just an emotionless, glassy stare. Brody felt a twinge of uneasiness in his gut. This couldn’t be another dream. He was wide awake. This was all real. And if it was, that meant that the episode with the car was—

  “Stop,” Mrs. Carlisle said, not to him, but to the new girl. “You don’t belong here.”

  He turned back toward the girl, who was still walking toward him, but faster now, running the last few steps and stopping directly in front of Brody. She was a little shorter than he was and had to tilt her head to look into his eyes. She studied his face, looking at his eyes, his hair, and his mouth, then tentatively reached out and touched his face.

  Brody shrank back at first but then relaxed and let her fingers slide down his cheek. He was scared and confused at the moment, but there was something about this girl, about her eyes, her touch, that seemed right.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Brody,” he said. “Brody Quail.” She smiled at first, but then her eyes shifted to a point behind Brody. She grabbed his arm and pulled. Hard.

  “Come on!” she yelled. “We have to go!”

  Brody stumbled forward, caught off guard and off balance. “What’s wrong?” he said as he tried to look over his shoulder.

  She (what’s her name?) only tugged harder, willing him to run with her. “Hurry!” she screamed.

  “Wait! Who—What’s wrong?” Brody said as he broke free of her grasp.<
br />
  Before she could grab his arm again, Brody turned and saw a man . . . no . . . a man shape, as if someone had taken a knife and sliced away part of a picture revealing a blank void beyond, and it was moving toward them. “Holy shi—”

  The girl grabbed his arm again, and this time Brody ran with her, actually passing her by and pulling her along. The other kids on the playground were all standing perfectly still, watching them (dolls’ eyes) run toward the side of the school. Brody wasn’t sure where he and his new friend were going, but anywhere away from that thing would be okay in his book.

  Her hand was warm in his and he held on tight, hoping he wasn’t squeezing hard enough to hurt her.

  And then, he wasn’t holding anything. He skidded to a stop, thinking she had fallen.

  “No!” she screamed, and as Brody turned, he expected to see their pursuer holding her.

  She was gone. The dark figure was gone. And the playground was nothing more than an empty nighttime street, the ground covered in snow.

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

  But this time, he’d remember.

  Chapter 15

  BRODY26

  Garland Trail, Nebraska

  Tuesday, November 12, 1968

  The snow crunched under his boots.

  Brody lived nearby and was halfway home, but he was being followed. Two guys, maybe three, about twenty yards back, getting closer. He took a deep breath to clear his thoughts, wishing he hadn’t had that third drink.

  Or was it four? For some reason, he couldn’t remember. He’d been at the bar, said good night to Jimmy (Korea), and left immediately afterward. Maybe he did have more than three (or four), because he honestly couldn’t recall. He usually went to the bar after work, and the days seemed to blur together after a while. He didn’t feel drunk, but he was a little dizzy and his stomach was growling.

  Great, I’m hammered, and three guys are going to try and jump me.

  But why think that? Maybe the dudes were just out for a stroll? No, not at this time of night (morning, actually), but maybe they were just some other people from the bar trying to stumble their way home, like he was.