The Argus Deceit

by Chuck Grossart

  “You’re hair-triggered for this shit, Brody,” he grumbled. Not everyone was looking for a fight, even at two in the morning. He always seemed to expect the worst from others, even if suspicion wasn’t warranted. Problem was, most of the time it was warranted.

  His pinned-up sleeve and Army field jacket drew attention. Got him in a lot of trouble. But Brody Quail didn’t give two shits.

  He slowed his pace slightly, almost hoping the guys following him were going to try something. He sure as hell wasn’t going to back down from a fight.

  He was tired of fighting, though. Every day, the same thing.

  the same thing

  Brody stopped walking. There would be three guys; one black, the other two white. Punks, all of them. Out for a quick buck. They were going to pretend they had guns, but didn’t. A big guy would try to sneak up behind him and fail. He would break them, make them pay.

  And I need to walk as far north as I can.

  Brody had no idea where that last thought had come from, but it was strong, urgent. He glanced up the street toward his apartment, looked beyond into the shadows, and felt an overwhelming need to run as fast and as far as he could, because he didn’t know what was out there. “Jesus, Brody, you’ve got to lay off the booze,” he said to himself just as he heard his pursuers behind him.

  Brody turned.

  Skinny and Muscles. One black guy, tall and skinny, and one white guy, a little more built than his partner, but Brody could (would) take both of them if he had to. Even with one arm. He noticed they both had their hands in their jacket pockets, acting like they had guns. (They didn’t.) The third guy (Clumsy) was crossing the street, taking up position behind him. (He would slip on the ice.)

  Skinny and Muscles looked a little surprised that he’d turned to confront them. Good. Brody had the initiative. He walked toward them, still a little unsteady on his feet, but the adrenaline pumping through his system overpowered the grogginess.

  “So, fellas, let me tell you how this is going to go down,” he said, his voice cool and deadly serious. “I’m going to kick both of your scrawny asses, and then I’m going to smash the fat ass’s face behind me right into the concrete.” Brody relished the look on their faces. They sure didn’t expect this.

  If he was lucky, they’d turn tail and run. Brody would avoid a fight and another run-in with the police, which he certainly didn’t need. Then again, he hadn’t been in a good brawl in a while.

  But they didn’t. Turn tail and run, that is.

  “Fine,” Brody said, never breaking stride. “Which one of you pussies wants to be first?”

  “How about me.”

  As soon as Brody heard the voice, he realized things weren’t going to go as he expected. Clumsy had approached much more quickly than he’d expected (didn’t slip on the ice, either), and shoved him in the back. As he fell toward the concrete, his breath shoved from his lungs by the hammer blow between his shoulder blades, Brody wondered why he thought this was going to be so easy. And, for that matter, why did he think (know?) Clumsy was going to slip on the ice?

  Brody was able to get his arm out in front, partially breaking his fall, but not before the left side of his face scraped the frozen sidewalk. Tiny bolts of pain crisscrossed his cheek, and his hand went numb.

  This has happened before.

  “Who’s the pussy now, cracker?” Skinny proceeded to kick Brody in the head before he could regain his senses. Brody saw stars. His ears hummed. He tried to protect his face, but only got his forearm in the way of another roundhouse kick, which still managed to connect with his head. This time, he cried out. And again, when Clumsy (who apparently wasn’t) kicked him in the ribs. He remembered how bad it hurt to get his ass kicked.

  He’s going to pull a gun.

  Brody rolled over onto his back, still holding his bloodied hand in front of his face, and saw what he (somehow) expected to see. Muscles was holding one of those chrome-plated .32 semiauto pistols. Cheap, tacky, but more than able to put a nice round hole in his forehead. “Okay, buddy, you win. You can have my—”

  Two more kicks to the ribs from Clumsy. Another to the head from Muscles. This was getting ugly (and so was he). His ribs screamed, his head pounded. A sheen of blood appeared in his right eye, and his lower lip felt like it had been nearly ripped off.

  He felt a hand reach into his back pocket and pull out his wallet. There wasn’t much cash, but maybe enough to send them on their way. Brody tried to sit up but was so weak he could barely move. “Take it,” he slurred, spitting blood.

  “Twenty bucks, soldier boy? That all you got?”

  He wasn’t sure which one of them was speaking. “That’s it. All of it.”

  One more kick to the head, and Brody slammed back to the concrete, this time unable to hold in the moan that oozed from his throat. He couldn’t move, so weak. Another boot to the ribs, and this time he heard a rib (or was it two?) crack. He groaned in pain and curled into a fetal position, trying to protect both his head and midsection from further blows. His ass was kicked. If they wanted to, they could kill him where he lay and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. He’d survived Nam (returning with 75 percent of the limbs he’d gone there with), but might just die on a sidewalk in the middle of the night in Garland Trail, of all places.

  And that’s when he heard her.

  “Get away from him.”

  What? A woman? Brody turned his head and squinted through swollen eyes. There was a woman about fifteen feet away, standing under a streetlight. She wore some sort of coveralls and had what looked like a long pipe in her hand. Jesus, what are you doing?

  Skinny laughed. “What did you say, bitch?”

  She took a step forward, slapping the end of the pipe into the palm of her other hand. “I said, leave him alone.”

  standing in the street

  She looked familiar. Had he seen her once before? She stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, confident, unafraid. He had to admit he was glad she showed up when she did, but she was crazy to be confronting these three punks, especially since at least one of them was armed.

  She had their attention, though. And that was a good thing. They weren’t watching (or kicking) him anymore. He gritted his teeth and shifted his weight to his bloodied hand, fighting through the pain shooting through his body from his damaged ribs. All three of the men had stepped toward the woman.

  “What are you going to do with that pipe, lady?” Muscles asked, waving his gun out in front of him like he was showing a toy to a dog. “Maybe you’re gonna drop it and give us your money, how about that?”

  “I don’t have any money, asshole.”

  She’s got some brass ones, that’s for sure, Brody thought as he studied his targets. He was injured, yes, but they weren’t paying attention to him. If they moved on her, he might be able to drop a couple of them, especially the guy with the gun, and possibly get his hands (hand) on the pipe.

  “Come on, baby, you don’t have to be like that,” Skinny said. “Don’t be so mean.” He took a step forward, and the woman gripped the pipe like a baseball bat, holding it over her left shoulder, ready to swing.

  A lefty, Brody noted as he slowly inched closer to the guy with the gun, who was now pointing it right at her. He clenched his teeth, stifling the sounds of pain bunching up in his throat. Clumsy had stepped closer to her, too, and stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

  “Leave, now,” she commanded. Brody couldn’t believe his eyes as she stepped closer, almost within swinging range. “Walk away and none of you will get hurt.”

  “Shut your mouth, bitch,” Skinny said. Brody saw each of the men tense, obviously no longer finding any humor in the situation. They were going to attack her. Brody was closest to the guy with the gun, but he didn’t think he could make it to his feet in time. And even if he did, he doubted he was in any shape to take Mr. Muscles down.

  And then all three of the punks said in unison, “You shouldn’t be here.�
� Their voices were different, flat. They all relaxed a little, stood a little straighter. Were they having second thoughts? Maybe they would walk away, let the situation pass. Trouble was, Brody was past letting these guys get by without some payback.

  Brody looked at the woman, caught her glance, and saw understanding in her eyes. She could see he’d moved and was going to act.

  He nodded slightly.

  She nodded back.

  Now!

  Brody drew his leg back and slammed his boot into the side of the gunman’s knee, satisfied by the crunch he heard as the knee buckled in a direction it wasn’t meant to move. The gunman screamed and swung the gun away from the woman as he fell. She was already swinging the pipe, connecting with the side of Clumsy’s head with a loud, thudding clang.

  Brody scrambled on top of Muscles, eyes fixed on the gun. He punched him in the head, one, two, three times, enough to stun him, then wrenched the small pistol from his right hand. He hoped the woman had dealt with Skinny as well, because Brody had his back turned, and apart from the sounds of a struggle, he didn’t know what was going on. Not a good feeling, but he had the gun now, and that counted for something.

  He turned around and quickly took it all in. Clumsy was on his side, not moving. The steel pipe to the side of the head had dropped him like a side of beef. Skinny was grappling with the girl, trying to get the pipe from her hands. Brody stood, racked the slide on the little gun (just in case the moron hadn’t loaded it, or didn’t have a round in the chamber), and saw a live round fall to the ground as the action slammed another round into the chamber. He figured he probably had five shots (or less) but would only need one, if it came to that. Brody quickly glanced back at the guy he’d downed; he wouldn’t have to worry about Muscles, at least not right away. He was holding his knee and whimpering like a little girl. Time to deal with Skinny, who nearly had the woman’s pipe in his control.

  She was kicking him, holding on to the pipe as best she could.

  “Back off!” Brody yelled, getting Skinny’s attention. Brody didn’t aim the gun at him (little pistols like this were notoriously inaccurate and he didn’t want to risk shooting the girl) but held the weapon forward, clearly in view. The guy saw it and reacted immediately, releasing his grip on the pipe, raising his hands, and taking a step back from the girl.

  “She doesn’t belong here,” he said, his voice still different from before.

  He didn’t get to say anything else, because the woman didn’t waste any time taking advantage of the opening Brody provided. She swung the pipe, hard, and connected with the man’s neck. He dropped like a marionette with severed strings.

  A blow like that had probably broken the guy’s neck. A dead body wasn’t something Brody wanted to have connected to his name. Visions of a prison cell raced through his mind.

  “Come on,” the girl said, grabbing Brody’s jacket and pulling.

  “Jesus, I think you killed him,” Brody said.

  “It doesn’t matter. We have to go. Now!”

  He was still dizzy, worse now because of the pounding his head had taken, and his ribs began screaming at him again now that the fight was over. He was a real mess, with one eye almost swollen shut, but he could still manage to see the girl clearly. He was right about her outfit: some sort of coveralls, like a mechanic would wear. She wore work boots, and her hands were smudged from handling the pipe. She was almost his height, and maybe 110 pounds soaking wet. Red hair, long, pulled into a ponytail. Her eyes were green, big and bright, full of seriousness. But there was terror in those eyes as well. He tucked the pistol into his jacket pocket, knowing he’d have to dispose of it later. He didn’t need to get caught with what was probably a stolen gun. She tugged at his jacket again.

  “Okay, okay,” Brody said, taking a few steps before he stumbled, nearly falling. She took his arm and put it over her shoulders, helping carry his weight. “How bad?” she asked.

  “I’ve been better,” he said, surprised at how strong she was. He tried not to lean into her, but she wasn’t having any problem supporting him. “I think that fat ass you clocked back there broke a couple of ribs.” And I still feel like I’m hammered, he didn’t add.

  “Stop thinking about how much it hurts. Concentrate. Tell yourself your ribs are fine.”

  He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he didn’t. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Away from there,” she said, tossing her head back toward where the three thugs lay. “We need to get some distance. He’s coming.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “Can we stop with the questions?” she said. “Come on, over there.” She guided him toward an alley, completely dark.

  “I live right up the street,” Brody started to say, thinking that would definitely be a better place to end up than some dark alley, but she didn’t let him finish.

  “No, he knows where you live. He won’t find us here,” she said as she guided him into the shadows. “At least not right away.”

  “He knows where I live? Who knows?”

  She stopped and helped him sit down next to a dumpster. Brody groaned as his ribs ground against each other. He could barely see her face in the darkness. “The shadow man, that’s who. You’ve seen him, right?”

  The shadow man.

  a cutout of a man, a shadow in the road

  Brody was confused, dizzy and weak, beat to shit, but did remember something about a shadow man appearing in the street after a fight with three . . . punks? But that couldn’t be. It was as if he’d already been here.

  “You remember something, don’t you,” she said, watching his face closely. She smiled, a knowing smile, as if she knew exactly what was happening inside his head.

  “I do,” he said, right before the woman doubled over, grunting in pain. He reached for her. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s—it’s happening again. You have to remember, okay? Please, you have to remember.”

  “Remember what?” he asked.

  She took his face in her hands, forced him to look into her eyes. “My face, me, remember me!”

  Brody didn’t know what she was talking about but didn’t think he’d have any difficulty remembering this girl. “I don’t even know your name,” he said. She was so close, face-to-face, but then, she wasn’t. Brody flinched as she once again groaned in pain and began to—no, this can’t be happening. She was fading away right before his eyes, disappearing into the shadows. She reached for him, and he grasped for her hand, but she was nothing more than smoke as his hand passed through hers. He pulled his arm back, shocked.

  Before she completely disappeared, he could still hear her voice, quiet and fearful, as if she were a spirit speaking from the other side. “My name is Connie. Remember me . . .”

  As the shadow man turned the corner and ran into the ally, the day ended for twenty-six-year-old Brody Quail.

  Chapter 16

  BRODY16

  West Glenn, Colorado

  Monday, March 30, 1981

  “It doesn’t work from the outside,” Brody yelled, leaning over and popping the door lever.

  “Thanks,” Joan said, placing her books between them on the bench seat and slamming her door shut. “Cool car.” She sat up a little and reached under her leg, pulling out a flattened ball of paper. “Need this?” she asked.

  Brody took the paper, wondering where it had come from, and tossed it in the backseat. “Nope,” he said. “Next time I’ll make sure you don’t have to sit on my garbage.” He fastened his lap belt, cinched it tight, and realized he’d said next time. He glanced over at Joan, expecting some sort of reaction, but she either hadn’t heard him, or had and let it slide (which meant there might just be a next time). With a quick pump of the gas pedal and turn of the key, the old Impala’s engine turned over, leaving a cloud of blue smoke in his rearview mirror. Hey, at least it runs.

  Joan giggled. “My house is on Lincoln, a couple of blocks away,” she said. “Take the first left from Michi
gan, and I’m the third house on the left.”

  Brody looked at her, a little confused. “Yeah, I know where you live,” he said. “And what’s so funny?”

  For a second, Joan’s face looked weird. Her eyes went blank, as if she were looking right through him instead of at him. Then, just as quickly, she was back to her normal self.

  She smiled and put her hand on his arm. “You’ve never driven me home before, so I figured you’d need directions.”

  Brody suddenly felt disoriented, dizzy, as if the car were tumbling forward. He slammed the brake pedal, stopping the Impala halfway out of the parking spot. He put the stick shift into neutral, let off the clutch, and grabbed his head.

  never driven me home before

  never driven me home before

  never driven me home before

  never driven me home before

  Brody gritted his teeth as a sharp pain crisscrossed his forehead. For a second, he thought he was having some sort of stroke.

  “Brody?” He could feel Joan’s hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  The pain disappeared just as suddenly as it had come, and Brody opened his eyes. Everything was blurry as he stared through tears. “I—I don’t know,” he said. He was nauseous and cupped his mouth with the palm of his hand, thinking he was about to puke. He opened his door and leaned out, retching, but nothing came up.

  “Jesus, Brody,” Joan said. He could tell she had scooted over closer to him as she rubbed her hand across his back. “Are you okay?”

  Brody straightened up and nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. One second I was fine, and then the next I was really dizzy.”

  “Are you okay to drive?”

  He did feel better. The dizziness had passed, quickly, but had left a slight headache. He didn’t feel like he was going to puke anymore, but he was hungry, really, really hungry.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t know what the heck that was, but I feel better now.” Joan was still sitting close and had real concern in her eyes. Wow, she’s worried about me! How cool is that? “I’m fine. I promise.”