The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

  “Okay.”

  PJ stood. He was about to climb down when he stopped short, vacantly scanning the horizon.

  “So, what I told you last night…about dad being up here with Jim?”

  A pause.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “What are you talking about? The neighbor saw him just before they went up there.”

  “Yeah, I know she did, but…” PJ trailed off, watching the river below him boil in a gray, soupy foam. He began climbing down the log pile as he went on. “Ray, her husband? Always takes a nap before dinner?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When he didn’t come out of his room last night, Mrs. Harrison got really confused. I offered to check on him, but she wouldn’t have it. When I insisted, she got really agitated, almost hysterical. She put his place setting away and the two of us had dinner alone. We barely spoke after that.”

  “That’s so sad. Do you know for sure he wasn’t—?”

  “I checked after she had gone to sleep, just in case. There’s no Ray. At least not anymore.”

  Back on the ground, PJ picked up the thermos of coffee and went to his car.

  “Well, there’s still a chance she was right about your father, PJ.”

  “I guess.”

  He popped the trunk and took out his pack as Anna sighed with a buzz of static.

  “She probably did see him,” PJ said. “Question is…when?”

  “PJ, I’m sorry. I was so happy when you called last night. Now, it’s….god, this is so messed up.”

  “I know. Just a second.” He set the phone on the car and hoisted his pack onto his back, slamming the trunk. “Anyway, odds are that Jim’s up here, so I’ll call you when I know something.”

  “Okay. Good luck PJ. And be careful, please.”

  “Okay.”

  At the edge of the woods, PJ cinched his hip belt, searching for a clear path inside. The mist had lifted, and the understory was glowing under a shower of scattered sunbeams. He sighted in his bearing, squinting into the distance at a large, twisted fir that stood on his line—the first of many small, hopeful steps. A cool, residual mist swirled in the trees as he plunged into the forest.

  His progress was slow. The ubiquitous deadfalls conspired to throw him off course, some blocking his way completely, forcing him off his line and challenging him to pick it up on the other side. He strung together a chain of landmarks in a sweaty, tiring plod, his deliberate pace measuring the distance. A sweep in the river coincided with his route, and he stopped in a small clearing, dropping his pack as he scouted the next heading. By his best guess, he had covered a mile and a half in two hours of brutal hiking, an estimate confirmed with a check of the map.

  Drenched in sweat, PJ drank from his canteen and sat against a tree on the bank, catching his breath for the final push. The canopy was split in a broad crescent over the river, allowing sunlight to flood into the clearing. PJ tipped his head back against the tree with a yawn, its bark warm against his back. The roar of the river conspired with the sun’s warmth and his recent lack of sleep to lull PJ into a drowsy haze. He dozed fitfully, each time righting himself against the tree and checking his watch.

  A violent jab to PJ’s shoulder knocked him to his side on the ground, jolting him into coherence. He rolled to his back and met the hard stare of a thickly bearded man hovering over him—a shotgun wedged in his armpit. PJ raised his hands as the man yelled over the din of the river.

  “You lost?”

  PJ shifted his weight, trying to sit up as he searched the clearing for more intruders.

  “No. I—”

  The man leveled the gun at PJ’s chest.

  “Stay on the ground.” PJ froze, his eyes locked on the man’s dirty, scarred face. “Keep them hands up, too.”

  PJ jerked them back into the air, his voice trembling.

  “I’m just—are you here with Jim?”

  The man turned to check the clearing, his expression grave as he turned back.

  “Who the fuck’re you?”

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I just want to find my friend.”

  “Why the fuck you lookin’ up here?”

  “I heard he was coming up here.”

  The man’s stare gathered an overflow of venom, and he transferred the shotgun to his opposite hand. Stepping forward, he pressed the muzzle into PJ’s forehead, forcing him to lie back in the dirt.

  “Well there ain’t no one here but me. Guess I’ll have to do.” The cold, oppressive weight lifted. “Get up. And get yer shit.”

  PJ picked up his pack and they left the clearing, the man prodding him on with the shotgun.

  They followed the river upstream to a second, larger clearing where the man motioned with the gun for PJ to sit on a log at the edge of his camp. A lean-to of pine deadfalls had been lashed together at the edge of the clearing and the man threw PJ’s pack on a table of similar construction inside and began to rifle its contents, his shotgun wedged between a pair of table members, its muzzle trained on PJ’s chest.

  As his gear was ruthlessly scattered, PJ studied the shelf on the back wall of the shelter over the man’s head. Littered with an assortment of cooking supplies, it held a small, single-burner camp stove. Missing one of its support legs, it had been field repaired with a broken piece of tent pole and duct tape. PJ shivered, his fear of the man dissolving into blind rage as he picked up a stone, concealing it beside his leg.

  “Where’d you get that stove?”

  The man followed PJ’s gaze over his shoulder.

  “None o’ yer fuckin’ business.”

  PJ pursed his lips.

  “It is my business,” he said, his grip tightening around the stone. “It belongs to my father.”

  Glancing again at the stove, the man continued his search with a sneer.

  “Yer a goddamn liar.”

  PJ tightened his grip on the stone.

  “Where’s Jim?”

  The man picked up the shotgun and pumped a shell into the chamber. He laid the barrel over the edge of the table and trained the muzzle on PJ’s chest, his hand wrapped around the stock, the trigger under his finger. PJ left the stone on the log and raised his hands as the man hacked up a wad of phlegm and spit it into the air between them.

  “You ask a lot of fuckin’ questions. And since you ain’t answered none o’ mine to my likin’, I ain’t answerin’ none o’ yers. Now shut yer fuckin’ hole.”

  PJ nodded and lowered his gaze to the ground through a protracted standoff, his furtive glances finding the man’s stare and his grip on the gun unchanged. His arms began to shake, and PJ lowered his hands, placing them on his knees. The man thrust the shotgun forward, causing PJ to shudder and throw his hands back into the air. Releasing the gun, he continued to loot the pack, laughing. PJ slowly lowered his hands back to his sides, again taking hold of the stone.

  “What did you do to my father?”

  The man picked up the gun and took aim on PJ’s head.

  “Goddamn it, I ain’t gonna tell you again! Shut the fuck up!”

  PJ nodded, his breathing labored and shallow, his throat tight. His hot and swollen hands pulsed in time with the deafening rhythm in his chest. The man had returned to his work, and with monumental effort, PJ raised the stone to his side. A raspy voice from the trees behind him ran his blood cold.

  “Careful there, Tom. He’s aimin’ to thump your skull.”

  Tom snatched the gun from the table and approached the log, his jaws clenched with rage. With a muffled crunch of forest duff, the stone fell to the ground as PJ held out his hands, pleading as he leaned back on the log, turning his head to look behind him. Tom shuffled to a halt, stirring a cloud of dust that mixed with the stench of body odor and cigarette breath. He pushed the gun’s muzzle into PJ’s forehead, hissing through his teeth. Kicking the stone aside, he glanced over PJ’s head.

  “Got ourselves a problem here, Mitch.”

  T
he rustle of footsteps behind the log.

  “Seems we do.”

  Tom swung the shotgun around, striking the side of PJ’s head with the stock, knocking him onto his side on the log. PJ looked up through a blur as Tom hovered over him, his chest puffed.

  “Move over!”

  The command was a muffled bark, and PJ sat up, shaking as he slid down the log. Swiveling his head, he worked his jaw against the ringing in his head, trying to see the man behind him. Tom pinned him back against a tree at the end of the log with the muzzle.

  “Put yer fuckin’ hands behind you.”

  PJ’s arms were wrenched back, his shoulders responding with a crunch as Mitch bound his wrists around the back side of the tree. Tom wedged the gun under his arm, and then PJ saw no more. From behind, a blindfold was cinched over his eyes, the damp fabric smelling faintly of wood smoke. PJ tipped his head back, trying to see underneath, directing his attention to the ringing echo of cruel laughter.

  He took another blow to the side of his head and bit hard into his tongue. Shaking with fear, PJ ducked in anticipation of another strike, pleading with his captors in guttural moans. Their voices faded as the faint rustle and clatter of PJ’s gear came from across the camp and PJ slumped against his restraints, inhaling the essence of smoke and sweat with quick, shallow breaths. Blood seeped from his tongue and pooled against his bottom lip.

  His world was reduced to a dark, ringing haze and PJ’s thoughts of escape gave way to an irresistible need for sleep. The pain in his head began to fade, and he nodded forward, the blood in his mouth running onto the ground.

  Stay…awake…don’t…go to sleep.

  PJ lifted his head and drew a violent, sucking breath. He struggled against the rope, turning his head in blind panic as he regained his bearings. His left cheekbone was a torment, and he cringed as he leaned back against the tree. A thick paste coated the inside of his mouth, and PJ sucked blood from the wound on his tongue and spit. Aside from the annoyance of a faint background ring, his hearing was back.

  “He’s awake now,” Tom said. “What do we do?”

  “Just shut up a second.”

  The rustle of paper echoed from the lean-to, and PJ tipped his head back. The blindfold had ridden up slightly, letting him make out three pairs of boots around the table. One of the men heaved a sigh and dropped a stack of paper on the table, muttering.

  “Jesus Christ, I don’t know. Did you find anything else?”

  PJ’s head fell forward and he stared dumbfounded into the darkness, his jaw slack.

  “Yeah, got his I.D. here somewhere,” Tom said over the shuffle of PJ’s gear. “Probably left a fuckin’ car on the road, too. Gonna lead ‘em right to us. Here, that’s him. Said he was lookin’ for you.”

  A pause.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Approaching footsteps brought a cloud of air fouled by men too long in the woods. Jim lifted the blindfold and regarded PJ with distress, a thick beard and the scars from a recent altercation muddying his features, his bloodshot eyes studying the welt on PJ’s cheek. PJ spoke in a whisper, his swollen tongue reluctant to oblige.

  “Found you.”

  chapter twelve

  PJ

  Jim turned off the trail skirting the river and led PJ through the woods to his tent, concealed in a tangle of deadfalls. He swung his arm in proud display of the cramped site.

  “Home sweet home. Pull up a chair.”

  They sat on a log next to the tent, Jim scanning the Tim-Oil documents, PJ rinsing blood from his mouth with water from his canteen. He spit the pink residue behind him into the woods and replaced the cap and set the canteen at his feet.

  “Why’d you move your camp?”

  Jim looked up, scratching his jaw through his tangled beard.

  “Gettin’ too many guests at the other one,” he said, checking the camp’s perimeter. “More peaceful here.”

  “What kind of guests?”

  Jim held up a Hansen Timber memo.

  “Uninvited.”

  As Jim continued to study the files, PJ’s gaze drifted over the damage to Jim’s face—a collection of scars and bruises still in the process of healing. A large patch of beard was missing from his left cheek, replaced by a scab that was picked clean at the edges, revealing the raw skin beneath. The white of his left eye was a deep, gruesome red.

  “Let me guess,” PJ said. “Someone pissed at you for trashing their equipment.”

  Jim looked up with a tired nod and PJ turned away, squinting through the trees to where the lean-to was veiled in a thin haze rising off the river. He pressed a hand to the side of his face, working his jaw.

  “I’m sure your bodyguards could take ‘em.”

  Jim looked at PJ’s swollen cheek with a sheepish glance, averting his eyes back to the files as PJ turned to face him.

  “Really sorry about that, PJ. Tom’s a little—”

  “What the hell’s going on, Jim? Where is he?”

  A heavy unease hung between them, muting the roar of the Bald River as each man regarded the other in grim silence. PJ spit blood onto the ground, his impatient shrug drawing a shake of Jim’s head.

  “I don’t know,” Jim said. “But I promise you, PJ. We’ll find him.”

  “Mrs. Harrison said he was up here with you.”

  Jim’s lips tightened in a kept smile.

  “Yeah, well…she also invites me and Trudy for dinner every Sunday.”

  “When was he here?”

  “Couple of months ago. Taking water samples and photos.”

  PJ nodded to the stack of files in Jim’s lap.

  “What about John Olson? He help you with that too?”

  Jim shook his head and motioned across the camp to Tom and Mitch, now back from their hunt for firewood and stacking it by the lean-to, glancing back at them with vague curiosity.

  “That was us.”

  Locked in a protracted stare with Tom, PJ broke away.

  “Why do you have his stove?”

  “I…went to see him before I came up here. He knew mine was pretty shot, so he loaned it to me. Said you got him a new one for Father’s Day.”

  “Yeah,” PJ said, hanging his head and pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut. “Not even broken in yet.”

  Shuffling the files, Jim cleared his throat.

  “He’ll get to it.”

  PJ looked up.

  “All right,” he said, waving his hand at the documents in Jim’s lap. “Just so I’m clear on all this. Hansen’s clear cuts are too big and too close to the river and the park boundary. Bighorn is drilling off site to boost their numbers. You and dad are—were—going to tell this to Congress hoping to get the resource bill killed. That the gist of it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the memo with all the lines blacked out?”

  Jim found it in the stack and gave it a cursory glance.

  “It’s from Hansen management to the crew bosses. Came out after our scrape over on Brewer. Basically an APB on the ‘Bald Mountain Boys’. We got wind of this and bugged out, decided to lay low for a while. That’s when I went to your dad’s. Figured he should know what was going on in case something happened to us. I gave him copies of everything, told him to be careful.”

  PJ spit another mouthful of blood onto the ground between his feet.

  “Careful of what? You said he wasn’t involved with that shit.”

  “I was afraid they’d dig his name up somewhere.”

  PJ sucked his tongue, shaking his head.

  “Christ, Jim. What the hell did you stir up here?”

  Jim slid the documents into the map case and handed it back.

  “The truth.”

  PJ turned the map case in his hands.

  “How’d you get the recording? You have someone inside?”

  With a smile, Jim tipped his chin at his friends across the camp.

  “Tom Hansen.”

  About to drink from his canteen, PJ’s arm f
roze. He lowered it to his leg, his gaze shifting from Jim to Tom—now building a small tepee of sticks outside the lean-to.

  “Tom Hansen,” PJ said, again raising the canteen to his lips. “Jesus.”

  He rinsed his mouth, Jim chuckling beside him.

  “The prodigal son,” Jim said. “He’s more of a middle man, though. Someone at the company wants to get even with Old Man Hansen, who do they go to?”

  PJ spit.

  “Tom Hansen.”

  “Tom Hansen. This guy down in Seattle, one of their accountants, got screwed on a fancy promotion, so he called Tom up.”

  Jim pointed to the map case in PJ’s hands.

  “Gave us the company’s financials and tax returns. Both sets of books. Operations chief got hosed on his stock options, and a few weeks later, he bugged the meeting with Olson and gave Tom the recording. He’s got free reign of that place.”

  Jim shook with a tired laugh.

  “The old man’s clueless. Every time he pisses off the help, some new scandal erupts and he’s in panic mode.”

  “What’s in it for Tom?”

  Jim leaned aside and pulled a hip flask from his back pocket and unscrewed the lid and took a drink, watching his companions work together to light the fire.

  “Plenty of folks willing to pay good money to see that dickhead squirm.” He put the flask back in his pocket with a sigh. “Course…it never sticks. Helps to have powerful friends in your pocket. Gets you out of—”

  “You think any of this has to do with my dad?” PJ asked, his face drawn in frustration. Jim offered a subtle but determined nod.

  “We’re going to find him, PJ. Tomorrow, bright and early, we get your car off this mountain and figure this out.”

  PJ’s laughter dripped with sarcasm.

  “Oh, okay. ‘Figure this out’. Why didn’t I—?”

  He rose with a grunt, muttering and pacing the track worn into the dirt between the river and Jim’s tent.

  “What the hell was I thinking?” he said, hovering over Jim, still seated on the log. “You don’t know shit. I mean, what are we going to do? Start knocking on doors? I wasted enough time looking for you.”