The Argus Deceit by Grossart Chuck

Author:Grossart, Chuck [Grossart, Chuck]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781477819647
Publisher: 47North
Published: 2017-05-08T16:00:00+00:00

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

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