The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

  “Holy shit. Tough little nut, aren’t you?”

  He kicked the bumper, rolling it over against PJ’s feet and twisting them aside. PJ swallowed, holding his breath as the chain was lifted from PJ’s legs, its links rattling under a thorough inspection of PJ’s knot.

  “How the hell…?”

  The chain dropped into PJ’s lap as Phil shuffled into a crouch.

  “You little shit.”

  Tightening his grip on the knife, PJ opened his eyes into narrow slits and stared at Phil’s boots, waiting.

  Blessed are the meek…

  Phil’s open hand rose to PJ’s face, lingering over his nose and mouth, searching for signs of life. PJ swallowed, following the sound of Phil’s breathing as it shifted down to his lap. The reek of stale cigarettes. Cold fingers probed his neck, and Phil began to chuckle. PJ pursed his lips.

  For they shall inherit the earth.

  With a swift, unanswered blow, PJ sunk the knife into Phil’s neck. Seized in terror, they stared at one other, their tired, shadowed faces mirror reflections of themselves. Gulping for air, Phil collapsed onto PJ’s lap, his eyes wide in grim acceptance as he rolled slowly to his side, his hand shaking and reaching for the knife. PJ twisted the blade, its serrated back edge catching ligaments and bone as he dug deeper into Phil’s throat. Warm blood sprayed PJ’s face and neck and ran down his arm.

  “My name’s not Paul,” PJ said, his voice thin and gravelly.

  PJ left the knife in place and slipped the gun from Phil’s belt and set it on the ground. Phil tensed with a final, labored breath and then was still. Reclaiming his phone from the dead man’s pocket, PJ tipped his head back, watching a shooting star disappear over the hill.

  “It’s PJ.”

  chapter twenty

  Hackett

  Throwing open the cabin door, Hackett turned on the light, gagging on the sour smell of death as he stepped inside. With a hand over his nose and mouth, he opened the front window, gasping as he pressed his face to the screen.

  “Holy shit.”

  Holding a deep breath of night air, he secured the cabin, pulling the sheets from the furniture and opening the rest of the windows in the cabin’s main room on his way to the back hall. With his face flushing crimson and his lungs burning, Hackett exhaled and lifted his collar over his nose as he reached around the door and into the bathroom. He turned on the light and poked his head inside.

  The raccoon was gone, the smears of blood along the floor and walls black and congealed. A set of dried prints tracked across the floor and faded into the carpet under Hackett’s feet. He followed the faint, winding trail to the bedroom, finding the window frame scratched and bloody. Underneath, dark streaks flowed down the wall, ending in a large stain on the carpet. More footprints led from the window, meandering around the bed and into the closet where the raccoon lay dead in the corner, curled into a peaceful ball.

  Hackett forced open the window, popping the wedge loose from the jamb outside. He closed the bedroom door and went to his car for his flashlight, scattering the contents of the center console onto the seats. Light danced along the grassy drive, breaking and scattering in the underbrush and muting the song of late-summer crickets as he walked to the shed. Hackett opened the door and aimed his light inside.

  Everything was as he left it. The back wall—open to the woods in a yawning black void—swallowed the shaky, probing beam from Hackett’s light. On the floor beside the center post was the man’s cap, its camouflage pattern barely visible under layers of dust and blood. As Hackett crept forward, his gaze trained on the base of the post, his light struck the pool of dried blood on the floor, scattering a group of crickets into the shadows. Their fat, translucent bodies scraped against the shed’s spilled contents as they scrambled for cover. Hackett turned away, grabbing the shovel by the door as he stumbled back outside.

  Holding his breath, he lifted his shirt over his face as he went back into the cabin. He pried the raccoon from its sticky grip on the carpet with the shovel and dumped it out the window, wincing as it hit the ground outside with a thump.

  In the gear scattered outside the hall closet, Hackett found a hunting knife, which he used to cut and peel away the bloody sections of bedroom carpet and bathroom linoleum. He threw everything out the bedroom window and shut the door. On his way outside, Hackett speared the knife into the door jamb and collapsed on the top porch step, holding up his hands to examine them in the light filtering through the screen behind him. He let them drop to his lap.

  “Fan-fucking-tastic.”

  Light from the cabin windows reflected off the markers of his car and the feeble orange glow drew Hackett’s gaze as he rubbed sweat from his hands onto his pants. He held them up in the light again.

  A rustle in the brush behind the shed made Hackett turn with a start, his senses funneled and searching, the moonless night revealing nothing. Training his flashlight after the sound, he found a pair of eyes inches from the ground—blinking and unmoved by Hackett’s presence. They turned away and went dark, resuming their search with a slow crunch of dry leaves. Hackett rose and went inside, the screen door slamming behind him.

  He collapsed on the couch, watching the door, his shirt lifted over his nose. Restless, he tossed and rolled, yawning but unable to sleep. The front door thwarted his attempts to look away, drawing his tired gaze back to the knife speared in the doorway and the profound darkness beyond. A lone cricket sang beneath the side window. With a grunt, Hackett went outside, grabbing the shovel as he stepped off the porch.

  He struck off into the woods behind the cabin, cursing and grunting as the undergrowth snapped and scratched his face and neck. In a small clearing just beyond the reach of the cabin lights, he jammed the shovel into the dirt. Clenching the flashlight in his teeth, he began to dig. The call of the resident whippoorwill echoed through the trees and Hackett adjusted his pace, keeping time with its steady rhythm. The corners of his mouth rose and saliva ran down the flashlight as he worked with growing intensity until—his hole finished—Hackett dropped the shovel and took the flashlight from his mouth, throwing his head back to release a hoarse, uncontained scream into the canopy. Panting, he caught his breath, glancing at the cabin and the road beyond. The whippoorwill was silent. Mopping sweat and dirt from his brow, he picked up the shovel and went to the back of the cabin.

  Shoveling the blood-stained flooring aside, he uncovered the raccoon, now on its side, its legs pulled stiffly against its belly. A pair of crickets retreated under a scrap of linoleum as he passed his light over the body, studying it with a slow, scientific air. He lowered into a crouch, breathing deeply through his nose, drawing in the mingled odors of decay and exposed soil. His light swept across the animal’s face, lingering on the mouth and eyes—all closed in peaceful resignation. Hackett’s timid, repulsed expression lifted and he got down on his knees, leaning in close. He shook his head with a sigh.

  On his feet and with the flashlight gripped against the shovel handle, Hackett tipped the raccoon onto its stomach and carefully slid the blade underneath. He carried it to the clearing and set it in the hole, pausing to examine it once more before pulling the dirt down on top. The woods echoed with whippoorwill song as Hackett filled the hole, gently tamping each layer, entombing the raccoon under a smooth mound of soil.

  He snapped a dead branch from a nearby tree and sat on the ground, blindly breaking off short lengths of wood as he stared at the makeshift grave. His gaze lifted through the trees to the side wall of the cabin, where swarms of bugs circled outside the bathroom window in steely determination, their wings buzzing and slapping against the screen. At the rear of the cabin, light from the bedroom drew them inside, unchecked. Hackett looked down at the sticks in his hands.

  Into the split end of one of the longer sections, he wedged a shorter piece, making a small cross. After a brief inspection, Hackett stabbed it into the center of the grave and got to his feet. He lit a cigarette, staring thoughtfully at the fresh, dark
earth, blowing smoke rings at the cross. The hiss of a car turning off the road and onto the cabin’s gravel drive drew him away and Hackett turned off the flashlight, snatching the shovel from the ground as he left the clearing.

  Shadows climbed and rolled in the trees as the car approached and Hackett walked in a crouch, hugging the cabin wall as he neared the front porch. Crushing his cigarette on the ground, he leaned against the wall, watching through the windshield of his own car as the visitor pulled up directly behind and stopped.

  The car sat idling, its headlights eclipsed by Hackett’s car. In a crouch, Hackett inched forward, squinting against the light as he craned his neck, trying to make out the driver’s face. He swallowed and rose to his feet.

  “Eddie! Is that you?”

  Gravel clattered against the car’s undercarriage as it swung around the back of Hackett’s car and accelerated towards him, its driver turning on the high beams. Hackett dove and rolled away, crashing against the cabin wall as the car ground to a halt, its driver side window just past Hackett’s front bumper. The window began to lower, and Hackett jumped to his feet and rushed the driver, the shovel cocked over his shoulder, his eyes locked on the shadowy figure behind the wheel.

  “Stop! Hack, its—”

  Hackett swung the shovel, smashing the half-open window and forcing Eddie to his side on the passenger seat, his arms thrown over his head. Glass fragments fell from his hair and clothes as he sat up, glaring.

  “God damn it, Hack! What the fuck?”

  Hackett dropped the shovel and slumped against the hood of his car, shaking. Eddie killed the engine as Hackett caught his breath, the two of them exchanging angry stares in the soft glow of cabin light.

  “You asshole!” Hackett said. “What the fuck was that?”

  Eddie lowered the window’s jagged bottom half down inside the door and threw off his seat belt and got out of the car.

  “It was a fucking joke.”

  Hackett followed Eddie as he walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk.

  “What did I tell you on the phone? How the fuck do you expect me to—god, you’re an asshole!”

  Eddie took a cooler from the trunk and set it on the ground, rattling the bottles inside.

  “Who did you tell about this place, Hack?”

  Hackett shook his head.

  “No one.”

  “Is the GPS disabled on your phone?”

  “Yeah. But they could still triangulate the—”

  “You think he’s smart enough to do that?”

  A pause.

  “No. I’m just…I’m freakin’ out, all right?”

  “Yeah. I see that,” Eddie said, shaking his head as he slammed the trunk. He motioned around them to the darkness consuming the small, dimly lit cabin. “But we’re fine here.”

  He picked up the cooler.

  “You need to get drunk.”

  Eddie walked around the back of Hackett’s car and up the porch steps. Pausing outside the door, he stared through the screen at the knife jammed in the frame.

  “Jesus.” He looked back at Hackett—still standing at the back of the car. “What were you—?”

  He turned away, jostling the bottles in the cooler as he pulled the door open with his fingers and went inside.

  “Never mind. I need to get drunk.”

  Hackett followed, yanking the knife from the jamb and setting it on the coffee table next to the cooler as Eddie handed him an open beer. Hackett slumped in the chair.

  “Sorry. It’s—” Shaking his head, he glanced up at his friend and then down at the beer in his lap. “Sorry.”

  Still on his feet, Eddie opened a second bottle and tossed the cap on the table as he looked around the cabin.

  “Just drink,” he said, his face pinched. “What the hell died in here?”

  Hackett pulled from his beer, considering his reply. He lowered the bottle between his thighs as he pursed a ring of foam from his lips.

  “A raccoon. Cut himself climbing in the back window. Bloodied up the place pretty good.”

  Eddie set his bottle on the table and started for the bedroom.

  “Oh for chrissake…”

  “It’s fine. I took care of it,” Hackett said, waving him back. “The place just needs to air out.”

  Returning to the couch, Eddie grabbed his beer and sat, giving Hackett an uneasy stare.

  “A raccoon.” He drained half his beer and wiped his mouth with his sleeve and belched. “Don’t bullshit me, Hack.”

  Hackett looked up.

  “No. I told you. He was in the shed.” He tipped his chin to the door. “See for yourself.”

  Finishing his beer, Eddie set his empty on the table and took another from the cooler. He got to his feet, shaking his head.

  “I’d rather not.”

  He walked around the couch and down the hallway to the closet, motioning for Hackett to drink. Kicking the scattered gear aside, he produced a pistol and full magazine from a box on the top shelf. With his beer clenched in his teeth, he inserted the clip and jerked a round into the chamber and came back to the couch, pointing outside.

  “You take care of that too?”

  Hackett took a drink, staring uneasily at the gun in Eddie’s hand.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Better do it tonight. I gotta go in at nine tomorrow. They might want to take a look around out here.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just need to—”

  Hackett’s throat caught and he turned away as Eddie sat on the couch, displaying the gun before tucking it between the couch cushions.

  “This make you feel better?”

  Hackett stared at the gap in the cushions between Eddie’s thighs, picking at the label on his beer with his thumbnail.

  “Where’d the cops find his body?” he asked.

  Eddie turned to the door, shaking his head.

  “Didn’t say exactly. Just said he was in a ditch off the side of Cotter Road. Some redneck probably pulled over to take a piss and found him. Couldn’t be that far from here, right? I mean, how far could he have gone?”

  Hackett’s expression fell, and he took a long drink.

  “I didn’t think he could go anywhere. He was pretty fucked up. He—”

  His voice cracking, Hackett set his beer on the table and covered his face with his hands. A low moan escaped through his fingers.

  “All right, let’s get this over with,” Eddie said, heaving a sigh. “What happened?”

  The supply of beer dwindled as Hackett recounted the details of his break-in and the subsequent chain of events, replaced by a growing collection of empty bottles on the table between them. The discussion grew progressively animated, with Hackett’s and Eddie’s anger focused on Ward’s greed specifically and the atmosphere of corruption at Bighorn Oil generally. With their verbal ammunition largely spent, they sat in thoughtful silence, staring at each other across the table, nursing their beers. The rumble of a passing jet rose and faded, leaving the constant peal of cricket song to fill the void once again.

  “I’m so screwed,” Hackett said.

  Eddie finished his beer and sat forward, adding his bottle to the collection. He picked up the knife, stabbing it into the table top. It swayed precariously on its tip as he released the handle and took two more beers from the cooler, handing one to Hackett.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Hackett shook his head and looked away, his attention drawn by the soft patter of a moth trying to enter the cabin through the screen door. He watched as it smacked the screen, dipped briefly out of sight and then returned for another attempt, counting the collisions as he opened his beer and drank.

  “I don’t know.”

  Eddie straightened in his seat.

  “All right, I think…here’s what we’re gonna do, Hack. First, we get totally shitfaced. Which—I don’t know about you—but I’m gettin’ there. Then we go clean up the shed. In the morning, you get lost while I go talk to the cops. If they
still think it was a hit and run, you’re clear. You tell Ward the guy’s dead and the cops think it was an accident. He calls off his goons, and tomorrow night we get totally shitfaced all over again.”

  Hackett turned to his friend, his eyes red and swollen.

  “But it’s not—”

  “Wait, hold on. I haven’t gotten to the best part. We go back home and you charm the panties right off Jane Wilson’s sweet little ass.”

  Hackett stared at Eddie, shaking his head in disbelief. With a shrug, Eddie continued.

  “Or, you know…you could leave ‘em on, too. Just pull ‘em aside and—”

  “Oh my god, shut up! What the hell are you doing to me? First of all, it wasn’t a hit and run. They’re not stupid. But if they are—then god help us all—I cracked a man’s skull and left him to die. I’ll never be clear. Second of all, Ward’s not calling anything off. So like I said, I’m screwed.”

  Hackett guzzled the rest of his beer and threw his bottle on the table, causing Eddie to recoil at the deafening clatter.

  “So here are my choices,” Hackett said, ticking them off with his fingers. “I can do nothing and get taken care of by my asshole boss’s consultant or hit man or whoever the fuck is after me—I can run away with my guilty conscience and let it feast on me while I wait for someone to take care of me—or I can confess everything and testify against Ward and Bighorn and why not the entire fucking petroleum industry while I’m at it, all before getting my panties pulled aside in prison while I wait for someone to take care of me. Boy, so many options.”

  Eddie sat in silence, sipping his beer as he considered Hackett’s dilemma. With a grunt, he shook his head.

  “Shit. Why does he have such a hard-on for Cheyenne, anyway? So what if Bighorn shuts us down? Who the fuck cares? Just take early retirement and call it good. The guy’s gotta be loaded.”