“You were a cop?” the other officer asked.
“A long time ago,” Brody said. He’d had to deliver similar news before (as a cop, he must’ve, right?) but for the life of him couldn’t recall any details. “Thank you,” Brody repeated, signaling to the officers that they could leave. Their duty was done.
As the officers turned and he swung the door shut, Brody heard footsteps upstairs, someone running. Then the day ended for fifty-two-year-old Brody Quail.
Chapter 10
BRODY10
Culver, Ohio
Thursday, May 15, 1975
Afternoon recess wasn’t very long, but it was his favorite.
John Bullard, one of the sixth graders, was tossing a football from hand to hand, the rest of his team lining up behind.
Rich Gable was the de facto leader of Brody’s team. He was bigger than any of the fifth-grade boys and the most athletic. Everyone huddled around Rich, forming a circle just like the NFL teams did on Sunday, with Rich down on one knee.
“Pass it quick and keep it away from Bullard,” Rich said. “Try to get it to me, Gary, or Lance. Okay, ready, break!” Everyone clapped their hands at the last word and spread out to receive the kick.
Brody loved playing this game, but the best thing about it was the fact that the girls liked to watch. Brody glanced back toward the school and saw them assembled there, all the sixth-grade girls, along with the girls from his class, sitting Indian-style on the grass and trying to look disinterested. Debbie Wilson was there, too. God, she was pretty. Brody imagined himself getting the ball and crashing through the sixth graders right in front of her, heading toward the fence and scoring a touchdown. A hero for a day.
A tug on his arm. “Brody?” His little brother, Murphy. A first grader.
“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 squished.”
squished
“Go over there and watch. Just stay out of the way,” Brody said and watched the smile fade from Murf’s face.
“Mom says you have to play with me.”
“Not now, Murf.”
“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.
“Get off the field, Murf, now. Go watch.”
“I’m gonna tell Mom,” Murf said as he turned and ran back to the playground.
Gonna tell Mom. Murf’s favorite saying. Brody loved him, but the kid was a royal pain in the rear. Like now. Brody waved at Rich, embarrassed that Murf had delayed the game.
“Okay, ready!” Rich yelled, and Bullard kicked off.
As the ball arced through the sky, Brody stole a quick glance at Murf. He was walking back toward the school, head hanging down. Brody felt a pang of guilt for yelling at him, but all his friends had been waiting on him to get the game started. Sorry, Murf. Brody would apologize later and hopefully smooth things over before they got home so Murf wouldn’t tattle to their mom.
Gary Thompson caught the kick and took off running. Brody ran beside him, staying off to his left and slightly behind, keeping his head on a swivel to stay out of the way of the bigger boys. Getting run over without having the ball always sucked. It was embarrassing, too.
getting run over
Two sixth graders draped themselves on Gary’s shoulders and dragged him down. He tossed the ball to Sean Williams, who was hit immediately, tackled around the legs.
Brody was close. He held his arms out for the ball, and Sean saw him.
Sean tried to throw the ball, but it bounced across the ground, ending up at Brody’s feet. Brody snatched it up and ran, weaving his way through arms grabbing at his shirt. Being small had its advantages; Brody was quick, hard to catch.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Lance off to his right, just as someone got ahold of Brody’s shirt and pulled. Brody tossed the ball at Lance right before he was tackled, and right before his head hit the ground. Just like in the cartoons, Brody saw stars. He wanted to cry (really, really bad) but couldn’t, not with the girls watching.
Brody picked himself up and cheered as Lance jinked past the last sixth grader in his way and slammed the ball against the chain link. Brody raised his arms and yelled, “Woo hoo! Way to go, Lance!” Not only had Lance just scored, but Brody had been a part of it. He turned to see if any of the girls were watching and locked eyes with Debbie Wilson. She was smiling, and those big, beautiful brown eyes of hers were looking right at him.
At least, he thought so. Brody stole a quick glance behind himself to see if she was looking at someone else, but there was no one there, not close enough anyway. The guys were all surrounding Lance, slapping him on the back.
When he turned back toward Debbie, she tilted her head slightly, still staring right at him, and Brody was completely lost. Done for. Melted. But only for a second. Beyond Debbie, he spied Murf heading off the playground and toward the road.
In a second, Brody took it all in; Mrs. Carlisle, the playground monitor who was supposed to be watching, wasn’t paying attention. Murf still had his head down, and there was a car coming.
His brother was going to get hit by a car.
squished
“Hey, Murf!” Brody yelled. “Murf!” 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 into his path.
“Murf! Murphy! Look out!” Brody screamed. His kid brother wasn’t paying attention, wasn’t listening. 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 getting ready to play out on the street where the buses park. 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!” Brody screamed. Murf stopped, right in the middle of the street, his feet square on the yellow line. Turned toward the approaching car. In an instant, he realized where he was and what was about to happen. He was frozen in place.
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. 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 could knock Murf out of the way, push him to safety, sacrifice himself.
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.
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 could hear them running, shoes scuffing against the road.
Murf wasn’t in his arms, and 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 somewhere that people really 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. Oh my God.”
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.
“Murf?” Brody sat up, realizing he was unhurt. “Murf!” He heard his brother crying.
“Mrs. Carlisle’s got him, dude,” Rich said. “He’s okay.” All the color had drained from Rich’s face. He looked like he was going to be sick.
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.
“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 street like that. Oh God. I’m so sorry. Somebody call an ambulance!”
Brody wheeled, heat rising in his face. He wanted to scream at the man, tell him he was a jerk for not paying attention. But he didn’t. The man was an adult, and Brody couldn’t talk to him like that no matter how mad he might be. Instead, he unclenched his fist and went to his brother. Nobody’s hurt. We don’t need an ambulance.
He’d never seen Mrs. Carlisle cry before, and it upset him. Teachers weren’t supposed to cry like that. 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 at the ground, nodding his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then she turned toward Brody.
“Are you okay, Brody? Are you—” Mrs. Carlisle said, stopping midsentence. She covered her mouth with her hand.
Murphy’s eyes were filling with tears. “I’m sorry, Bowdy,” he said, using his little-kid voice, something Brody hadn’t heard in a long time.
Brody tousled his hair. “It’s okay, Murf.”
“The car hit you,” Murf said.
“No,” Brody replied. “It missed us both. We were lucky.”
Murf shook his head. “No, Bowdy, the car hit you.”
“No, Murf. It didn’t,” Brody said, laughing a little. “I’m okay, really.”
Murf tilted his head, confused, and pointed at Brody’s left side. “Then where did your left arm go?”
At that moment, the day ended for ten-year-old Brody Quail.
Chapter 11
BRODY26
Garland Trail, Nebraska
Tuesday, November 12, 1968
He slapped two bills on the bar and grabbed his field jacket from the back of the chair.
“G’night, Brody,” the bartender said.
“See you tomorrow, Jimmy,” Brody replied.
Brody stepped out into the night air and took a deep breath. The sky was clear, and the temps were forecast to plummet into the teens before morning. He gathered his coat closer with his right hand and began his walk to his apartment a few blocks away, his breath swirling into the darkness.
The snow crunched under his boots. He lived nearby and was halfway home, but he was going to be delayed. He was being followed. Two guys, maybe three, about twenty yards back. And getting closer. He took a deep breath to clear his thoughts, wishing he hadn’t had that third Scotch. He slowed his pace slightly. He didn’t want a fight, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to back down from one.
Let them come.
Brody listened. One of them was crossing the street, walking fast. The other two were right behind him now, maybe fifteen feet away.
No use waiting anymore. Brody stopped and heard the two gents behind him skid to a halt. Brody didn’t turn around. He wanted them to make the first move.
Five seconds ticked by. Then ten.
The guy who’d crossed the street wasn’t sure what to do now, hiding in the shadows and waiting for Brody to turn around.
Talking wasn’t going to do much good, but Brody gave it a shot anyway. “Walk away,” he said, loud enough for all three of them to hear.
One of the guys behind him laughed. “Say what?”
Brody turned. One black guy, tall and skinny, and one white guy, a little more built than his partner, but Brody could 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.
The street-crosser slipped on the ice halfway across the street and fell. Brody heard him get up and step up behind him on the sidewalk. If this was Chicago, Brody might be a little more worried, but these guys were Garland Trail wannabes. Skinny, Muscles, and Clum—no, Fat Guy.
“I said walk away,” Brody repeated. “You don’t want to do this.”
“And how you gonna stop us, soldier man?”
Down deep, Brody wanted to say something about being able to take all three of them with one arm tied behind his back, but he figured they wouldn’t appreciate the humor. He was too tired, anyway.
Skinny pointed his finger at Brody through his pocket. “Maybe I should just shoot your white ass.”
“That isn’t a gun,” Brody said. “Your white-ass friend doesn’t have one either.” The ice crunched behind him, and Brody tilted his head to the side. “And if your friend back there gets any closer, you’re all going to regret it.”
“All we want is your money.” Muscles, this time. A little nervous.
“Then come and take it, tough guy,” Brody said. These jerks had done this before but were rattled. In the next few seconds, they’d either back off or make a move.
Brody watched Skinny’s eyes shift to his partner, the one at his back. Brody sighed and readied himself. They weren’t going to back off, and the man behind him was making his move.
Brody waited, listening to the man’s steps as he approached, then at the perfect moment, struck to the rear with his elbow.
But he’d misjudged. Brody missed.
The guy was standing there, arms outstretched, with a comically serious look on his face. Brody didn’t wait for him to move and struck with an open palm to the man’s nose, hard enough to break it but not hard enough to send bone splinters into the man’s brain. He didn’t want to kill the guy (but would if he had to), only make him regret ever trying to jump a one-armed vet in the middle of the night. He felt the crunch and quickly withdrew his hand, readying himself for whatever came next.
What he saw, though, made no sense. The man’s nose was satisfyingly deformed, scrunched up like a Porky Pig mask, but he wasn’t moving. Not one bit.
He didn’t even blink.
He just stood there, still as a statue. Stunned maybe? Brody didn’t wait to see and punched the man in the mouth.
Brody watched as the man slowly tipped backward and fell to the icy sidewalk with a thud.
Something was wrong.
Brody turned and was shocked to see the other two men standing in the exact same spots as before, not moving.
Not blinking either.
Statues.
“What the . . . ?” Brody said.
He scanned the street around him, turning left, then right. Apart from the three would-be muggers, Brody was alone. He walked slowly toward the two standing men and snapped his fingers in front of their faces. Neither of them blinked. “This is crazy,” he said under his breath. He reached out and touched Muscles, noticed that his clothes felt normal, warm from his body heat. “Hey,” Brody said. “Hey!”
No reaction.
Had time stopped? He shoved both of them, one after the other, and watched as they fell backward to the concrete. He almost expected them to break into a million pieces, but no, they stayed intact, the same okay, let’s kick this guy’s ass looks still etched on their faces.
“That’s what you get for trying to jump me, assholes.”
Brody again scanned the streets and listened. No noises. No cars, no dogs barking in the distance, just the sound of his own breathing and a cloud of white mist in
front of his face.
He didn’t understand what was going on but didn’t particularly care. If time could stop, it could just as easily start up again, right? He turned and walked in his original direction, back to his apartment. If these guys ever came back to the land of the here and now, he didn’t want to be near them. Might be fun to watch, though, seeing them come to life flat on their backs, when the last moment they would remember was rushing a one-armed vet with a smart mouth.
And the big guy. Brody laughed, thinking what that was going to be like, waking up with a busted pig-nosed face, flat on his ass.
Then Brody’s senses perked up, not because of anything he’d heard, but something he felt.
He was being watched.
Brody stopped and turned slowly, peering into the shadows. He couldn’t see anyone, but the feeling was still there. Someone’s eyes were on him. Maybe the punks he’d left reclining on the sidewalk had snapped out of whatever trance they were in and were following him.
But, no. It wasn’t them. He could still see the three bodies right where he left them.
There were eyes on him, though. Of that he was certain.
Brody moved slowly, concentrating on his peripheral vision, checking the edges of his sight picture. Seeing nothing. The feeling was strong, though. Too real to ignore.
He’d go back to his apartment. Try to figure this all out.
As he approached his block, the feeling of being watched became electric, a sense of dread washing over his body. Not only was he being watched, he was being followed. Silently. Whoever they were, they were close now. Brody stopped and turned.
At first he was surprised there wasn’t someone standing directly behind him. He was there, though, half a block away, silhouetted by the glare of a streetlight at his back.
Just standing there.
Brody could discern no details from this distance but could tell the person was tall, sturdy in build, and standing confidently. He had to know Brody had spotted him but didn’t care.
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.
The Argus Deceit Page 6