The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

  “Where the hell is it?”

  A cold voice answered from among the rocks.

  “It’s gone.”

  PJ looked up, frozen, squinting into the dark voids separating the boulders. He swallowed and drew a shaky breath, his bladder threatening to give.

  “Who’s there?”

  A flash of light burst from the rocks, preceding a kick to his face that snapped PJ’s head back, wrenching his neck with an audible crunch. Falling backwards onto the gravel, he rolled over and crawled downhill, gasping for breath. On buckling legs, he rose to his hands and feet, scrambling towards his car, watching in horror as his shadow distorted under the advancing light of his attacker—closing quickly from behind. A stomp to PJ’s back knocked him down onto his stomach and forced a rush of air from his lungs. He rolled to his back, wheezing, his hand raised against the light. His throat caught as he fought for breath, squinting at the hovering silhouette.

  “Wh-who are you?”

  The light was swept away and the man tore the headlamp from PJ’s head and clamped onto his wrist, dragging him at a trot across the gravel and down the wash. Like a played fish, PJ twisted at the end of the man’s arm, the exposed rocks pounding his ribs and tearing at his exposed skin, the light from the man’s flashlight dancing on the walls around them. A reflection off the chrome of the pickup’s bumper sent PJ into a spirited, but futile bout of resistance. Screaming, he jerked his arm and pried at the man’s fingers with his free hand as he worked his legs, trying to get to his feet. Unbreakable, the man’s iron grip held as he dragged PJ to the back of the truck and threw him to the ground in a cloud of dust.

  The man rolled PJ to his stomach and drove his knees into his back, pressing the side of his face into the gravel with one hand, slipping the roll of duct tape from his back pocket with the other. He taped PJ’s mouth and bound his hands behind him with frightening power and efficiency, his breathing deep and rhythmic. Calm. After putting the tape back in PJ’s pocket, the man let him go and PJ rolled to his side, his sinuses burning as he sucked columns of dust through his nose. The man took the phone from PJ’s shirt pocket and went to his truck, propping the flashlight on the open tailgate, training it on PJ’s face. He tossed the phone and headlamp into the truck bed and sat on the tailgate, lowering the beam of light to the ground in front of PJ. In the darkness at the man’s feet, loose chain rattled against the ground as he repositioned the light.

  Waiting in silence for PJ’s hysterics to calm, the man lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the brilliant cone of hanging dust, the resulting toxic mixture swirling in the warm air between them. He leaned forward, his face in shadow.

  “Are you done?”

  PJ struggled against the tape and tried to speak, breaking into a violent coughing fit that made vomit flow into his mouth and spray from his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed, gagging as tears ran down his face. He lay still and calmed his breathing—now a wet, shuddering whistle. PJ opened his eyes.

  “Okay. Here’s the thing,” the man said. PJ watched the blurry silhouette through the swirling wedge of light. He knew the voice. It was Phil the bartender. “I don’t care what your problem is with these roughnecks. I don’t. For all I know, they’ve got it comin’.”

  He paused to drag from his cigarette.

  “But having said that, the reason I’ve been dragged to this Godforsaken place…is you. And I’m none too happy about that. Understand?”

  PJ replied with a cold stare as he worked his hands behind him, testing the tape. Phil sighed. He slid to his feet and picked up a rock and with a grunt, sent it rolling and flashing into the light. PJ tucked his chin as it struck the top of his head with an ear-splitting thunk, his eyes swimming with sparks as the pain washed over him. He moaned and drew a labored, whistling breath, his nose plugged with dust. Slowly, he looked up, cringing, expecting another blow. The light spun in a hypnotic blur, urging him to let go and fade into sleep but PJ resisted, calming his breathing with angry resolve.

  “Let’s try again,” Phil said. “Do you understand?”

  PJ nodded and Phil pulled from his cigarette, blowing a cloud of smoke into the light.

  “And I’m not one of these nasty, soaked-in-oil retards,” he said, pointing down the wash behind him with his thumb. “So you can cut the tough guy act. But I have to say, that was a great performance tonight. Truly. They didn’t stand a chance.”

  After a final drag, Phil crushed the cigarette on the tailgate and swept it to the ground. PJ looked on through the stinging blur of sweat and dirt as he rolled himself up onto his knees, working his jaw against the tape over his mouth. Phil motioned for calm.

  “You’ll get a chance to speak. Just let me finish.” PJ sat back on his heels and closed his eyes, sweat running down his face and neck. “So it goes without saying that you’re a smart guy, Paul. I knew it the moment you sat at the bar. Smart enough, in fact, to know that deputy bumblefuck—pardon my language—didn’t just show up out of the blue.”

  PJ opened his eyes and studied Phil’s shadowed face. With slow, whistling breaths, he sucked in the drops of sweat clinging to his nose.

  “Because you saw me on the rig,” Phil said. He took the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket with a questioning flick of his head. “Didn’t you?”

  PJ replied with a nod as Phil lit up.

  “Right,” he said, tipping his head back and blowing smoke into the darkness above him. “You did. So when you left, I thought, ‘Okay, he’s a bright guy—maybe a little nosy—but he probably got the hint.’ But…you didn’t, did you?”

  PJ stared—unresponsive—at the orange glow of Phil’s cigarette. With a sigh, Phil picked up another stone and rolled it in his hand, waiting. PJ blew through his nose, shaking his head.

  “No you didn’t,” Phil said, setting the stone on the tailgate. “So that makes you smart and dangerous. And, in my experience, there’s really only one way to deal with someone like that.”

  Phil stepped forward into the light, the cigarette clenched in his teeth as he approached.

  “Unless you can convince me otherwise.”

  Grasping PJ’s hair with one hand, he tore the tape from his mouth with the other. PJ screamed, his throat burning as he looked up in a rage, pulling back against Phil’s grip, sucking fresh air into his lungs and working his hands against the tape. Phil released him and PJ slumped forward, spitting dirt and vomit on the ground between his knees. He looked up, his lids reduced to narrow slits as Phil reclaimed his seat on the tailgate, pulling from his cigarette, his wide grin now lit in ghoulish contrast by the light beside him. PJ curled his fingers up to his wrists, digging under the edges of the tape as he twisted his hands, testing its hold. Phil reached back and drew a gun from his belt, aiming it at PJ’s head.

  “Keep those hands still.”

  PJ froze. The whistle through his nose rose above the distant clamor of grinding pumpjacks. He pursed his lips.

  “Did you kill my father, you piece of shit?”

  Phil took a final drag and flicked the spent cigarette to the ground. He picked up the flashlight, playing its beam over PJ’s face.

  “That was your father,” he said, setting it back down. “Of course. Also a smart guy. Unfortunately, also very dangerous. This family business of yours…a pretty risky endeavor.”

  PJ’s arms jerked in a wild frenzy as he pulled against the tape, wrenching it even tighter around his wrists. He sputtered, cursing and pleading as Phil slid to his feet and approached, the gun hanging at his side, its barrel glinting in the light. With a hoarse moan, PJ cringed, turning aside as Phil aimed the gun at his head.

  “Move those hands again. I dare you.”

  PJ lowered his head to his chest, trembling. He broke down as Phil lowered the gun and returned to the truck.

  “Paul, I don’t know what to say. This is…this is awful. First your father, and now you? Think of your poor mother. Is she still alive?”

  PJ threw his head back, scr
eaming.

  “Fuck you!”

  “Okay, okay. Understood. Get to the point. Well, by now you must know what I’m after. Tell me who else knows about this—what is it? Tim-Oil? Do that for me and it’ll be relatively painless. For everyone.”

  PJ’s sobbing grew more intense, and he swayed on his knees, babbling in a hoarse whisper.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, no…”

  “Paul,” Phil said, flooding PJ’s face with light. “I know you want this to be over. Just tell me.”

  PJ shook his head, and with a guttural moan, turned to gaze into the light, his head spinning.

  “You’re lying.”

  The light fell from PJ’s face and Phil sighed.

  “Butch, right? Little place on Long Lake? It’s actually quite nice. Better than this dung heap anyway.”

  PJ lowered his head, whimpering.

  “Let’s go, Paul. I understand you’re upset, but I’m losing my patience. Helen and I have a date come last call.”

  PJ looked up, shaking. His grief gave way to blind, fearless rage and he scraped his hands over the ground behind him, taking a stone in his fist, his jaw clenched. Casually slapping the gun against his leg, Phil approached PJ once again, his body a looming silhouette in a halo of swirling dust. The whistle from PJ’s nose grew louder as Phil lowered into a crouch.

  “Last chance. Then it gets hard.”

  Grimacing, PJ twisted his right hand, working it into the sticky loop of tape holding it fast. Phil shook his head.

  “Pity.”

  He grabbed PJ by the hair and leaned in—his breath fouled by old cigarettes—raising the gun at his side. With a resounding snap, PJ’s hands separated, breaching the tape. Screaming, he swung the rock around, reaching for Phil’s throat with his free hand, his eyes wide with rage. Phil reared back as PJ’s hand closed around his throat and the rock grazed his cheek, the momentum of PJ’s swing throwing him to the ground, sputtering and cursing. As he rolled to his side, the butt of the gun struck PJ’s forehead with a decisive blow, and the world spun in a muted hum. The pressure in his head was immense. He gasped for breath as Phil rose to his feet and wrenched his arms back behind him, again wrapping his wrists with the duct tape from PJ’s pocket. This time, Phil kept the roll.

  With blurred and fading vision, PJ watched as Phil went to the back of his truck, one hand covering the wound on his cheek, the other paying out the chain from the truck bed onto the ground. It slithered over the tailgate with a harsh rattle and PJ’s head spun, the pain in his skull becoming unbearable. He fought the urge to relent in waves of blackness and momentary lucidity, focused on the growing heap of rusted chain on the ground at Phil’s feet. Falling in slow, almost peaceful waves, the links jingled and poured down the sides of the pile, as if each link were disconnected from the whole.

  Phil slammed his hand on the tailgate, catching the tail end of the chain and cutting off the stream. With a weak, guttural moan, PJ’s eyes rolled into his head and he saw no more.

  chapter eighteen

  Hackett

  Hackett chain smoked as he threaded the downtown traffic for over an hour, studying passing cars and their drivers with an air of obsession. As the city gradually drained into the suburbs and then open country, his rigid posture relaxed along with his grip on the wheel. He drove west into the sun, squinting at the names of towns on passing exit signs with vague interest. With an unlit cigarette clinging to his bottom lip, he pushed in the lighter and turned on his phone and dialed. Eddie answered in a burst of nervous energy.

  “Hack, that you?”

  “Yeah. What—?”

  “Holy shit, Hack. Where the hell are you?”

  “In my car. What’s going on?”

  “You tell me. I get back to the office and all your shit’s gone. Your computer, the stuff in your desk, everything. I’ve been trying to call you. I thought you got whacked or something.”

  Hackett eased up on the accelerator, allowing a suspicious car to pass as he jammed his thighs under the wheel to steer. He lit his cigarette.

  “Not yet.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “I’m done with Bighorn.”

  “Christ, Hack. Yeah, I know. Who’s Butch?”

  “Did you call security about my car?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Look, I can’t stay on the phone. Can you meet me somewhere?”

  The phone crackled with static as Eddie heaved a sigh.

  “Yeah, sure. How about Harry’s? I’ll bring Ward and you two can hug this shit out.”

  “I’m serious. Can’t you knock off early for the weekend? Somewhere out of the city. I can’t go home.”

  With muttered cursing, Eddie thought it over as Hackett checked his mirrors.

  “All right,” Eddie said, his voice suddenly calm. “Meet me at my old man’s cabin. We went up there last summer, remember? Up in Wisconsin—Eagle River. You remember how to get there?”

  Hackett tensed.

  “No, I…that’s—”

  “Yeah, it’s perfect. I have to go up there and talk to the cops about something anyway. I’ll just—”

  “Eddie, I can’t!” Hackett flicked his cigarette butt out the window and pushed in the lighter. “You can’t either.”

  Drawn into a trancelike stare by the rhythmic thump of expansion cracks under his wheels, Hackett jumped at the pop of the lighter. His hands shaking, he lit another cigarette.

  “You were up at the cabin,” Eddie said. “It was you.”

  chapter nineteen

  PJ

  A fish swirled under the pier, splashing PJ through the deck boards and waking him with a start. The aroma of fish on Butch’s hands dissolved in the hot, stifling air.

  ***

  “You still with me?”

  PJ sputtered, spraying water as he struggled against the tape binding his hands. Lowering an empty water jug to his side, Phil stood over him, a crimson silhouette against the idling truck’s tail lights. The cigarette clinging to his bottom lip bounced as he spoke, sending waves of red smoke into the darkness above his head.

  “Wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”

  His ankles were bound, and PJ’s struggling rattled loose chain on the gravel at his feet. He rose to his elbows, coughing on exhaust fumes as he jerked his feet towards him, springing the chain binding them to the bumper into the air with a bang. Phil chuckled.

  “Not looking so good, is it?” he said, replacing the cover on the jug. PJ pulled against the chain with his legs, rising into a sit.

  “You sick son of a bitch!” PJ turned his head to yell behind him down the wash. “Help! Help!”

  The jug clattered on the ground as Phil took the duct tape from his back pocket and rushed to PJ’s side, taping his mouth, running the strip twice around his head.

  “We’ll talk later,” he said, pocketing the tape. “We’re going for a little ride first.”

  Phil picked up the jug and tossed it into the truck bed and got in the cab. PJ twisted and kicked his feet, trying to work the chain loose from the bumper. His hands, numb from their restraints, scraped over the gravel as PJ tried in vain to separate them, his nose hissing and whistling in desperation. Phil slammed the door and leaned out the window with a boorish laugh.

  “Here we go! Hold on tight!”

  Whimpering under the tape, PJ rolled towards the truck, reaching for the bumper with his feet at the top of each rotation. The tail lights flashed as Phil shifted into drive. The engine roared and the truck climbed up the wash, spitting dust and gravel into PJ’s face, the slack in the chain slithering behind. PJ screamed mutely into the tape, tensing his legs as the chain dug in, snapping him in line. He tipped his head back, his eyes wide in stunned impotence, holding his breath.

  Pinned beneath him, his arms burned in agony as his shirt sleeves were quickly torn and peeled away. The tape caught on the larger rocks and debris, driving his arms back, jamming his shoulders as he bounced helplessly up th
e wash. Blowing through his nose, he began to breathe in a heavy, unyielding hiss.

  In a blaze of red, the truck slowed over the top of the wash and turned down the other side, rolling PJ to his side in a cloud of exhaust and swirling dust. Twisting his hands, PJ worked the loosened tape up his wrists as he raised his upper body, letting himself ride on his left leg and hip. Phil’s primal scream filtered through the grind of denim over gravel.

  His feet glanced off an embedded rock, knocking PJ off his line and throwing his arms around it as he passed. The rock struck him in the armpit, wrenching his hands free of the tape and pushing his left arm over his head. His shoulder dislocated and PJ screamed, his jaw crunching as he opened his mouth around the tape, tearing patches of skin from his lips. Howling, he rolled to his back, bouncing and writhing in pain, pulling his limp arm onto his chest. He stared dizzily at the starlit sky, his bladder and bowels releasing as he slipped towards unconsciousness, his shirt tearing and rolling up his back. The muted crunch of gravel against his back brought a wave of dry heaves that left him moaning in resignation, unable to lift his head.

  The truck turned sharply at the bottom of the hill, sending PJ rolling into the gate, causing it to shudder and groan under his weight. The tail lights flashed off as Phil killed the engine. PJ lay on his side, his back tingling against the cool metal of the gate’s bottom rail, wheezing and squirming in pain. Behind him, the hiss of a car on the highway rose above the subtle din of pumpjacks and PJ rolled his head, voicing a frail call for help over his shoulder as Phil—ducking to watch the car through the gate bars—approached. PJ’s left arm fell limp on the ground as he grabbed the gate with his right, trying to lift himself up. Phil stood over him, snickering as he turned on PJ’s headlamp, now strapped to his own head.

  “Enjoy the ride?”

  PJ stared into the light, hissing with rage as it passed over him. Whistling at the gravity of PJ’s injuries, Phil crouched beside him, directing the light into PJ’s face.