The Argus Deceit

by Chuck Grossart

  But it doesn’t matter, because none of this is real, he tried to convince himself.

  The truck drew closer, the front grille big and square, with muted sunlight reflecting off its flat windshield. The dust it kicked up rose into the sky like a jet contrail, drifting away with the wind. He heard the engine now, too, low and growling, the pitch changing as it downshifted, slowing.

  Brody fought to control the dread squirming in his chest.

  The truck came to a halt fifty feet or so in front of him, the dust cloud from behind enveloping the vehicle for a moment until it blew away. The doors opened, and one, then two, three, four people emerged from the truck, all wearing what looked like hazmat suits, dirty gray with visors and gas masks. They all carried rifles.

  And aimed them right at him.

  Brody raised his hands, surprised at the effort it took to lift his arms. He was so tired all of a sudden, so weak.

  The four men approached slowly, their rifles trained on him. Brody stared at the barrels, a twisting knot of fear vibrating in his belly. He’d never had a gun (let alone four) pointed at him before, and it produced an awful feeling. He could barely see their faces through their faceplates. When one of them finally spoke, the sound was electronic, as if the man’s voice was coming through a speaker.

  “Identify yourself,” the man said.

  Brody tried to speak but only coughed. His throat was dry, the gritty ash covering his tongue.

  “Identify yourself,” the man repeated, adding, “Name and district.”

  Brody made a croaking sound, trying to clear his throat. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and go to sleep. His arms felt heavy, as if every bit of energy he had was being drained from his body. The radioactivity, it’s already starting to take effect.

  All four men suddenly lowered their rifles. Their leader (at least Brody assumed it was the guy in charge) took a few steps closer. “You don’t belong here,” he said.

  No shit, Brody wanted to say but thought better of it, his eyes fixed on the rifle barrels. They weren’t pointing at him anymore, but it didn’t make them any less threatening.

  “You don’t belong here,” the leader repeated. “You have to leave.”

  As Brody stared at the man, wanting nothing more than to agree with him, everything around him changed.

  He was in school, study hall. Jason was looking at him, smiling.

  He was in the parking lot, standing by his car.

  He saw Joan’s face.

  He saw another girl—Connie?—urging him to come with her.

  He was in a house, dark and familiar.

  He was on a playground, surrounded by little kids.

  He was in a street.

  He was in the black.

  Chapter 22

  BRODY52

  Joshua, Maine

  Friday, October 25, 1974

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

  “Yes, officer,” Brody replied, knowing in his gut what he was about to hear.

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

  Brody said nothing. He turned around and looked at the top of the stairs, expecting to see someone (Reba?) standing at the railing. But that would be impossible, because she was dead. A memory was there, though, struggling to make its way to the surface. A woman, here in this house. Reba, but not Reba. His head throbbed slightly, and he blinked away the pain, turning back to the officers at his front door.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you’ll have to leave,” Brody said, the pull from upstairs growing stronger. She’s here, right now. Upstairs. Her name was pirouetting on the tip of his tongue, so close but still out of reach. Reba, but not Reba.

  The officers looked at each other, then one spoke. “Sir, we have some bad news we have to deliver, then we’ll be on our way.”

  Brody sighed. “Go ahead, then.”

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

  “He’s dead.”

  “Yes, sir. He was killed.”

  “And he was alone, the only occupant in the vehicle, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” Brody slammed the door in their faces and flicked the dead bolt shut. He felt no gut punch from the news that his son had died, no feeling whatsoever. Because he’d heard the news before. He’d stood at this door more times than he wanted to admit, receiving the same information over and over again. He didn’t want to run upstairs to the office and grab a bottle. He had no desire to remove his old service revolver from the drawer and blow his brains out. He’d done both things before.

  Impossible, but real. As real as the pull he felt from the upper floor, where someone would be waiting for him, someone who looked so much like Reba, the same dress, the same hairstyle, but who was nothing more than a fakery designed to—

  To what? Torture him?

  Little by little, other memories surfaced, bits and pieces quickly coalescing into coherent thought. I know what you’re feeling, she’d said. It happens to me, too. No, she wasn’t there to make things worse for him; this woman (Connie was her name, he suddenly remembered) had experienced (or was experiencing) this as well. And she’d asked him about his dreams. Brody was full of questions, and Connie hopefully had some answers.

  Brody looked back up at the stair railing, hoping she’d be there. When he saw that she wasn’t, he headed upstairs. She was up there, or soon would be. He was halfway up the flight when Felix interrupted him.

  “Sir? Will you be eating in the dining room this evening, or in your office?”

  Brody turned to his old employee. He looked Felix in the eye, trying to discern if anything was obviously different about him, but saw only the man he’d grown to know and call a friend over their many years together. “Felix,” Brody asked, “where do I usually take my evening meal?”

  Felix answered without missing a beat. “In your office, sir.”

  “And why is that, Felix?”

  This time Felix paused, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond. Brody saw a strange glassiness flash across Felix’s eyes, like he’d checked out for a split second, then returned. “I don’t believe it’s my place to ask, Mr. Quail.”

  Brody expected Felix to give such an answer. “You’ve known me for a number of years, correct?” Brody asked, leaning against the banister halfway up the stairs.

  “Yes, sir,” Felix replied, smiling broadly. “A very long time.”

  “We trust each other, don’t we, Felix?”

  “Yes, sir. Implicitly.”

  “I can always count on you to give me the truth, no matter what. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then tell me the truth now. What is going on in this house?”

  Just as Brody expected, Felix paused again, and Brody saw the same glassy look in Felix’s eyes.

  “I’m not sure I understand, sir,” Felix finally replied.

  “There were just two gentlemen at the front door. Did you hear them knocking?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Quail, but I must have been busy in the kitchen at the time and didn’t hear them at the door. My apologies.”

  “It was two policemen, Felix. They came to deliver some bad news.”

  “Oh, not too terrible, I hope.”

  “Very terrible. Very terrible, indeed.”

  “May I inquire as to what news the two men delivered?”

  As each second of their conversation ticked by, Brody understood more of what had happened (was happening?) to him. He felt like a player in a stage play, acting out the same scene over and over with script variations being written by someone unknown. Felix was playing his part.

  Before he answered Felix, Brody felt a presence at the top of the stairs—Connie, just as he’d expected, and she was emerging from the hallway. She was dressed the same as she had been yesterday (or was i
t today?), looking like his dear wife. Brody held his hand up, gesturing at her to stop. He turned back to Felix, who couldn’t see Connie because of the curve of the stairs, and watched him look up at the top railing, an inquisitive glint in his eyes.

  “Sir, is there someone else upstairs?” Felix asked.

  Brody ignored the question. “You asked me what news the two officers delivered.”

  “Yes, sir.” Felix’s gaze shifted from Brody to the top railing and back again.

  “And you don’t have any idea what they said.”

  “No, Mr. Quail. How could I?”

  “I believe you’re lying to me, Felix.” Brody had never accused Felix of lying to him, and even though the accusation had to be true, the statement left a bad taste in his mouth.

  Felix’s face, however, didn’t show the indignation that Brody expected. That in itself confirmed Brody’s suspicions, made even more sinister by the strange pain he was experiencing. A dull ache spread from the back of Brody’s head down into his shoulders. He tried to ignore the growing discomfort.

  Felix spoke. “I would never do such a thing, Mr. Quail.”

  “But you did, just a few seconds ago. You know exactly what the two officers told me, Felix. Admit it.”

  “No, sir, I do not. And I must say, I’m very concerned with your well-being at the present moment.”

  “My well-being?”

  “You seem confused, sir. Not your normal self. May I bring you a—”

  “Drink, Felix? Do you think I need a drink?”

  “If that’s what you wish, sir.”

  “Felix, did I or did I not instruct you to remove every ounce of liquor from this house after Miss Rebecca passed?”

  Felix paused. “You did, sir.”

  “Then why, pray tell, are there bottles of whiskey in this house? In my office, in the kitchen? Where else are they, Felix?” Brody’s head was throbbing.

  “I must apologize for being so lax in my duties, sir,” Felix replied. “I will dispose of the bottles immediately.”

  “You’re never lax in your duties, Felix. Never.”

  This time, Felix didn’t reply. He began to walk to the foot of the stairs, his eyes fixed on the top.

  “What are you doing, Felix?” Brody asked.

  “She doesn’t belong here.” Glassy eyes, emotionless voice.

  Brody looked up at Connie, who stepped from the hallway into view. “Brody,” she said, “you’re beginning to understand now, aren’t you.”

  He nodded and was surprised to feel Felix brush against him as the man ascended the stairs. Brody grabbed his arm, and when Felix turned to look at him, Brody saw nothing in the butler’s eyes. Felix’s face was intact, but the person he knew, or thought he knew, wasn’t looking back at him. “Stop,” Brody said. “Stay right where you are.”

  “She doesn’t belong here,” Felix said. “And neither does he.”

  Brody looked up to see an empty black shape emerge from the hallway behind Connie and wrap its arm around her neck. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. The darkness in the hallway appeared to have suddenly taken form and enveloped her.

  Connie’s eyes went wide with fear as the shadow man dragged her back into the hallway, snatching her from view.

  Brody shoved Felix out of the way and ran up the stairs, reaching the top just as the bedroom door slammed shut. He ran down the hall, then skidded to a halt by his office door. He quickly stepped to his desk and retrieved his pistol from the drawer. He flipped open the cylinder and saw that it was loaded (just as it should be). He slammed it shut and ran to the bedroom door. He grabbed the handle and turned. Locked. He banged on the door. “Connie!”

  No answer.

  “Connie!”

  He smashed into the door with his shoulder. Twice. Three times. The door didn’t budge. He kicked at it, again and again, the throbbing in his head growing worse by the second. Still, the door held fast.

  He imagined Reba in that room . . .

  He took a step back, gripped the .357 with both hands, and shot a round into the door handle. The boom was incredibly loud, and wood splinters flew into his face. His ears rang from the gunshot as he kicked at the door again. And again.

  Not this time. I won’t let something bad happen again.

  He aimed and fired three more rounds into the door handle. Bangbangbang! The knob hung loosely in the frame, and Brody kicked again for all he was worth.

  The door flew open, and Brody stared into the blackness.

  The bedroom wasn’t there anymore. Only a swirling, shifting black cloud, as if he were looking into the heart of a storm in the dark of night.

  “Connie!” he screamed, wanting nothing more than to hear her voice again, to see her face.

  “She didn’t belong here.”

  Brody wheeled and saw Felix standing in the hallway. With shaking hands, he pointed the pistol at Felix’s head. The pain in his head was nearly unbearable, his vision fading. “Tell me what the hell is going on!”

  “Please move away from the doorway, sir.”

  “Answer my question!” Brody yelled, each word making him wince in pain. “What is this all about! Who are you?”

  “Step away from the doorway, Mr. Quail. Everything is going to be all right.” Felix approached, a gun pointing at his face seemingly unimportant.

  “Nothing is all right, goddamn you. Nothing!” Brody began to squeeze the trigger.

  He heard something behind him: a whimper, maybe a muffled scream. Brody turned and stared into the blackness. “Connie?”

  Felix’s hand was suddenly on the gun, trying to wrench it away. The man had moved incredibly fast, as Brody hadn’t even registered his footsteps. Brody tightened his grip on the weapon and shoved Felix as hard as he could, but the man wouldn’t let go.

  “Please, Mr. Quail, you have to stop this insanity!”

  The pain was terrible now, so hot and thick that Brody could barely breathe. And he was so weak, so tired. Felix tore the pistol from Brody’s hand, stepped back, and held it at his side.

  Brody slumped to the floor, his back against the door frame, his skull feeling like it might explode. “Please,” he said, “tell me what’s going on. I don’t understand.”

  “Everything is going to be fine now, Mr. Quail,” Felix said as he raised the pistol, aiming it at Brody’s head. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  As Felix pulled the trigger, Brody used every ounce of strength he had left to roll to his left. He heard the boom of the gun, heard the zing of the bullet, and felt a stinging sensation in his right ear as he tumbled into the blackness beyond the bedroom door.

  There was only the darkness. No feeling, no perception, just nothingness.

  At first he was sure he was falling, tumbling through the air into an unseen chasm, but the sensation trickled away until there was nothing to feel at all.

  Only the darkness.

  The day had ended for fifty-two-year-old Brody Quail.

  And he was one with the shadows.

  Chapter 23

  BRODY10

  Culver, Ohio

  Thursday, May 15, 1975

  He opened his eyes to the sound of screaming. His own.

  Brody was on his knees, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. He was cold, shaking, disoriented. The scene around him gradually registered. Brody was in the middle of the playground. He was at school, during recess, with all his friends standing around staring at him.

  At least he thought it must be recess. His friends were getting ready to play the game. Bullard had the ball, and he was tossing it up in the air and catching it again. Rich was there. So was Gary. All the girls were sitting in a row off to the side of the field (where they always were?), including Debbie Wilson. She was looking right at him, along with everyone else.

  “Brody? Can I play, too?”

  Murphy was standing right beside him. “Murf?” Brody said, finding it difficult to speak. His mouth was dry, like he’d chomped down on a
dirt clod or something. The taste was gritty, bitter. He tried to spit, but couldn’t.

  “I want to play, too. Mom says you have to play with me.”

  Brody stared at his brother. How many times had he heard that same line, right here on this playground, before this game, on this day? He remembered. The game. Wanting to be a hero. Debbie smiling at him. His brother wandering into the road. The car. Over and over again, each time a little different from the other.

  The sky is wrong.

  The last time, the sky wasn’t right. Nothing was. And there weren’t any other people.

  Except for one.

  Brody took another look at the girls . . . No, she wasn’t there. He felt a strange longing, a pain dead center in his chest. She’d disappeared while he was holding her in his arms.

  “Hey, Quail! Get your brother out of here,” Rich yelled.

  Brody stood, his legs unsteady. He was weak, tired. He felt a dull ache in the back of his head, a subtle throbbing. He’d felt it before.

  “Hey, Quail! Get your brother out of here,” Rich yelled again.

  “Start without me,” Brody replied. He grabbed Murf’s hand and led him off the field.

  “Where are we going, Brody?”

  “I’m taking you home.”

  Murf yanked away from Brody, unwilling to follow. “We have to stay here, Brody. You have to play the game.”

  “I’m not playing the game anymore, Murf.”

  “Hey, Quail! Get your brother out of here,” Rich yelled.

  Brody looked at him. Rich was standing in the same place he’d been when Brody stood up. He’d said the same thing three times. In the exact same tone of voice. “Start without me, Rich. All of you. I’m not playing.”

  “Hey, Quail! Get your brother out of here.”

  Brody felt a chill descend through his body; that wasn’t the Rich he knew. He tugged at Murf’s hand, but the kid wouldn’t move, like he was cemented in place.

  “If you don’t play the game, I’m going to tell Mom.”