The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

  “Mr. Marshall?”

  PJ flinched. He turned, finding the man hovering over his car, ducking to peer through the driver’s window, flipping the pages of a notepad. His features were obscured by the latent image of the canoe’s hull, and PJ rubbed his eyes as he opened the door. The car began to roll forward, and PJ quickly sat back down and stepped on the brake. The man took a cautious step backwards as PJ killed the engine. Stepping from of the car, PJ shook his head.

  “Sorry.”

  “Not at all. You’re Mr. Marshall, I take it?”

  PJ extended his hand.

  “Paul.”

  “Steve. Steve Porter. Sorry to meet like this, Paul.”

  “Yeah.”

  The detective displayed his badge and then put it back in his pocket, motioning to the house. They crossed the front yard side by side as Porter consulted his notebook.

  “So, I have…do you go by the nickname ‘PJ’, Mr. Marshall? Do you prefer that?”

  PJ sighed, giving Porter a look of resignation.

  “Yeah. PJ’s fine.”

  “Okay. Well, we’re still gathering information,” Porter said. “So I’m afraid I have more questions than answers right now.”

  Stepping over a pile of deck spindles and onto the porch, PJ studied the assortment of galvanized screws and lag bolts spread out on the floor. A hammer sat propped against the corner post. He swallowed.

  “What kinds of questions?”

  “I’d like you to take a look around. See if anything’s out of place.”

  “Okay.”

  The detective opened the door and led PJ inside.

  “When was the last time you were here, PJ?”

  PJ stopped short just inside the door, his stomach tightening as he visually swept the room. Sunlight reflected off the lake and through the pyramid of windows on the west wall, filling the house with an undulating golden light. Silhouetted against the sparkling water, the walnut tree on the near shore caught his attention, and he stared at the platform straddling its main fork, a remnant of his once elaborate tree house.

  “Mr. Marshall?”

  “It was, uh, the sixteenth. July sixteenth.”

  Heat radiated from the logs around them as PJ studied the house. Photos documenting their adventures lined the walls and the bookshelf dominating the north end of the room. On the opposite wall, a galley kitchen and office area book-ended the central living space. Porter scribbled in his notebook, positioning himself to face PJ directly.

  “You have a good memory.”

  “We were…I dropped him off after our last trip,” he said, glancing at the desk. “Did you check his answering machine?”

  Porter nodded.

  “We have it with his computer,” he said, sweeping his hand over the room. “Everything seem to be in order here?”

  PJ walked the room, passing the dining table and desk behind the front door, checking the kitchen and back entrance before stopping at the bookcase. Pushing several books and photos aside, he turned and continued to analyze the house, motioning to the case behind him.

  “He usually keeps his camera up here.”

  Porter walked to the bookshelf, nodding. His phone began to ring, and he took it from his pocket.

  “Yes, we have that as well.”

  As he answered the call, Porter directed PJ down the back hall. PJ walked slowly to the bedroom, poking his head into the bathroom on his way. Butch’s room, as usual, was a model of order. He returned to the main room of the house. Still on the phone, Porter looked out the bank of windows at the lake, his free hand gesturing with the notepad as he spoke.

  “Yeah, but we’ve seen this before, Mike.”

  PJ cleared his throat, and Porter spun around, raising a finger in a plea for patience.

  “Absolutely. I know you are. Just keep me updated. Thanks.”

  Porter pocketed his phone, his eyebrows raised as he met PJ in the center of the room.

  “So, how’s the rest of the house?”

  PJ offered a quick nod before crossing the room to the desk.

  “It looks all right. What about his computer? You find anything there yet?”

  “Nothing I’d want to speculate on at this point. We’re still looking at it.”

  PJ slumped in the chair and gazed at the picture on the edge of the desk. Taken during their hike of the Zion Narrows the previous summer, he and Butch stood with loaded packs, ankle deep in the Virgin River, the sculpted walls of the slot towering on either side. He opened a file drawer, flipping absently through the assortment of folders.

  “When was the last time you spoke with your father, PJ?”

  PJ closed the drawer and opened another.

  “Thursday,” he said, turning to Porter. “What about this 911 call? You find out who this guy is yet?”

  Porter let out a heavy sigh.

  “No. And it looks like he might have used an untraceable cell phone. We’re looking into some other leads, so we’ll see if we can pin this down. Would you mind telling me what you and your father talked about on Thursday?”

  PJ shut the drawer and leaned back in the chair.

  “Not much. We talked about my canoe trip coming up, plans for another trip to the mountains.”

  Porter nodded, scribbling.

  “Anything else?”

  “I’m supposed to be starting a new job this week, so he was giving me a little pep talk.”

  Porter looked up from the pad.

  “Supposed to be?”

  PJ stared at the detective, incredulous.

  “Yeah. Supposed to be, but…come on.”

  Porter looked away with a sheepish nod.

  “Right. Of course.”

  PJ studied the detective’s face as he slowly rocked the chair, his fingers white around its thin, wooden arms.

  “Whoever he is—this guy—he’s full of shit. There’s no way my dad would get involved in something like that. Someone’s trying to get him in trouble.”

  Porter flipped the pages in his pad.

  “You know someone who might want to do that?”

  Shaking his head, PJ looked away with a sigh.

  “You talk to Jim Flemming yet? He’s a friend of my dad’s.”

  Porter nodded.

  “We got Mr. Flemming’s number off the answering machine, but we haven’t been able to reach him. You think he might know something about this?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Any idea where he might be?”

  PJ’s head tipped back, and he stared at the ceiling with an exhausted grunt.

  “Yeah. But no.”

  “Sorry?”

  “He lives near Concrete, Washington,” PJ said, letting his head fall forward again. “But the last I heard, he’s up in the mountains. I don’t know where exactly.”

  “Okay. Well, we’ll keep trying. This could turn all turn out to be just a misunderstanding, PJ, so we won’t get too ahead of ourselves at this point.”

  PJ nodded.

  “That’s exactly how it’s going to turn out.”

  “Okay. Are you staying nearby?”

  “I’d like to stay here.”

  “That’s fine. And if you don’t mind, PJ, I’d like to talk with you down at the station as well.”

  “Uh…yeah. Okay.”

  Porter smiled.

  “Don’t worry. I just want to make sure we cover all the bases. I know you’ve had a long drive, so it doesn’t have to be now. I’d like you to take another look around the house, anyway. How’s tomorrow morning around ten sound?”

  “Fine.”

  “All right, is there a number where I can reach you?”

  His brow furrowed, PJ pointed at the desk phone.

  “Just call me here.”

  “Is there another number we can use? A cell phone, maybe?”

  “No.”

  Porter nodded, pulling a business card from his shirt pocket. He handed it to PJ.

  “In case you think of something.”


  “Okay. Thanks.”

  They shook hands, and Porter went to his car. PJ stood in the open doorway, watching the detective back onto the easement and depart, raising a wall of dust. Leaning against the door frame, he stared at the oak on the hilltop, his arms crossed over his stomach to push back his rising nausea. He turned and went inside, slamming the door.

  “Fuck!”

  He took the photograph of him and his father atop Gannett Peak off the bookcase and set it on his lap as he sat on the couch. The tightness in his stomach grew as he stared at his father’s face, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. He stood and paced the room, clutching the photograph under his arm. Trembling as he glanced desperately over the contents of his the house, PJ set the picture back on the shelf and dropped to his knees, working his fingernails into a narrow gap in the floorboards. Straining in his futile effort to lift the recessed panel—partially covered by the case—PJ abandoned the task and sat against the wall, covering his face with his hands.

  ***

  Dawn had broken clear and calm, and a fragile mist spread from the lake, covering the base of the surrounding hills. The call of a loon echoed off the hill as PJ rummaged his glove box, spilling maps and loose change onto the floor—victims of his singular quest.

  “I know you’re in here.”

  Spreading the contents of the box out on the floor, he leaned back in the seat with a sigh. In a flash of realization, he popped the trunk.

  “Oh no, you’re not.”

  PJ slid his pack from the trunk and dropped it to the ground. Lifting the carpeted floor panel, he searched blindly behind the spare tire, his hands shaking with excitement. With a gasp, he unearthed a film canister and shook it next to his ear. Empty.

  “Shit.”

  Tossing it aside, he again probed the hidden corners of his trunk, finding a second container, empty as well. He threw it against the back of the trunk and slammed the lid.

  “God damn it!”

  He sat on his pack and leaned against the back bumper, his tired gaze sweeping across the front of the house. The reflection of the sun rising over the hill behind him blazed in the front window, rendering the oak tree as a wavy silhouette. PJ stood and crossed the road. He crashed into the woods, snapping branches and undergrowth from his path as he made short work of climbing the hill. Standing under the oak’s lowest branch, he tipped his head back, sizing up the climb.

  A lot smaller these days.

  He jumped. Clinging to the branch, he threw his leg over and rolled up onto his stomach. Exhausted and with his legs dangling, PJ leaned back against the dewy trunk, relishing the cool moisture wicking through his shirt. The houses below were silent, Mrs. Johnson’s curtains shut. Resting his head against the tree, he closed his eyes with a yawn and began to drift off until the rising hiss of an approaching car—climbing the road at the far edge of the hilltop—drew him back. It crested the hill and stopped, hidden in the trees at the edge of the clearing. A door slammed, and PJ swung his leg over the branch and jumped, landing in a crouch. Cigarette butts littered the grass in front of him.

  He rose, glancing back at the ground, shaking his head as he struck off down the grassy access lane.

  With a gasp, he stopped short at the far side of a bend in the lane. Beyond the gate in front of him was his father’s car, pulled tightly against the brush, half-covered in overhanging growth. A uniformed sheriff’s deputy was looking inside, shielding the glare with his hands, his squad car pulled up behind. PJ stepped to the gate as a second car turned off the main road. Detective Porter pulled up to the gate and got out of his car, nodding first to the deputy, and then to PJ.

  “Is this your father’s car, PJ?”

  PJ stood clutching the gate, staring at the windshield, frozen.

  “Yeah. Is he—?”

  “No. No, he’s not.”

  chapter eight

  Hackett

  Fog simmered on the lake and spilled its banks, consuming the line of houses and lifting the hilltop on a mantle of white. Bracing his binoculars on top of the window glass, Hackett scanned the hill’s summit from the opposite shore, his cold fingers stiff around the barrels. The sunrise cast wide shafts of light through the oak’s canopy as it scraped over the grassy peak, saturating it with an emerald glow and dropping quickly into shadow on the near side. From the back side of the hill, a shadow moved through the halo of light and then was gone. Hackett held his breath, glassing the intersection of hilltop and sky. Several minutes of intense study revealed nothing, and he swung the objectives along the grassy lane, searching the undergrowth.

  Hell of a time to start smoking again.

  He paused at a flash of yellow and pinned the binoculars against the window frame, trying to stabilize the shaky image. Police tape, fastened to the near side of the open gate, receded into the woods, passing a hint of blue and black as it disappeared over the hill. Hackett studied the spotty outline of the patrol car, sweeping the binoculars from trunk to hood and back in slow, methodical rhythm.

  Tossing the binoculars on the passenger seat, Hackett leaned back, blowing heat into his fists, working his frozen blood back into his fingers. An occasional rise of a fish directed his blind gaze to various corners of the lake, the resulting silence deeper than before. He looked up at the oak, the light through its branches growing more intense, its silhouette darker against the sky.

  A hollow, metallic boom echoed from the far shore and Hackett turned his ear to the open window. Several minutes passed with only the splash of rising fish penetrating the haze, and Hackett’s neck grew sore—a dull ache compounded by the steady twitching of nerves. Several higher pitched bangs rang out, followed once again by pervasive calm.

  A shadow flickered on the hilltop, and Hackett reached for the keys hanging in the ignition, his hand freezing mid-turn at the muffled ring of a phone. He released the key and cocked his head—first to the window, and then between the front seats. The ringing, coming from the trunk, stopped and Hackett pulled the tire iron out from beneath his seat. Taking the keys from the ignition, he stepped quickly from the car, giving a wide berth as he crept to the back. He approached the trunk, knocking with the tire iron. No response. He knocked harder.

  “Hey!” he called, the sound of his own voice unnerving. He glanced at the hilltop.

  He unlocked the trunk and kicked the lid open, his weapon poised as he leaned over to look inside. He performed a thorough inspection, using the tire iron to lift the cover to the spare tire compartment. As he lowered the cover, he saw the phone, smeared with dried blood and lodged in a crevice against the side of the car. Pulling his hand into his sleeve, Hackett picked it up. The display read ‘Missed Call: Steve Porter.’

  He checked the phone’s incoming call log, finding that most of the recent calls were from ‘PJ’, with the bulk of the rest from ‘Vilas County’ and Porter. The phone was nearly dead but was picking up a strong signal, and Hackett cursed, turning it off and wiping it down with his shirt tails. He searched the rest of the trunk, using the tire iron to probe its corners and lift the edges of the blood-soaked carpet. Hackett closed the trunk and set the phone on the roof of his car, mopping cold sweat from his brow as he tossed the tire iron through the driver’s window, sending it clanging onto the passenger floor.

  The fog had started to lift from the rooftops across the lake and Hackett leaned against the car, taking the pack of cigarettes and lighter from his shirt pocket, studying the near shoreline as he lit up. The paved road traced its southern edge, its sinuous path dotted with gravel pullouts. Boulders peeked through the surface along the lake’s perimeter, with several connected to the bank by crude bridges of fallen timber.

  Hackett finished his cigarette and tucked his hand back into his sleeve to retrieve the phone. At the water’s edge, Hackett dropped the butt and worked it down into the wet sand with his heel. He sized up the lake and cocked his arm, the phone gripped awkwardly through the fabric. Pausing in mid-throw, he lowered his arm and stared
at the phone, shaking his head. He slipped it into his pocket and walked back to the car.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  He turned the engine over and began to back onto the pavement, his head turning in a final visual sweep of the fog. Two figures—broad shouldered with wide stances—were on the hilltop, motioning towards the lake, eclipsing the morning light as haloed silhouettes. Hackett stood on the brake, bringing the car to a crunching halt, his gaze fixed on the ominous, yet strangely angelic forms. With a sigh, he finished backing off the gravel and threw the car into drive.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  five years ago

  PJ

  Butch lowered his legs into the canoe and pulled it tight against the pier, holding out his hands.

  “Grab on, PJ.”

  They locked arms and PJ rose, his legs weak and unsteady. They buckled as he climbed from the boat and he fell on top of his father, knocking him down onto his back and nearly throwing him over the other side. Butch rolled him off and got to his knees, watching helplessly as PJ’s breathing grew shallow and erratic. Restraining him with a hand to his chest, Butch grabbed PJ by the jaw and turned his head, forcing eye contact.

  “Take it easy, partner. Just breathe.”

  As PJ’s hysterics calmed, Butch sat on his heels, his eyes glassy. PJ rolled to his side, reaching under his soaked shirt to scratch his chest and back, shivering.

  “What did you take?” Butch asked. PJ shook his head.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t lie to me, PJ. Did you take something?”

  Through a blur of tears and lake water, PJ watched the canoe slowly drift away from the pier, his shivering uncontrollable.

  “No, I swear. I’m s-sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  With a hand on PJ’s shoulder, Butch leaned forward, resting his forehead on the back of PJ’s neck.

  “Okay,” he said, his voice low but strong. “We’ll get through this.”

  PJ took Butch’s hand and held it to his chest, inhaling its fishy aroma.

  “How long’s it been?” Butch asked.