The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

  Jim finished his beer and tossed his empty into the recycling bin by the front door and stood.

  “I think we’re done, fellers. Let’s eat.”

  Butch got to his feet, reaching the stairs before Jim.

  “My turn now.”

  He descended the stairs two at a time as PJ and Jim nervously looked on.

  “Christ, Butch,” Jim said, laying his hands on top of the railing. “You recovered so damn fast. And with no drugs to boot.”

  PJ leaned back in his chair and sipped his beer, watching his father tend to their dinner.

  “Yeah, he’s a tough old bastard,” he said. “I’d have been like, ‘Give me drugs, I want some drugs, I can’t take it.’”

  Butch replied with a somber nod.

  “Believe me, there were times I wanted to,” he said, closing the grill’s air vent and balancing the platter of fish in his other hand. “I just couldn’t handle the side effects. Never could. In fact, I just tossed them all this morning.”

  PJ straightened in his chair.

  “You didn’t tell me that. You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I don’t need them, PJ. I’ve never felt better.”

  They exchanged a brief, silent stare. PJ nodded.

  “Well, that’s great.”

  Jim drew up behind PJ and placed his hands on his shoulders, shaking him and once again sloshing beer onto his face.

  “It is great,” he said. “You’re a medical miracle, Butch.”

  PJ drew his sleeve across his face with a moan.

  “Jim. Come on, what are you doing? I can hear him already.”

  PJ swayed in his chair, waving his hands in the air, his voice steeped in sarcasm.

  “‘Hey, look at me everyone. I’m a medical miracle. Make way for the miracle.’”

  Butch brought the plateful of foil pouches up to the porch, his ear cocked.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t hear what you guys were saying. Someone talking about me?”

  PJ got to his feet.

  “No. It was someone else.”

  “That’s funny, because I swear I heard you—”

  “Well, you didn’t.”

  Butch shook his head in mock befuddlement and walked into the house, Jim following close behind, laughing. PJ finished his beer and dropped the bottle into the bin. With a furtive glance through the screen door, he reached in among the discarded bottles and cans and uncovered Butch’s pill bottle, shaking it by his ear. Empty. He dropped it back into the bin, staring at the steel garbage can at the bottom of the porch steps. Jim called to him from inside.

  “You comin’, PJ?”

  PJ pursed his lips.

  “Yeah, I’m comin’.”

  He wiped a film of sweat from his brow as he went inside.

  chapter eleven

  PJ

  From a pullout across the highway, PJ watched as an eighteen-wheeler rolled through the gates of Hansen Timber, its cradle packed with freshly cut logs. A second, empty truck was on its way out and the drivers reached out in a brief greeting through a haze of dust and diesel—the third such exchange in the past fifteen minutes. PJ picked up the phone from the center console and searched the keypad, mumbling in puzzled frustration, answering just in time.

  “Hey Anna.”

  “Thought you were ignoring me.”

  “Sorry. Just got the phone plugged in.”

  “Rookie mistake. How was your flight?”

  “It was fine. Thanks for the car, too.”

  “No problem. I hope it’s okay. We’re a nonprofit, you know.”

  PJ watched the empty truck pass in front of him and begin its grinding haul into the foothills, its stacks vomiting black smoke into the trees lining the road.

  “It’s fine. I need to pick up some clowns later, anyway.”

  Anna laughed as PJ took a map case from his pack in the back seat and sifted through its contents. He slid a topographic map from among the Tim-Oil printouts and unfolded it on his lap.

  “Porter called me a little while ago,” Anna said. “I think we’re committed.”

  PJ looked up from the map as another truckload of logs pulled up to the gate.

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked about my relationship with you and your dad and Jim.”

  PJ raised the window, muting the roar of the semi upshifting through the gate. He watched it briefly and then shook his head as he turned back to the map.

  “What else?”

  “He asked if I knew where you were.”

  “Uh huh,” PJ said, his gaze sweeping slowly across the map. “Do you?”

  “No idea.”

  PJ glanced at the passenger seat, catching a glimpse of Butch’s GPS tracker under a pile of empty snack wrappers and cell phone packaging.

  “Wow. Lying to a detective. You are a bad ass. That’s conspiracy, or obstruction of justice or something.”

  “I wasn’t lying. I can’t get a read on you. Did you turn it on, Einstein?”

  PJ picked up the tracker. Cringing, he pressed the power button.

  “Of course I did. Must be a problem on your end.”

  “Yeah, must be. Oh, look…there you are. Must be a computer glitch.”

  “Right. Like I said.”

  PJ set the unit on the passenger seat and leaned back, watching the severed ends of a dozen enormous trees recede into the Hansen lot. He rolled his head aside, monitoring the bend in the highway, waiting for another load.

  “So…what is your relationship with my dad?”

  Anna sighed.

  “Professional. If it was anything else, PJ, I would have told you already.”

  PJ sat forward and with a guilty nod, shook out the map and spread it across the steering wheel.

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Let’s just find him.”

  PJ oriented the map, looking up at the mountains looming behind Hansen Timber—their flanks covered in a rolling patchwork of dense growth and naked clear cuts. Scavenged from his father’s vast collection, the Bald Mountain quadrangle was well-worn, with many features and elevations obscured by repetitive folding. Its namesake peak was intact, however, along with several hand written trails and landmarks Butch had added. PJ ducked his head to look up through the windshield, his gaze bouncing over the high peaks.

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Are you on your way to the house now?”

  “Yeah. But I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Do you know where this camp is?”

  PJ traced his finger along the map, following the Bald River as it skirted the foothills below the mountain’s north face.

  “In theory, yeah.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging. What do you mean?”

  PJ raised the map closer to his face. He pored over the smudged intersection of his father’s penciled-in trail and the river, squinting at the adjacent contour lines.

  “A couple of years ago, dad was up there fishing with Jim. When he got back, he showed me the camp on his map. I’m thinking that has to be the spot.”

  “Fishing, huh?”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m starting to rethink everything he—”

  PJ’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat as he folded the map and slipped it back into the case. Zipping the map case and tracker into the top pocket of his pack, he slumped in his seat, his eyes glazing as they slowly panned across the hovering bulk of the North Cascades. A web of logging roads blanketed their lower flanks, blurred behind a nondescript haze rising from the heart of Hansen Timber.

  “I just hope they’re up here,” he said. He started the car.

  “Me too, PJ. You’ll call me when you know something?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another pair of trucks passed—one full, one empty. PJ pulled onto the highway.

  His rental car labored up the ribbon of blacktop into the foothills north of Concrete, passing countless overlooks and immense old growth pine and fir, their familiar details drawi
ng second and third looks. The thinning air held the latent aroma of grilled steelhead and beer.

  He pulled onto a dead end that traversed a steep, thickly wooded knoll, the treetops on its downhill side passing at eye level. Proceeding along the rutted, single lane at a crawl, PJ tossed nervous glances over the side and hugged the uphill ditch until the road leveled and emerged from the trees in a wide clearing.

  He pulled over and killed the engine, drying the sweat from his palms as he gazed at Jim’s house across the road, its companion rusty pickup parked in the drive. It was a small house and well kept, with a garden and lawn that had been maintained with surprising domestic flair, complete with a weathered hammock strung peacefully off the corner of the expansive front porch. A second house at the road’s end was a mirror image of the Flemming place, its grounds equally immaculate.

  Sliding the map case from his pack, PJ got out of the car and crossed to the house, squinting at the distant sprawl of Hansen Timber in the valley below as he climbed the steps to the front porch. His knocks went unanswered, and he rattled the door handle with a sigh. At the window, he shielded the glare with the map case as he peered through a gap in the curtains, mumbling curses against the glass. He dropped the case on the porch swing and leaned back against the railing, stretching the road kinks from his back and neck. A tired but clear voice came from next door.

  “Are you looking for Jimmy?”

  An old woman was watching him from the porch, her hands clamped over the railing.

  “Yes, I am,” PJ said, picking up the map case. “Have you seen him?”

  The woman regarded him cautiously, studying his face across the side yards.

  “He’s not home.”

  “I heard he was going up to the mountains for a while. Do you know if that’s where he is?” The woman did not respond. Her questioning gaze grew more intense. “I’m a friend of his. I’m also looking for my father, Butch.”

  Her icy stare melted into surprised joy, and the woman raised a hand to her mouth. PJ stepped off the porch and searched his memory as he crossed the side yard.

  “Oh my god, is that you, PJ?”

  PJ nodded, his cause hopeless.

  “Yes, it’s me, Ms—?”

  The woman turned to yell into the house.

  “Ray! Look who’s here. It’s PJ! PJ’s outside.” As PJ climbed the stairs, she waved him into her outstretched arms. “Oh, it’s been so long, PJ. You were so little the last time I saw you.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “It’s Joan, sweetie. Joan Harrison. Oh, sit down.” She waved him into a wooden rocker against the wall. “I’ve got iced tea, PJ, would you like some?”

  “That would be great, Mrs. Harrison, but—”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” The screen door flew open, and Mrs. Harrison disappeared inside. “Ray! Wake up, you lazy dog. We’ve got company.”

  PJ unfolded the Bald Mountain topo on the porch floor and checked the route he had tentatively planned to Jim’s camp, stepping off the distance with the first two knuckles of his index finger. Mrs. Harrison emerged from the house, carrying two enormous glasses of tea.

  “Here you are, dear.”

  Mrs. Harrison pulled up a second rocker and sat, smiling with satisfaction as PJ drank half of his tea in one go. He set his glass on the small table between them, dabbing his chin with his sleeve.

  “It’s great, thank you.”

  “You’ve grown into such a handsome young man, PJ. How have you been?”

  PJ pursed the wetness from his lips.

  “Well…I’m looking for my father, and I thought Jim might know where he is.”

  Mrs. Harrison shook her head and looked down at the floor, puzzled, as if searching for a name from the past.

  “Somebody just asked me about your father. Now who was that?”

  “Was it the police, Mrs. Harrison?”

  “Yes it was, PJ,” she said, lifting her head. “Officer Franks came by the other day. He was looking for Jimmy.”

  “And he asked about my father?”

  “Yes. He had a sheet of paper with his picture on it. I didn’t need a picture to remember Butchie, though.”

  “What did you tell officer Franks, Mrs. Harrison?”

  She held her gaze, scouring her memory.

  “I told him they’d be back when they were done fishing. Sometimes when Jimmy goes up there he—”

  “I’m sorry…they?”

  With a nod, Mrs. Harrison sipped her tea.

  “Yes,” she said. “Jimmy and Butch.”

  PJ leaned forward, his eyes wide.

  “Mrs. Harrison, what are you saying?”

  “Did I say something wrong? Is Jimmy in some kind of trouble?”

  “No. Is my father with Jim right now?”

  “Of course, PJ.”

  PJ rocked the chair back against the house and turned away, gazing over the trees across the road. Under a dense canopy of evergreens, the Skagit Valley was spread out below them like a blanket in the late summer sun. The Bald River sparkled on its meandering course to Puget Sound and the sea.

  PJ smiled and Mrs. Harrison leaned in, drawing his attention.

  “Is everything all right, dear?”

  PJ turned to the map spread out on the floor.

  “Yes, everything’s fine. Are they up at Bald Mountain?”

  “That’s right. Bald Mountain. Where Jimmy did his work for the forest service. Are they in some kind of trouble, PJ? Why are the police looking for them?”

  “No, they’re not in trouble. I just…I didn’t know where my father was, so I got worried and called the police. They contacted the authorities out here to see if Jim could help find him. It’s really just a big misunderstanding.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Harrison said, easing back in her chair. “I guess that happens to everyone, doesn’t it? Now, come inside and have supper with us. I was just about to set the table.”

  PJ rocked the chair, watching the narrowing gap between the sun and horizon.

  “I don’t know. I should get going if I’m going to make it to Jim’s camp tonight.”

  “Nonsense, PJ.” Mrs. Harrison got to her feet. “It’s much too late to go stomping off into the woods today. You’re staying with us tonight, and we’ll send you off tomorrow with a nice breakfast. Those two will still be there in the morning. Now I don’t want to hear another word.”

  PJ nodded in supplication.

  “Yes, ma’am. But at least let me set the table.”

  ***

  The logging road slithered up the precipitous flanks of Bald Mountain—a single rocky lane gouged into its side with simple precision. His car hugged the mountain, bobbing erratically as it crept through a vast moonscape of stumps and debris. With the wheel wet in his palms, PJ stared ahead, the hammering in his chest growing stronger with each rise and bend in the road.

  At the clear cut’s upper reaches, he crested the saddle linking Bald and Brewer Mountains, where the road widened as it re-entered the woods. PJ drew his sleeve over his forehead, shaking the blood back into his hands.

  The road traversed several smaller cuts and crossed the river before threading itself onto a narrow ridge, forcing PJ to once again take a white-knuckle hold on the wheel. On the far side of a hairpin turn, the road came to an abrupt halt at a towering stack of freshly cut logs. PJ pulled to the side and killed the engine, double and triple checking his parking brake before getting out of the car.

  Sipping from the thermos of coffee Mrs. Harrison insisted he take, PJ walked around behind the stack, the air thick with the conflict of sawdust and evergreen as he searched the woods for a path up the mountain. Sunlight was beginning to filter through the canopy, piercing the mist in thick, horizontal rays. Interlocking deadfalls littered the forest floor, blocking every entrance to the forest with an immense web of timber. Setting the thermos on a stump, he unfolded the Bald Mountain topo alongside, orienting it to the mountain. Two miles up the eastern slope
would put him in the neighborhood, and he walked the perimeter of the dead end, searching for a view of his route.

  The upper rows of the log pile were glowing in the first rays of sunrise, and PJ sized up the climb, kicking several members at the base as he folded the map. He scrambled to the top.

  Perched above the patchwork of forest remaining on the lower slopes, he could see the logging road in its entirety as it switched back and forth, traversing the mountainside with eerie stealth, linking numerous smaller clearings to the immense clear cut near the mountain’s foot. A second road climbed Brewer Mountain to the west, stringing together a similar chain of cuts. Together, they served a vast network of clearings that were systematically draining the forest’s timber into the valley below. On the higher slopes, a thick carpet of green still extended from the upper reaches of Bald, down through the pass and up the shorter, but more prominent Brewer, still out of the saws’ reach. The Bald River, with its origins in the high country to the northeast, split the two mountains, gathering a silty hue as it rushed over the bare patches of mountain below. Above, it ran clear and cold in the shade of dense canopy.

  PJ spread the map out across the logs and took his compass from his shirt pocket. With his finger, he traced the river’s route, verifying high and low points on the mountain with an occasional glance up from the map. He followed the river to its confluence with Jim’s camp and established a bearing with his compass.

  Two miles across the valley, Jim’s camp lay concealed on the flanks of Bald Mountain. PJ stared vacantly from atop a stack of douglas fir on the opposite side, a lump rising in his throat as he folded the map and took the phone from his pocket and dialed.

  “Hello? PJ?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “Yeah. Just messin’ with you. Let’s see, it looks like you’re…in the middle of nowhere. What happened? You lost already, Magellan?”

  “Funny,” PJ said as he took in a sweeping view of the valley. “Do you see any roads or trails on the eastern side of the mountain?”

  “No, just the Bald River. You can follow that to the camp though, right?”

  “I’m not so sure,” he said, estimating the river’s undulating course under the canopy. “The topo shows some pretty dicey terrain, probably a few waterfalls along the way. I think my best bet is a bee line right from here. That’ll be shorter too.”