“Yeah, of course we should. But…are we?”
He took another drink, swallowing hard.
“Not until I talk to Jim.”
Anna was cautious.
“Yeah. I guess that makes sense, but…what about this Chicago thing? You think he actually went there?”
“I don’t know. I guess we have to assume he did. But if so, he’s not there anymore.”
“Right. Well, we’ve got lots of volunteers in Chicago. I can make some calls and see if anything sticks out.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“So, what’s our plan for finding Jim?”
PJ drank his beer down to half, his face pinched as he lowered the bottle.
“Our plan?”
Anna exhaled in a burst of electronic noise.
“Yes, our plan. Try and get rid of me. See what happens.”
chapter ten
Hackett
It was after noon when Hackett returned to the cabin. The sun was still high in the clearing overhead, giving the site a heavy warmth. His forearm sizzled on the window frame as he backed up to the porch. He pulled to a stop and released the trunk, watching the shed through the undergrowth as he lit a cigarette. Clear of the buck thorn and honeysuckle, its shingled roof baked in the sun, infusing the air with a hint of warm asphalt. Hackett leaned over the wheel, squinting through a gap in the brush. The door was still closed, its hasp secure.
With the cigarette clenched in his teeth, he grabbed several plastic shopping bags from the passenger seat and got out of the car, leaving the door wide. He set the bags on the porch, keeping a cautious eye on the road as he pulled his duffel bag from the back seat and tossed it by the front door, a film of sweat already forming on his brow. Hackett emptied the shopping bags, scattering all manner of cleaning supplies and provisions for an extended stay onto the porch. A new plastic tarp lay folded in its package on top of the pile.
Cracking a beer, he opened the remaining car doors and began to clean the inside, his frenzied scrubbing stirring the warm burn of chemical vapor and cigarette smoke into his eyes. On the ground outside, a garbage bag filled quickly with used paper towels, empty beer cans and broken CD cases. When the passenger compartment had been thoroughly detailed, he set the garbage bag on the ground behind the car and sat on the porch steps, opening another beer as he watched the shed, blinking sweat from his eyes.
What a shitty way to go.
He took a long drink and stood, raising the trunk lid with his foot. Shielding the sun with his hand, Hackett stared inside.
A large black stain matted the carpet on the driver’s side floor, with macabre traces radiating from its center up the side walls. The underside of the lid mirrored the floor—with a large, circular stain bursting into a series of tapered streaks. Hackett’s gaze bounced from floor to lid as he imagined the futile struggle within.
The sound of a passing car rose through the trees, and he watched it flicker into view at the end of the drive and then dissolve back into the woods as it passed. He finished his beer and snuffed his cigarette in the can.
Brand new fucking car, too.
Dropping the can into the garbage, he took a box cutter from his collection of supplies and tossed it into the trunk. As he struggled to pull a pair of dish washing gloves onto his sweat-soaked hands, his tired, wandering gaze fell onto the roof of the shed, where a robin was perched on the eave, scolding him with vigor, its tail twitching.
“Fuck you too,” he said, leaning into the trunk.
He began to cut and scrape away the stained carpet, lifting out the damp, heavy pieces and stuffing them into the garbage bag, the smell of rancid blood tickling his gag reflex. Working with brutal obsession, he removed the smallest of remnants, his efforts spilling into a third garbage bag before he rose and tossed the cutter onto the porch, grimly satisfied. He cleaned the bare metal twice over and allowed the smell of bleach and lemons to clear as he policed the area for debris. Double bagging the bags of trash, he hoisted them into the trunk and pushed them back against the rear seat. With a sigh, he picked up the tarp.
The robin—its scathing criticism growing ever more intense—lit in a tree at the edge of the drive, its tail a blur of violent snaps. Hackett flushed it from its perch with a stone, its unshakable chatter fading in retreat. The rock sailed clear of the brush and struck the shed with a hollow thump. Hackett flinched.
He unfolded the tarp, the stiff crackle of new plastic drowning the robin’s distant prattle. Shaking it out, he laid it over the open trunk and pushed it down in the middle, letting the sides spill over the fenders. He took Butch’s phone from his pocket and tossed it onto the tarp and sat on the porch, his face and neck running with sweat as he slid off the gloves and cracked another beer. With a grunt, he lifted his legs onto the top step and leaned back against the newel post, checking his watch. Monitoring the shed with a vacant stare, he sat and nursed his beer.
A pair of squirrels chased each other across the canopy, occasionally reversing course as they took turns in the role of aggressor. A cabbage butterfly danced along the edge of the driveway, landing briefly on the patchy, desiccated flora before moving on to cooler terrain. The robin, his cause either given up or merely postponed, hopped through the forest duff along the drive, occasionally stopping to fling aside selected debris and wait, its head cocked. A car passed and Hackett finished his beer and got to his feet.
“It’s go time.”
He got into his car.
Buck thorn scraped against its sides, squealing in protest as Hackett backed up to the shed, the trunk lid bobbing as he negotiated the narrow, rutted track. The car lurched to a stop, and Hackett pushed in the lighter, watching heat radiate from the shed’s roof in the side view mirror as he waited.
The lighter snapped and he lit up and got out of the car, sidling along the buck thorn and glancing over his shoulder as he approached the shed. The door shook under a heavy pounding, rattling the hasp. Hackett leaned forward, his hands against the door on either side of his head, his ear pressed to the door. Smoke rose from his cigarette in a thin, rolling sheet that swirled and dissolved as it negotiated the roof overhang. Inside, it was quiet.
Drawing a deep breath, he removed the nail from the hasp and swung the door open. The cigarette fell to the ground as Hackett stumbled inside.
A large shelving unit had toppled through the back wall, its collection of tools and hardware scattered across the floor, the paint cans from the top shelf on the ground outside. Daylight flooded through the sizable breach, silhouetting the center post.
Butch was gone.
In a rising cloud of dust, Hackett tossed the contents of the shed, his voice trembling.
“Oh my god…”
He stumbled over the shelf and fell against the center post. An exposed nail dug into his arm and he growled in agony, easing himself onto the ground, clutching his arm, coughing and out of breath. Slowly, Hackett pulled himself to his feet and staggered outside through the back wall, following a faint trail of matted undergrowth into the woods. It meandered through vicious stands of buck thorn and raspberry, eventually breaking into the grassy clearing behind the cabin, where it quickly faded. The bedroom window screen was on the ground, its mesh torn in a long, jagged gash, the wooden frame split along one side. He crept to the window and rose on his toes, unable to see over the sill. Taking a step back, he called out.
“Hey!”
No response.
“You in there?”
Silence.
Over his head, the twisted limb of a hickory reached towards the cabin like an enormous arthritic hand pointing to the open window, urging him inside. With a grunt, Hackett threw his hands over the window ledge and pulled himself up and peered over the sill. The bedroom was empty, the door shut. On the sill in front of him, a corner of the brass sash plate, bent upward into a triangular spike, was covered with dried blood. Its victim had gone inside, smearing blood over the sill and inside casing. With one hand, Hackett reached up
and grabbed the sash, pulling it closed as he jumped to the ground. From the damaged screen he split off a sliver of wood and wedged it between the window and the jamb, pinning it closed. He mopped sweat from his brow and stared at the glass, mesmerized by the reflection of the gnarled tree branch above.
He walked around the cabin and back to the shed, where he found a length of iron pipe among the scattered wreckage. Gripping it with both hands, he struck practice blows against the post, cursing and biting his lower lip. He lowered his weapon, catching a bead of sweat running down his cheek with his shoulder. Back at the cabin, he crept up the stairs, checking the road as he took the keys from the nail under the top step.
Hackett set the pipe against the door and took the padlock in his hand, recoiling with a gasp. Smeared with blood, the lock clattered against the door as Hackett stepped back, his terrified gaze sweeping the front wall. The door latch and front window frame had been handled, with the window screen pushed through at its corner. The glass was smeared with blood, but undamaged.
“Shit.”
He unlocked the door and pushed it open as he picked up the pipe.
The door slammed against the inside wall, shaking the front window with a heavy rattle. Motionless, Hackett stood in the doorway, the pipe hanging at his side. His gaze swept the room as he struggled to calm his breathing, his chest tightening. The sheet from the couch was still crumpled against the armrest, the distinctive hollow from his head in its center undisturbed. He stepped into the room, cautiously probing under the remaining sheets and behind the furniture with the pipe as he made his way to the bedroom. With sweat running unchecked down his face and neck, he paused at the door before throwing it open.
Hackett lunged inside, leading with the pipe as he cleared the room. Beneath the window, the trail of blood ran down the wall and onto the carpet. In a crouch, he followed it around the bed and into a corner of the closet, where it spread into a sizable stain. The trail continued, emerging from the closet and out the bedroom door, where it faded into the carpet in the main cabin.
Passing the pipe to his free hand, he wiped his sweaty palm on his pants, working the stiffness from his fingers. He passed it back and glanced out the windows before entering the side hallway. Holding tight to the opposite wall, Hackett watched the bathroom door as he approached, pursing sweat from his upper lip. Sunlight spilled into the corridor from the bathroom in a brilliant cloud, swirling with an infusion of dust. The door to the hall closet was open, with hunting gear and clothing spilled out onto the floor. A shadow flickered over the bathroom threshold, and Hackett stopped short, wrapping both hands around the pipe, studying the vague, swaying form.
“Hey!”
He smacked the door frame with the pipe. A labored grunt from inside preceded a tortured scraping against the linoleum. The shadow withdrew into the room and Hackett inched further along the wall, his unblinking stare trained on the near side of the door as he called out, his voice shaky.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
Hackett drew a deep breath. His clammy grip tightened.
God damn it…
With a growl, he lunged across the hall and stood in the doorway, cocking the pipe over his shoulder.
Struck dumb, Hackett swooned. His arms fell limp at his sides.
Across the room, a wide swath of blood climbed over the toilet to the window, where the wood sash was reduced to a shredded, bloody pulp. Against the wall, a second, heavier smear spread across the floor, ending in a wide, fluid stain beneath the sink. In partial shadow, a raccoon lay panting in the corner—gaunt and matted with blood—watching Hackett. It hissed, baring its teeth.
The pipe clattered and rolled across the floor as Hackett backed away, stumbling over the threshold. He staggered outside, cursing as he caught himself against the porch railing. Squinting in the light, he glanced in desperation into the surrounding brush and then checked his watch.
“Oh my god.”
He picked up the lock and hastily secured the cabin door, muttering obscenities as a car accelerated around the curve. Hackett dropped to his knees, grabbing the handle of his duffel and shuffling down the steps, watching the passing car. He ran to the shed in a crouch, pulling his bag over the gravel in a steady, muffled crunch. Tossing the bag onto the tarp, he slammed the trunk of his car, leaving tails of blue plastic hanging from inside. He jumped behind the wheel, oblivious to the fresh buck thorn lacerations beginning to ooze on his arms and neck.
He started the car and with a chirp of catching rubber, Hackett pulled onto the blacktop, gravel pinging in the wheel wells.
He pushed in the lighter.
five years ago
PJ
Jim backed his rust-mottled pickup truck up the drive to the corner of the house and killed the engine. He and Butch stepped out, easing the squeeze they had on PJ since leaving the flanks of Brewer Mountain. The house was awash in late afternoon sunlight, its cedar siding radiating a heavy, orange warmth. After a long, bone creaking stretch, Jim began to empty the bed of the truck, setting the cooler on the ground with a grin.
“All yours, PJ,” he said, opening the lid.
Butch had made his way around the truck and he and Jim stared inside, admiring their catch—a pair of thirty-inch-plus Bald River steelhead, their colors beginning to spot and fade on a bed of watery ice. PJ slid behind the wheel and leaned out the door, his feet on the running boards.
“I’ll do it, but it’s under protest. Everyone knows you go by numbers, not size. As long as we can all agree who the bigger man is here.”
The two older men looked at each other with a dismissive shake of their heads.
“If you say so,” Butch said, collecting his gear from the back of the truck. “Just let us know when the big man is done cleaning them.”
Jim laughed as he carried their waders and tackle boxes up the porch steps.
“A big man named PJ,” he said. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
Butch joined in Jim’s amusement as PJ shook his head and picked up the cooler.
“Whatever.”
He went to the side of the house, where a large sink and sideboard were mounted to the outside wall, complete with an assortment of fillet knives speared into a gap in the siding. Warm in the house’s aromatic glow, PJ filleted their catch while out front, Butch and Jim laughed and congratulated each other over the shuddering slam of rusty truck doors and the rattle of loose tackle. He worked slowly, pausing frequently to plan his next cut or check for bones. In the end, he produced an impressive set of fillets, washed and placed neatly back on the ice. Jim sidled up as PJ was rinsing the sink, his hands clasped behind his back, inspecting the fillets in thoughtful silence.
“Not bad,” he said with an approving nod. “The old man’s makin’ progress with you.”
“Well, he had a good teacher too.”
Jim chuckled and took hold of the cooler’s near handle as he shut the lid.
“Oh, I can’t take all the credit. He was a good student.”
PJ finished washing his hands and dried them on his shirt, glancing sidelong at Jim as he took the other handle.
“I was…talking about my grandfather, Jim.” Jim’s expression fell, and PJ cringed. “I’m sorry, Jim. Wow, this is…man, this is really awkward.”
Jim looked down at the cooler in disgust as they rounded the corner of the house.
“Probably full of bones.”
PJ smiled.
“Nah, they’re fine.”
Daylight faded as they sat on the porch talking and drinking beer, their feet propped on the railing, their smiling faces glowing sunset orange as the day’s events on the Bald River were deconstructed and embellished. The town of Concrete lay in shadow two miles down the valley, its day already complete. Framed by their damp waders hanging from the eaves, the islands of Puget Sound dotted the haze at the limits of their vision as the smell of scorched butter and onions rose from the grill on the lawn. Jim leaned over and shook PJ by the neck.
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“Hell of a day, huh PJ? You got the makins of a fine fisherman.”
The beer sloshed in PJ’s bottle, still against his lips. He lowered it, wiping the beer from his chin with his sleeve.
“Thanks for that.”
Laughing, Butch set his bottle on the railing and picked up his fly rod. He snipped off the fly and inspected his leader, running it between his finger and thumb.
“Yeah, he was a quick study. Picked it right up.”
Incredulous, PJ shook his head.
“Are you kidding me? Remember the nightmare on Black Earth Creek last summer?”
Butch reeled his line onto the spool, smiling as he broke down his rod.
“Not the easiest water to fish, PJ. That’s like three lessons in one. Now, Bluegill fishing at the house last spring. That was, officially, a nightmare.”
Jim got up and walked down the steps to the front yard and lifted the lid on the grill.
“What happened?”
“I hooked everything but a fish that weekend. Including dad’s leg.”
“PJ wasn’t in top form, let’s say.”
Jim turned the sizzling foil packets, looking back at PJ with a smirk. PJ took a thoughtful swallow of his beer.
“Anyway, thanks for letting me tag along this year, guys.”
Jim closed the grill and returned to his chair, slapping PJ’s leg as he sat.
“You bet. Enjoy it. Before you know it, you’ll be tied to a desk all summer. Every summer. For the rest of your miserable, depressing, pointless existence.”
PJ and his father exchanged a knowing glance and shook their heads. Butch lifted his beer.
“Probably why this was invented.”
PJ raised his bottle.
“To my future. My depressing, pointless…uh…what was it, Jim?”
“Miserable.”
“Miserable future.”
They all tapped bottles.
The Ascent of PJ Marshall Page 13
