The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

A set of drinks was waiting and Helen flashed him a questioning smile. PJ nodded, drinking several shots worth of beer from one of the bottles. He gathered the shots of whiskey.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”

  “Those guys treating you okay?”

  PJ nodded.

  “Yeah. They’re harmless.”

  chapter sixteen

  Hackett

  Ward ignored Hackett’s greeting and assumed the position at the adjacent urinal, staring at the wall in silence as he unzipped. Hackett turned away, his stomach turning as the reek of stale breath and urine mixed against the wall. He closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth as Ward spoke in a low growl.

  “You screwed me, Hackett.”

  Hackett’s body seized, cutting off his stream. Forgetting to flush, he checked under the stalls, fumbling with his zipper as he meandered in an aimless daze to the sinks.

  “W-what are you talking about?”

  Ward zipped up and flushed. He drew up beside Hackett and turned on the water, watching the door behind him in the mirror as he washed his hands.

  “I just got a call from our…consultant. I’m thinking, ‘here comes the all clear’ or ‘everything’s fine’. Turns out, I wasn’t even close.”

  Clutching the rim of the adjacent sink, Hackett stared into the bowl, waiting as Ward—now insufferably mute—washed his hands with brutal obsession, his silence lingering through the tear and rustle of paper towels. Hackett looked up, watching Ward in the mirror.

  “What did he say? Your consultant?”

  Ward worked the towel between the fingers of his left hand, drying each one in sequence.

  “That’s what’s so funny,” Ward said, moving the paper towel to his left hand to dry his right. “It wasn’t him that called. Someone else was using his phone.”

  Hackett’s expression fell.

  “What?”

  Ward threw the wadded paper towel in the trash. With a jerk, he turned and grabbed the hair on the back of Hackett’s head, wrapping his other hand around his throat. He shoved Hackett against the wall and leaned in, his face red with rage, his breath hot against Hackett’s neck. The veins on his forehead swelled as he spoke.

  “It was him, Hackett.”

  Hackett grabbed the fingers dug in around his windpipe, trying to pry them loose as he looked over Ward’s shoulder at the door. Ward tightened his grip on Hackett’s hair and pulled, ripping several from the scalp with an audible tear.

  “He said I should have finished the job.”

  “No! No, it can’t be,” Hackett croaked, using both hands now to pull against the grip Ward had on his hair. “There’s no way he could be—”

  Ward clamped harder around Hackett’s throat, cutting him off and ending their struggle. They stared at each other, eyes wide, hands frozen in silent conflict.

  “I’m done with your bullshit, Hackett.”

  Throwing a punch to Ward’s stomach, Hackett twisted free of his hold, pushing him back hard against the sink. His teeth clenched with rage, Ward lunged forward, driving his knee into Hackett’s groin with a grunt, doubling him over onto the floor. Hackett rolled in pain, stifling his groans as Ward caught his breath and turned to the mirror to flatten his hair and mop his face with a paper towel. A sharp kick to Hackett’s side rolled him to his back, clutching himself and gasping in agony. Ward straightened his collar as he went to the door.

  “Get the fuck out. You’re fired.”

  Hackett rolled to his hands and knees and pulled himself to his feet at the sink.

  “Fuck you.”

  He stood and flashed Ward a grin in the mirror, lowering his voice to a hiss.

  “Mister Ward.”

  Ward cracked the door and glanced into the suite, easing it shut as he turned back.

  “I’m the least of your worries, Hackett.”

  Turning from the mirror, Hackett laughed as he tucked in his shirt.

  “You know what? I don’t give a shit, because you’re finished. It’s time everyone saw what a sad, fucked up old man you are. Whatever else happens…will be worth it.”

  Ward stepped back into the room with a condescending smirk.

  “You’re so fucking stupid.”

  Hackett shook his head.

  “Not anymore.”

  With a dismissive grunt, Ward turned and walked back out into the suite, calling over his shoulder as the door closed behind him.

  “You have no idea what’s coming.”

  Hackett collected himself in the mirror and left the bathroom.

  “Neither do you.”

  Ignoring the stares and mumblings of his coworkers, Hackett returned to his cube, glaring at Ward’s shuttered office window as he sat at his desk and ran the ‘Plan B’ program buried in his hard drive. With a flicker of completed tasks and a rapidly filling progress bar, Bighorn-Cheyenne and Hackett’s years of thankless work vaporized. Double checking the empty desks behind him, he turned off the computer and tipped the CPU onto its side and poured cold coffee into the drive bay.

  Suck on it, Bighorn.

  He dumped the dregs onto the keyboard and leaned back in his chair, peering around the divider into the adjacent cube.

  “Eddie or Jane around?”

  Startled, Hackett’s neighbor turned from his monitor with a blank stare. Hackett shrugged with impatience, jolting him into coherence.

  “Uh, no. They’ve got a lunch meeting with accounting.”

  Hackett’s desk phone rang, and he sat forward with a sigh. ‘Security, ext. 109’ was on the incoming call display and Hackett hesitated before answering, glaring at Ward’s closed office door.

  “This is Hackett.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hackett, Robert Jenkins in security. We received a call that your vehicle has been broken into. Were you aware of this?”

  Hackett turned his attention from Ward’s door to his dying computer, watching as streams of thick coffee ran from its cooling vents and over the back of his desk onto the floor.

  “No.”

  “Okay, could you meet me downstairs, Mr. Hackett? I need to confirm this and have you fill out a report.” Hackett was silent, his venom once again aimed across the corridor. “Sir?”

  “Uh, yeah. Who called it in?”

  “It was an anonymous call. Sir, can we discuss this downstairs? I’m really very busy, and I’d like to clear this up.”

  “Yeah, okay. Be right down.”

  Hackett stood and slung his bag over his shoulder, taking a permanent marker from his desk. He crossed to Ward’s office and in enormous letters wrote ‘Ask me about Butch’ under the nameplate on the door, relishing the attention of his coworkers as he leisurely wound his way through the pit to the elevators. He pressed the call button and turned around to face the sea of hovering faces.

  “Go ahead, ask him,” he said, motioning across the suite to Ward’s office.

  The crowd blinked and shifted on their feet as they looked at each other and then at Hackett in dumb, awkward silence. Faces dropped out of sight and were replaced by others popping up to investigate. Hackett shook his head as he scanned the suite.

  “All right then. Good to know you’ve got my back.”

  Bunch of goddamned sheep.

  Hackett jumped at the sound of a voice behind him.

  “You going down or what?”

  He turned, finding the open elevator packed with the lunch rush.

  “Yeah,” he said, stepping inside. “Sorry.”

  The floors went by in a crawl and Hackett began to sweat as he stared up at the passing floors, squirming as the crowd shifted, their hot bodies closing him in.

  You have no idea what’s coming, Hackett.

  He lunged at the panel, pressing the second floor button just in time, drawing groans from the hungry mob.

  “Sorry, I…sorry.”

  He stepped out, scanning the collection of offices and cubes—nearly identical to Bighorn’s—as he made his way to the stairs, his imitation of a braying sheep dr
awing confused stares from the suite’s occupants.

  The stairwell emptied into the parking garage, now echoing with the steady click of heels and the jangle of keys. With a suspicious eye scanning the lot, Hackett walked quickly to his car, finding it undamaged. He smiled, suppressing a laugh as he fumbled with his keys, monitoring the passing crowds.

  “Mr. Hackett?”

  “Jesus—”

  Hackett spun around, bracing himself against the car as his keys clattered onto the concrete. A building security officer, his hands extended in a calming gesture, stood behind the adjacent car.

  “Sorry, sir. Bob Jenkins. We spoke on the phone. This is your car, then?”

  Hackett picked up his keys and resumed sorting them with a nod.

  “Yeah. This is it.”

  “Okay, would you mind coming with me for a moment?”

  Hackett glanced at the officer and then at his car, his hand trembling as he unlocked the door.

  “Uh, no…it’s fine. The car’s fine, so…there’s no problem.”

  Officer Jenkins motioned for Hackett to follow him.

  “Yes, I see that, sir, but I’ve already filled out a report. I need you to sign off on it to verify that there was no damage. It’ll just take a moment.”

  “I’m just—you know, really in a hurry. Can I—I’ll do it when I get back.”

  Jenkins was becoming visibly annoyed.

  “Please, Mr. Hackett.”

  Reluctantly, he followed Jenkins to the security office, watching the passing faces, his upper lip beading with sweat. Jenkins shut the door behind them and motioned for Hackett to sit as he walked around the desk. He pulled his report from the printer on the back wall and sat. After a cursory reading, he made several notes and signed it. He pushed it across the desk to Hackett, pointing to the line at the bottom.

  “If you agree there’s no damage, sign there.”

  As Hackett signed, Jenkins turned his attention to the computer.

  “You get along with your coworkers, Mr. Hackett?”

  Pushing the form back across the desk, Hackett got to his feet.

  “Yeah, sure. Can I go?”

  Jenkins turned the monitor to let Hackett see the security office’s incoming call log.

  “The call about your car came from a cell phone. Looks like one of those prepaid accounts. The man who called said he couldn’t find you up there.”

  Hackett sat back down.

  “Nobody said anything to you about this, Mr. Hackett?”

  “No. I…”

  Hackett trailed off, his eyes glued to the screen. Jenkins lowered his head, forcing eye contact with Hackett.

  “You know who it might have been?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  With a sigh, Jenkins nodded.

  “Well, I don’t know if this is someone’s idea of a joke or what, but we have more important things to do down here, Mr. Hackett.”

  Hackett glanced down at the keys in his hand, pursing the sweat from his lip.

  “Of course you do. But…I don’t know what to tell you. You could talk to Mr. Ward. The office manager. He might be able to help.”

  Jenkins turned the monitor back. Hackett jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  “Can I go?”

  Jenkins nodded him out.

  “Have a nice day, sir.”

  chapter seventeen

  PJ

  As he spit another shot of whiskey, PJ casually checked his watch. He added his glass to the growing pyramid in the center of the table, lovingly protected by a barrier of empty bottles. Getting to his feet, he brushed the table, causing their masterpiece to shake—eliciting moans from the soggy crew. He called the group to attention, swaying on his feet as he looked them over, his eyelids drooping in feigned drunkenness.

  “Okay you sons-a-bishes. I gotta go. B-big day tomorrow.”

  Paco pulled PJ back into his chair.

  “Dude, it’s still…” He grabbed PJ’s wrist and twisted it around, squinting at his watch. “Oh, shit. A half hour till last call. C’mon, fucker. Another round!”

  PJ shook his arm loose.

  “G-gimme a break. You guys cleaned me out. Gotta make some bucks.”

  Digger laughed as he placed his glass on the summit of the pyramid.

  “Let’s ease him in, boys. He needs his beauty sleep tonight.”

  PJ stumbled backwards towards the door, pointing to each man individually, one eye shut. He stopped at the door, thumbing through the window.

  “If you need me…I’m past the sec-second rock on the left.”

  As the crew laughed him out the door, their hysterics upended the shot glass pyramid, drawing a roar of disappointment around the table. PJ sighed as he walked down the steps, the door slamming shut behind him.

  “Good luck, boys.”

  The lot had cleared to half-capacity and PJ hurried to his car, glancing over his shoulder as he ducked behind the giant pickup. At the back of his car, he watched the Roughneck’s door through the truck’s windows as he popped the trunk and took the headlamp from his pack. He carefully latched the trunk, its click inaudible over muffled cheering from the bar.

  As he slipped into the driver’s seat, the Roughneck’s front door burst open and two men stumbled down the steps, blathering incoherently as they crossed the parking lot. PJ pulled the door closed, snuffing the dome light as they rounded the back of the pickup and crossed the road. Slouched in his seat, PJ watched in his rear view mirror as Paco and Gummy—illuminated by the street light—crashed into the weeds and up the wash, laughing as they stumbled into each other. PJ turned off the dome light and cracked the door, catching the men’s drunken calls as they faded up the wash.

  “Chase! Chase! Where are you, man?”

  PJ shook his head, checking the perimeter as he put the key in the ignition. The voices grew louder as they descended back to the highway. Gummy emerged from the wash and stopped on the far side of the road, directly behind PJ’s car. With a noticeable sway in his stance, he grabbed Paco’s arm as he sidled up, directing his attention across the road.

  “You see that, Paco?”

  PJ’s fingers tensed on the key, nearly turning over the engine.

  “What?”

  “Over there. Is that Digger’s truck?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Nice, huh?”

  “Jesus Christ. How much they p-payin’ him?”

  With a grunt, Paco stepped onto the road.

  “For twenty years bustin’ his ass on the rigs? Dealin’ with all the comp-company bullshit? Not enough.”

  Gummy followed Paco across the road, his gaze fixed on the truck.

  “Yeah, but…man. Might be worth it.”

  They stumbled across the lot and then up the stairs back into the bar, the din of raucous oilers snuffed as the door slammed behind them. PJ started the car and made a hasty exit, his tires spitting gravel and leaving a trail of dust as the lights of the Roughneck faded in his mirrors. He muttered in an angry, conversational tone as he dialed Anna’s number, searching the far side of the road.

  “Ward said he’d take care of it. That’s so nice. Someone should take care of him. Who, me? Sure. I’ll take real good fucking care of him.”

  “Hello? PJ?” Anna said as PJ’s car rumbled over the cattle guard.

  He killed the headlights and pulled up to the gate, now chained shut.

  “Yeah. Just a second.”

  The hum of tireless machinery greeted PJ as he turned off the engine and got out of the car. He put on his headlamp, looking back towards the distant flicker of the Roughneck as he turned it on. He hurdled the gate and light danced in the brush along the gravel road as he lit on the other side. Eclipsing the site’s security lighting in a brilliant halo, the hill loomed in front of him, its silhouette harsh against the moonless night.

  “Anna?”

  “Still here.”

  “Digger’s boss is a guy named Ward in Chicago. You know him?”

  “No. I’ll c
heck him out.”

  PJ swung his light into the brush and behind boulders as he climbed the hill, his breath quickening.

  “Digger caught my dad nosing around and reported him.”

  “Reported him to this Ward guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  After a pause, Anna sighed.

  “Yeah, that makes sense. So Digger just—I mean, how did you—?” A jackrabbit darted across the road and PJ lurched to a stop, raising his free hand in a fist. Silence crossed the lines as Anna struggled to finish her thought. PJ looked back towards the road, the gate’s galvanized finish reflecting his light. Anna chuckled. “Never mind. You can tell me later.”

  PJ lowered his arm and continued up the hill, faster now.

  “I’m going to Chicago,” he said. “I don’t think we have a lot of time. In fact…I don’t know if we have any.”

  “PJ, don’t say that. Are you sure Ward’s the one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The ground had begun to dissolve into view as the glow from the site bled over the hilltop. PJ turned off his lamp.

  “Fifty-fifty I guess. What else have we got?”

  A pause.

  “Squat.”

  “Right. Can you get me a plane ticket?”

  “Of course.”

  PJ lowered into a crouch as he crested the hill’s shoulder—the site of his earlier encounter with Wyoming’s finest. Bighorn’s operation was in full view below, awash in sterile, revealing light and he ducked behind a boulder, watching.

  “PJ?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s always time.”

  PJ squinted at the distant derrick, pursing his lips.

  Not always.

  “Yeah. Okay,” he said. “I’ll call you from the airport.”

  “Okay.”

  PJ put the phone in his pocket. He searched the rocks, slipping his hands into likely gaps, probing his memory for familiar features in the slope. As his search dragged on, it grew progressively frantic. His hands and arms scraped blindly over the jagged rocks, drawing blood and weary expletives. Having worked his way back to the gravel shoulder, he dropped to his knees, dripping with sweat. He glanced over his shoulder at the site below and the darkened highway, dragging his sleeve across his face. He thought of the gift-wrapped box on the table in Bill and Beth’s diner.