“Everything all right, sir?”
“Yeah, sure. I just—yeah, I’m fine.”
“Would you mind shutting off your car, please?”
Hackett glanced at the dash and killed the engine.
Shit.
“Sorry. Didn’t realize it was still on.”
“You work in the building, sir?”
Hackett nodded and began searching the center console.
“Yeah. I’ve got my badge here…somewhere.”
Beads of sweat broke down his face as he turned to the glove box and picked it clean, dropping handfuls of receipts and empty cigarette packs on his lap.
“Is that it there, sir?”
Hackett followed the officer’s gaze to the passenger side floor, where his badge peeked from beneath the pile of shattered plastic.
“Oh. Yeah, thanks.”
He displayed his badge, sucking the blood from his wound. The officer gave it a cursory glance.
“That’s fine, Mr. Hackett. The ventilation system is down this weekend for some repairs. Your exhaust was coming into the security office.”
As the officer turned to point to the office door behind him, Hackett mopped his brow, glancing at the backpack on the seat.
“Oh. Sorry about that.”
As Hackett sucked fresh blood from his wound, the officer made a visual sweep of the car.
“Not a problem,” he said, motioning to Hackett’s hand. “There’s a first aid kit in the office if you need it.”
Hackett inspected the small gouge on his palm, shaking his head as he closed his hand.
“Thanks. It’s no big deal. I’ll take care of it upstairs. Again, I’m really sorry.”
With a quick nod, the officer rose and tapped the door frame.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Hackett.”
Hackett raised the window, his smile fading as the guard walked away. Clamping his hand into a sticky fist, he watched as the guard passed the lobby door and disappeared into the security office.
“Thank you officer,” he said in a sarcastic drawl. “Sorry, officer. My nose in your ass far enough, officer?” Hackett grabbed the pack and threw his door open. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
Its contents shifted and clattered as Hackett donned the pack and the straps bit into his shoulders as he made his way to the door, looking sidelong at the Mercedes as he passed.
He swiped his badge and entered the lobby—a vaulted atrium surrounded by thirty floors of silent, hovering office space. Hackett’s boots squeaked on a layer of fresh wax, the unsettling echo chasing him to the elevator bank. Pushing the call button three times, he checked the exits, clutching the pack straps.
The security guard entered the lobby from his office and crossed to the front of the building, assuming his post at the main entrance kiosk and greeting Hackett with a nod. As he returned the gesture, Hackett flinched as elevator banged open behind him. Shifting his load, he stepped inside. The officer called to him as he turned around.
“They’re working you too hard up there, Mr. Hackett.”
Hackett nodded as the doors closed, muttering his reply.
“Tell me about it.”
Hunching and rolling his shoulders, Hackett cleared the sweat from his face through the soft flicker and ring of the passing floors. His ride ended at Bighorn Oil on the twenty-fifth floor.
The doors opened on the suite, which was asleep under the hum of spotty security lighting. Walking the corridor between the outer ring of private offices and the central mass of cubicles known affectionately as ‘the pit’, he made his way to Ward’s corner office, which commanded a view not only of the Chicago River, but of Hackett’s cube on the pit’s outer rim. The blinds on the window facing the suite were partially closed, and Hackett stole to the door in a crouch, trying to see inside. With his ear to the door, he knocked and wiggled the handle.
Locked.
He took his pack into the bathroom and set it between his feet as he washed his hands. A tired, unshaven specter watched him from behind the mirror and he looked away, cringing with equal distaste at the eddy of dirt and blood swirling in the sink. With a moist wad of paper towel clutched in his hand, he returned to his desk and stuffed the pack underneath. Collapsing in his chair, he checked the time and lay his head down, his hand throbbing as he listened for the elevator, his foot resting on the bag. He fell asleep.
“Hackett. Let’s go.”
Slowly, Hackett lifted his head from the desk, squinting as he cleared the string of drool hanging from his chin. Across the corridor, Butch was standing outside of Ward’s office in a pool of blood, watching him from under the brim of his camouflage cap, the security light overhead casting him in a pulsing, sterile glow. His head—misshapen and tipped to one side—was crusted over with dried blood, his eyes swollen nearly shut. Scratched and caked with dirt, his hands were at his sides, hanging with intent from the sleeves of his shredded, blood-soaked flannel. He was holding a tire iron.
Hackett bolted upright in his chair, his face running with sweat. He looked around him in a wide-eyed panic, coughing and gasping for air. As he caught his breath, he squinted at the silhouette across the hall. Ward raised his hands, his expression dripping with impatience.
“What the fuck are you doing? I don’t have time to piss around.”
Ward retreated into his office, muttering.
As he dragged the pack out with his foot, Hackett recoiled at the sight of a dark smear of blood across his desk. He examined his hand, picking up the crumpled paper towel from the floor. Spitting into his palm, he worked the blood with the towel, his efforts only smearing it into a sickening paste. He rubbed his hand over his pants leg, squinting at his dim reflection in his computer monitor.
“Son of a bitch…”
He lifted the collar of his shirt and scrubbed a macabre cocktail of blood and sweat from his cheek as he searched the top drawer of his desk. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from the back, he shook it by his ear and slipped it into his shirt pocket. He continued to rifle the drawer, occasionally checking the towel still clenched in his fist. Glancing around the surrounding cubes, Hackett slammed the drawer and rose to his feet.
The hollow squeak of Ward’s chair filtered into the pit.
“God damn it, Hackett! Get in here!”
Heaving the pack onto his shoulder, Hackett shuffled across the corridor, still clutching the paper towel as he stepped into Ward’s office.
Seated behind his desk—an expanse of walnut and brass that reduced the Bighorn regional VP to common scale—Ward watched Hackett’s ungainly entrance under sunken brow, his elbows propped on the armrests, his fingertips pressed thoughtfully together in front of him. Hackett set the pack on the floor at the end of the desk and sat. By degrees, Ward began to rock in his chair, his countenance grave.
“Did anyone see you?”
Hackett straightened, tightening his grip on the paper towel.
“Um, yeah. The security guard. But I don’t—”
“At the house, Hackett. Did anyone see you at the house?”
“Oh. Uh, no. No one.” Hackett shrugged. “Well, one person I guess.”
Swiveling around, Ward turned his back on Hackett, his posture unchanged as he gazed out the window through the growing orange haze of sunrise. Mouthing curses at the back of Ward’s head, Hackett opened his hand and found that the bleeding had stopped. He shoved the towel into his pocket. Ward halted his rocking of the chair.
“You took care of that, right?”
Hackett again clenched his fist.
“Yeah. Of course.”
A sinister chuckle.
“Of course you did. How stupid of me.”
“What?”
Ward didn’t answer, his attention still drawn to the window.
“I took care of it, sir. He won’t be a problem.”
The chair spun around with a screech and Ward leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. Startled, he reared back, looking at Hackett as if f
or the first time. Hackett’s knees bounced, causing his body to twitch as he clenched his hand, held low and hidden behind the desk.
“Christ,” Ward said. “You look like shit.”
“Yeah, I know. What are we gonna do?”
Ward stood and picked up the pack.
“We’re not going to do anything. I’m going to Houston tomorrow, and you’re taking some time off.”
His jaw drew slack, and Hackett watched as Ward locked the backpack in a storage closet.
“What? What do you mean? How much time?”
“A week. You’ll be with me in Houston. I’ll arrange the—”
“Houston? I can’t go to Houston, sir. I’ve got to—”
“Hackett! Don’t interrupt me!” Ward hovered, stabbing an angry finger at him across the desk. “Just shut up and listen. You aren’t going to Houston. You just need to stay out of sight until I get back. Got it?”
“Yeah I got it, but won’t—?”
“That means you disappear. You don’t talk to anyone. Not even your mother. Understand?”
“I understand, but—I mean, won’t that look suspicious? All of a sudden, I just have to go to Houston?”
Ward sat on the edge of the desk, his expression lifting.
“Let me see your hands.”
“My hands?”
Closing his eyes, Ward inhaled deeply through his nose, showing monumental restraint. Hackett quickly raised his hands, watching as they shook uncontrollably in the air between them. Ward opened his eyes.
“Won’t that look suspicious? And what about that sweat on your forehead? You think that helps our cause, Hackett?”
“I just…need some rest, Mr. Ward. I’ll be fine.”
“Hackett, this isn’t a debate. You’re taking the week off.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Christ, Hackett. I don’t know, isn’t there somewhere you can go?”
Hackett laid his hands on his lap, drying the sweat from his palms.
“Yeah.”
“Good. We’ll talk a week from Monday. And don’t use your phone.”
“Yeah, but…I can’t…”
Hackett trailed off and his head fell into his hands.
“Just go home, Hackett. Go home, clean up and get packed. It’ll be fine.”
Hackett stood. With a sigh, he shuffled to the door, his legs threatening to buckle.
“Hackett?”
His hand on the door knob, Hackett turned.
“Look. I don’t mean to bust your balls. We just need to be careful. Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“And Hackett? There’s—I couldn’t have done this by myself. That virus? I…that was brilliant. We make a hell of a team.”
Hackett managed a fleeting smile.
“Okay. Thanks, Mr. Ward.”
five years ago
PJ
Way too early for this shit, he thought, yawning.
“You see how the line does most of the work, PJ?”
PJ looked back at his father, nodding with muted interest.
“Yeah, I know. I understand how it works. I just can’t do it.”
He watched the tip of Butch’s fly rod jump repeatedly from eleven to one o’clock and back like a broken second hand. The line paid out, dragging the fly closer to the shore with each cycle. In a calm and calculated burst, Butch laid the rod horizontal, rolling the line across the water. The fly took wing, cruising under a low-hanging branch and dropping onto the water mere inches from the bank.
“There. The bed’s just this side of my fly. You see it?”
PJ squinted into the glassy shallows, barely detecting a hint of color beneath. A swirl of activity on the surface.
“Yeah, I—”
The line lifted off the water from canoe to shore with a violent tear, and Butch’s rod bent in half as the hook struck home. The surface boiled and sprayed under the sagging branch, causing its leaves to flutter and sag with water. Using his left index finger as a drag, Butch pulled in the line with his right hand, dropping the wet coils onto the water. The bluegill fought in tight, diving circles until Butch dipped his net and pulled it from the shallows of Long Lake, ending the battle. PJ sniffed and returned to the bird’s nest at the end of his own rod—the result of his last cast.
“Show off.”
Butch unhooked the fish and held it in his palm, its mouth and gills flapping in the suffocating air, its orange belly shimmering as he turned it in his hand.
“That’s a beauty,” he said, dropping it into the basket clamped to the gunnels. “Almost a shame to keep that one.”
He turned the canoe parallel to the shore with the sculling paddle, preparing for another cast.
“Looks just like the last one,” PJ said, struggling with his tangled rig. “Why’d you throw that one back?”
Butch checked the knot on his fly and bent the hook true.
“She hadn’t laid her eggs yet.” Butch pointed towards the shore. “They’re spawning now, and these fish are my retirement plan.”
The hook on PJ’s fly stuck his thumb.
“Jesus! Fuck!” PJ dropped the rod onto the floor of the canoe with a hollow, metallic bang. He looked back, his brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Butch was working his fly back into shore, giving PJ an uneasy glance.
“Fishing? Retirement? What don’t you understand?”
PJ rolled his eyes, squeezing a drop of blood out of the hole in his thumb.
“Really planning ahead, aren’t we? You’ve got what? Twenty years? You might not even live here anymore.”
Butch looked at PJ, then back to the shore as he set the hook, missing the strike. He pulled in his line and began another cast.
“I’m not doing it just for myself. You know that, right?”
PJ nodded.
“Yeah. Sure.”
His fly landed on a rock on the bank and Butch twitched the line, causing it to jump into the water where it was sucked in with a resounding pop. He set the hook and they had their limit.
Butch reeled in his line and laid his rod over the thwarts in front of him. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he leaned back on the narrow wedge of decking over the stern and closed his eyes. PJ set his rod alongside his father’s and scooped his line out of the water and into the boat.
“I’ll fix this shit later.”
Butch adjusted his cap, setting it further back on his head as he sat forward.
“What’s going on, PJ?”
Wiping a film of sweat from his brow, PJ picked up his paddle and set it across the gunnels.
“I’m just tired.”
Butch settled back onto the stern, watching the back of PJ’s head.
“All right. Well…since we brought it up, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“What did we bring up?”
“My retirement. I’ve decided to do consulting work full time.”
PJ cocked his head aside, staring into the water beside the canoe.
“You did.”
“I did.”
PJ turned away. He raised his paddle vertically into the air, looking up as water ran down its shaft and over his hand. He let the blade fall onto the water with a slap.
“When did you decide this?”
Butch hesitated in his reply.
“It’s been on my radar for a while. I made the decision after I got my legs back. ‘Life’s too short’ and all.”
PJ again raised the paddle and let it fall.
“You gonna make any money doing this?”
“I’ll get a stipend.”
“Uh-huh. And how much is that?”
Butch rose and sat forward in his seat.
“Okay, what the hell’s going on with you?”
PJ raised the paddle again, letting it teeter over his head. He mopped another layer of sweat from his brow.
“I could ask the same of you. You’re the one giving up your career. How are we gonna li
ve?”
“We’ll be fine. Your tuition is saved, I’ve got enough savings to—”
PJ slammed the paddle onto the water, splashing them both and causing Butch to jump.
“All right,” Butch said, picking up his paddle. “We’re going in. And you need to tell me, PJ. Did you take something?”
PJ didn’t answer. He started paddling in shallow, unproductive strokes, splashing them both as the blade of his paddle skipped across the water, his arms swinging wildly. His frustration grew, and PJ dug deeper, straining against the water’s heavy resistance. One edge of the blade cracked and split free of the shaft, and PJ dropped it into the water, cursing. Covering his face with his hands, he began to shake, his face and neck drenched with sweat. Clutching the port gunnel, he leaned over the side as a wave of dry heaves washed over him and he tumbled into the water, throwing Butch onto the floor and nearly capsizing the canoe. Butch’s voice—distant and muffled—rose over the coughing and choking of PJ’s failing struggle to keep his head above water.
“PJ, I’m going to get you to shore,” he said, clamping his hands around PJ’s head and pulling it back against the hull. “Just relax, okay? Please…”
His fight suddenly ebbed and PJ tipped his head back, gasping as he let his arms sink slowly to his sides.
Don’t fucking call me PJ.
Butch’s face—its state of perpetual calm betrayed by a look of abject terror—began to blur and spin as PJ passed out.
chapter seven
PJ
A middle-aged man paced the drive, engaged in an animated phone call. As PJ pulled up, the man stepped around to the front of his car, motioning for him to pull alongside. Turning his back, the man resumed his conversation. PJ’s car lurched to a stop and he slumped back in his seat, his foot on the brake, the engine running.
Lumber littered the front yard around the porch, the railing only half repaired. On the side lawn, the upended canoe lay waiting for its next adventure, a lone paddle propped against the bow. Its hull reflected the afternoon sun, and PJ stared at the intense light, his arms limp at his sides, his breathing shallow. A gray smear of repair putty sealed the gash torn by Wolf River rocks the previous fall.
The Ascent of PJ Marshall Page 9