The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

  PJ shook his head and turned away.

  “We’re getting the police on this now.”

  Jim raised his hands with a look of sudden alarm.

  “Okay, let’s…let’s just think about this first.”

  “Think about this. That’s all I’ve been doing the last three days. We don’t have time to—”

  “PJ, listen to me. They don’t know dick. What have they got? A bullshit 911 call and a bought warrant. They’re clueless.”

  PJ picked up the canteen and rinsed his mouth, replacing the cap with a shrug.

  “I don’t care. As long as they’re looking for him, who gives a shit?”

  Jim heaved a sigh and got to his feet, placing his hands on PJ’s shoulders

  “You should. How are they gonna to find him if—?”

  Jim cut himself short, hanging his head as he gathered his thoughts.

  “Okay,” he said, looking up with a reluctant nod. “Yeah, you should do what you think is right, PJ. But can you let me do one thing first?”

  PJ sighed.

  “What?”

  “Let me talk to Hansen’s PR guy down in Seattle. He’s a world class douchebag, but if someone’s got your—” Jim’s expression fell. His grip tightened on PJ’s shoulders as he pursed his lips. “If your dad’s in some kind of trouble with Old Man Hansen, he’ll know about it. I guarantee it.”

  PJ broke from Jim’s grip, working his tongue against his cheek as he continued to pace.

  “God, this is so fucked up,” he said, patting his shirt pocket. He rounded on Jim with an angry, wide-eyed stare.

  “Where’s my canister?” he asked, pointing to Tom and Mitch at the lean-to. “Did those dipshits take it?”

  Jim stepped forward, again taking hold of PJ’s shoulders, staring him down.

  “You don’t need it, bud.”

  PJ broke loose and started down the trail to the main camp. Jim grabbed his arm and spun him back.

  “It’s not going to help, PJ. Trust me.”

  With a laugh, PJ jerked his arm away and continued walking.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

  Jim’s hand again clamped onto PJ’s arm.

  “PJ, please. I’m just—”

  Grabbing his wrist, PJ turned Jim around and wrenched his arm behind his back. He threw his free arm around his neck, dragging him to the ground and rolling him to his stomach, holding him down with a knee to his back. Jim clawed at the ground, stirring a cloud of dust as he tried to turn over, pleading for a truce. Taking the flask from Jim’s back pocket, PJ unscrewed the cap with his teeth and dumped its contents onto the ground next to Jim’s head, ending their struggle. As the last drops fell from the flask, PJ dropped it and got to his feet. He stared down, watching Jim tremble in the dirt.

  “You’ve got no right, Jim.”

  Jim rolled onto his back and threw his arm over his face, exhaling in a long, shaky hiss.

  “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

  With a shuffle of feet behind him, PJ’s arm was pulled around and locked against his back as Mitch’s greasy hand clamped onto his throat. PJ resisted in vain, his free hand unable to pry the wiry fingers from his neck as the grip on his arm tightened, holding it fast. Tom stepped forward and helped Jim to his feet, turning a menacing glare on PJ. Clutching the empty flask, Jim waved Mitch off as he searched the ground.

  “It’s over. Who’s got his canister?”

  As Mitch shoved PJ away with a grunt, Jim picked up the cap to his flask and blew dirt from the threads, glancing impatiently at his friends.

  Tom pulled PJ’s film canister from his pocket and dropped it on the ground with a muted rattle, brushing hard against PJ as he walked away, Mitch in tow. PJ picked it up and he and Jim sat on the ground next to the trail, each of them staring at the vessel in his hand.

  “We don’t deserve him,” PJ said.

  Turning the flask over in his hands, Jim passed his thumb over its mirrored surface, studying the resulting streak. He polished it away with his sleeve.

  “You’ve still got time,” he said.

  PJ looked on as Tom and Mitch returned to the lean-to, their nearly smokeless fire licking through a teepee of pine branches. Mitch had returned to tend to the pot of food on the table, Tom to the fire. With quick, furtive glances, they took turns monitoring PJ and Jim’s conversation.

  “Why would this PR guy talk to you?” PJ asked.

  From Jim, a subtle nod.

  “He’s got a button I can push.”

  ***

  Jim pulled the car onto a turnout, one of many carved into the mountain along the road’s serpentine course.

  “This is where the harvester was parked,” he said. “One of the big Cats, factory fresh.” He glanced at PJ as he put the car in park. “Ever seen one in action?”

  “No.”

  Jim nodded. “Twenty tons of evil genius.”

  He leaned across PJ’s lap and pointed out the window and up the mountain through the fog. PJ lowered the window, letting in a cold, steady drizzle.

  “We were glassin’ ‘em from the top of that ridge. Watching ‘em pack up for the day. Then we waited. Didn’t start down until after dark.”

  Jim straightened in his seat.

  “Lot of these big outfits have anti-theft devices on their rigs now,” he said. “Usually integrated into the electronics so you can’t start ‘em without a special key.”

  His face lit with a grin as he glanced at PJ.

  “Guess what we had.”

  PJ sniffed, shaking his head as he turned away.

  “After Mitch and I drained the oil, Tom fired ‘er up. Ten minutes later, Old Man Hansen had himself a half-million dollar paper weight.”

  Chuckling, he put the car in gear, his eyes still locked on the ridge as the car started rolling down the mountain. PJ’s legs stiffened and he pressed his feet against the floor, drawing Jim’s attention to the road.

  “Uh, Jim—?”

  Jim faced forward, unalarmed.

  “Usually we just cut the hydraulics, slash the tires, nothin’ major. If they’re not breakin’ the law, we don’t bust their balls too much.” The car slowed as Jim pointed down the embankment to where the Bald River raged in a dense, foamy torrent. “This area wasn’t supposed to be cut. They need to leave a buffer along the river to catch the runoff from the bare ground. You don’t, you end up with a dead river.”

  PJ watched the road, nodding nervously as Jim went on.

  “The folks you and I pay to stop this kind of shit let ‘em get away with it, so we took care of it ourselves.” With a sigh, Jim looked away from the river and accelerated down the mountain. “Sometimes the ends justify the means.”

  Despite the lightness of the rain, water flowed in silty fans across the road, and PJ sat up in his seat, his neck craned as he evaluated the drive ahead. Jim chuckled.

  “Your dad never liked drivin’ up here either. Guess you just get used to it.”

  PJ relaxed, glancing at Jim with a weak smile.

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  They drove in silence for some time, PJ’s gaze fixed ahead through the short delay of the wipers. His view, cleared as the blades passed, would slowly blur and fade before the next cycle. At a narrow saddle in the road, Jim stopped the car and put it in park, turning to PJ as he reached for the door handle.

  “Be right back.”

  He got out and crossed in front of the car and scrambled up the embankment on PJ’s side. Bracing himself against a boulder, he used a heavy branch to jab and pry at a pile of debris assembled on the slope, his efforts causing it to fall apart and tumble into the ditch. On his feet, he kicked and shoved branches and stones into the culvert under the road, packing it with remnants scraped down from the embankment. He climbed up to the road and turned away from the car and urinated into the ditch.

  Dripping and caked with mud, Jim shuffled back across the road and into the car, throwing PJ a sheepish glance as he slid behin
d the wheel.

  “Sorry about the upholstery, bud.”

  PJ waved this off.

  “Well,” Jim said, throwing the car into drive. “Pray for a gusher.”

  With a dismissive shake of his head, PJ turned to look out the passenger window as they resumed their slow descent.

  “How exactly do you see all of this ending?” PJ asked, motioning outside with a tip of his chin. Jim’s grip on the wheel tightened and he answered PJ’s impatient stare with a shrug.

  “I don’t know. But I’m too old to fight ‘em any other way.”

  PJ turned back to the window.

  “Didn’t your dad work for Hansen?”

  Jim drove on in silence, thoughtfully scratching his beard, his eyes forward and locked.

  “Eighteen years. Until they damn near broke him in half.”

  From PJ, a tired glance. Slicking his wet hair back over his head, Jim turned and looked past PJ out the window with a sigh.

  “They were cuttin’ the other side of Brewer,” he said, motioning out the window. “He was…I don’t know how old, I was about ten or twelve I guess. Picker’s stackin’ logs on the truck, and one of ‘em breaks loose off the top. My old man’s takin’ a leak downslope, never sees it comin’. Snaps both legs and his back. That was pretty much the end.”

  PJ stared through the squeaking wipers to the valley below, where the grounds of Hansen Timber were coming into view through the haze.

  “What do you mean?”

  Jim shook his head, cursing and patting the pockets of his shirt. He glanced at PJ.

  “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  “No. Did he ever go back to work?”

  “For a little while. He couldn’t work on the cuttin’ crews anymore on account of his back, so they put him down in the mill, shuckin’ boards through the saws and what not. Crusty old bastard’s pride only gave him a week before he called it quits. He threatens to sue, so Hansen buys him off with a disability deal. Six months later, the money’s gone and he’s workin’ odd jobs around Concrete, drinkin’ the only pain killers he can afford. Burnin’ bridges and getting’ meaner by the day. His life insurance was the only thing they couldn’t screw him out of. Wasn’t for a lack of tryin’, though.”

  PJ leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He exhaled and lowered his hands to his lap.

  “Sorry, Jim.”

  Jim shook his head and mopped the water dripping down his face with his sleeve.

  “Ancient history. Does make you think, though. How precarious a man’s life can be.” He leaned aside and slipped the flask from his pocket and set it between the seats. “Besides, havin’ things go to shit like that brought me up here. When the old man was between jobs, hidin’ in the hills was better’n bein’ home by a long shot.”

  “So is that what all this is about? Payback?”

  “At first, yeah. Even after I met your dad, all the ‘save the earth’ stuff was just another way to piss ‘em off. But he has a way of gettin’ in your head, your dad. Like there’s a switch in there he knows how to flip to make you start thinkin’.”

  PJ sighed.

  “Yeah. Sometimes too much.”

  Jim nodded, his gaze sweeping the horizon.

  “I hear ya.”

  They emerged from uncut forest into the moonscape of the main clear cut, its immensity catching their breath in simultaneous shock. PJ cleared his throat.

  “So you run Hansen out of the mountains. What then?

  Expressionless, Jim accelerated into the wide, level ground of the cut. The drizzle had grown into a steady rain.

  “I die happy.”

  PJ turned away. He scanned the valley below and its collection of homesteads and small towns, its network of backcountry roads and interstate highways, its countryside and developments. In the center of it all, the smoky, sprawling castle of Hansen Timber stood watch, enormous stacks of pine and fir logs hovering on its perimeter, wooden watchtowers guarding all. He looked at Jim.

  “What do we do with the people? Run ‘em into the mountains with you?”

  Jim turned to PJ, his look of cold disregard beginning to warm.

  “That’s the rub, ain’t it? The reason Hansen ain’t goin’ anywhere. Why none of ‘em are.” Jim shifted in his seat and set his hand briefly on the flask in the console between them. “Too many of us wantin’ too much shit. That’s our problem. Root of all our problems. And I don’t know you fight that. Especially with all them fuckin’ auctioneers in Washington runnin’ the show.”

  PJ exhaled, staring at Hansen Timber through the rain—falling harder now and battering the roof in a raucous, metallic rumble. Jim went on.

  “I mean…don’t get me wrong, what your dad’s tryin’ to do is great and noble and brave as hell, but he’s spinnin’ his wheels. The beast needs to be fed. And a bunch of feel-good, happy horseshit platitudes ain’t gonna stop it.”

  PJ turned on him with a cold, searching stare.

  “So Tim-Oil’s pointless. That’s what you’re saying?”

  Jim shrugged his shoulder, catching a stream of water running down his cheek with his shirt. He nodded.

  “That’s what I’m sayin’. But if you got a mind to, pray I’m wrong. Because the way I see it…when the reckoning comes, it’s gonna be a hell of a show.”

  PJ turned away, shaking his head.

  Way to pick ‘em, dad.

  They spent the remainder of the drive in silence, the rain starting and stopping in waves as they crawled and bounced down the mountain, arriving at Jim’s house as it settled into a heavy mist. They got out of the car, PJ gathering a change of clothes from his gear, Jim inspecting his garden with a chuckle as he carried his pack up the front walk and onto the porch.

  “Outdid herself this year,” he said.

  Halfway up the walk, PJ stopped. Jim was leaning against the house in a stoop, craning his neck and peering through the front window. His frantic waving sent PJ scrambling behind the hedge, where he crouched in wait, watching through a void in the dense growth. A single pane of glass, adjacent the handle, was missing from the window on the front door, its edges ragged with remnants of broken glass. Jim reached across, testing the lock. He set down his pack and took a gun from its side pocket and crawled underneath the window to the other side. Holding the gun with both hands, he glanced inside and then retreated from the porch in a crouch, his breathing labored as he joined PJ behind the hedge.

  “I don’t know. I can’t tell if anyone’s still inside or not.” He handed the revolver to PJ, its handle warm. “I’ve got a rifle in the shed. I’ll go in through the back and see if I can flush anyone out, okay?”

  A quick nod as PJ stared nervously at the gun, adjusting his grip.

  “Just don’t shoot me if I come out the front. Okay?”

  PJ settled his hands and looked up.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Jim handed him a small lock-blade knife from his pocket.

  “Just in case. Keep it on you, somewhere safe.”

  Jim slapped PJ on the back and disappeared around the side yard, holding tight to the house. Then it was quiet. With his unblinking gaze fixed on the front window, PJ slid the knife into his sock and took the gun in both hands, his grip on the textured handle cold and stiff. A light rain began to patter on the roof of the car, and PJ’s breathing grew slow and shallow as he waited, the cold rain finding its way through his clothes and hair, raising goose bumps on his arms and neck.

  A shadow flickered inside the house, and PJ raised the gun, holding his breath. Another flash of movement. Slowly, he extended his finger and slid it over the trigger, drawing a shallow breath.

  The rain fell harder and the wide, flat leaves of the cucumbers and squash caught the drops with greedy, resounding slaps. PJ’s entire body was soaked, and water ran from his hair into his eyes and mouth. The movement inside had stopped. As he drew the collar of his shirt over his face to clear his vision, his body seized at the stab of cold
metal against the back of his neck.

  chapter thirteen

  Hackett

  From behind his desk, Ward waved Hackett into his office.

  “Thanks Bill, I appreciate that,” he said, motioning for Hackett to close the door.

  Aware of the ongoing conference call, Hackett eased the door shut behind him and crept to the near side of the desk.

  “Well, your team’s doing a hell of a job up there, so keep it up.”

  Ward rocked forward, reaching for the phone. “Absolutely. I gotta run. Dan, Mike—I’ll see you at the board meeting.”

  As a chorus of voices said their goodbyes, Ward disconnected and pushed a report across the desk.

  “You may want to sit for this, Hackett. Bighorn’s earnings for the quarter. Look at Cheyenne’s numbers.”

  Hackett sat and scanned the site’s financials, reporting a huge growth in production—approaching that of Bighorn’s remaining six operations combined. He looked up, his jaw slack. Ward acknowledged his stunned silence with a laugh.

  “Teamwork my ass,” he said, pointing at the report. “These numbers are going to save the whole fucking company. Not just Chicago and Cheyenne.”

  Hackett continued to puzzle over the revenues generated by the comparatively small site.

  “I had no idea it was doing this well.”

  “Well, believe it. After Carson takes these numbers to Congress next week, those swing votes are a lock.”

  Hackett set the report on the desk.

  “When’s the vote?”

  “Two days later. Fresh off our stellar presentation.”

  “And when can we expand the site?”

  “Right after the bill’s signed.”

  Hackett rested his head against the back of the chair with a sigh.

  “Not a goddamn moment too soon.”

  Ward rose to his feet, shaking a worried finger at Hackett as he sat on the edge of the desk.

  “You need to relax. If this gets screwed up, it’ll be because somebody does something stupid. We’re not going to do anything stupid, right?”

  Hackett shut his eyes and rolled his head against the chair.