“Of course not.”
He sat forward as the desk phone began to ring. Ward reached for it, nodding Hackett out the door.
“Good. Make sure your files are in order for the audit.”
Rising from his seat, Hackett cracked the door and snuck through, quietly latching it behind him. The pit was slowly emptying into the elevators and stairwells, with discussions of happy hour replacing those of production and revenues. A crowd of Hackett’s coworkers was assembled around his cubicle, snickering at his return. Seated behind Hackett’s desk, his friend Eddie Randolph leaned over to talk to a striking redhead in the adjacent cube.
“Hey Jane,” Eddie said, flicking his chin at Hackett, drawing her attention. “What the hell is that on Hackett’s nose?”
Jane studied Hackett’s face as she changed her shoes. She replied in scripted monotone.
“Why, it’s shit, Eddie. There’s shit on Hackett’s nose.”
Nodding, Eddie crossed his arms in front of him with a satisfied grin.
“That’s what I thought. You ever notice that before?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I have,” Jane said. “At the staff meeting this morning.”
As he pulled an empty chair into his cube, Hackett scratched his nose with his middle finger. He held it up to the snickering crowd.
“Hey, check it out. I think I got it.”
Jane stood and slung her purse onto her shoulder.
“You should show that to Ward,” she said. “He really needs to see it.”
Hackett waved his finger in Jane’s face.
“What…you mean this? You want me to show him this?”
He raised and lowered his hand as he spoke, ensuring she had a proper look. Jane looked away, rolling her eyes.
“You coming to Harry’s with us?” She asked. “You could use a drink.”
Hackett’s expression dropped as he turned to his computer. He glanced across the corridor to Ward’s shuttered office.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll catch up with you. I’ve just got a couple of—”
The bulk of the group dispersed with a murmur and flowed out of the pit into the main corridor. Hackett called after them over the clicking of heels.
“Yeah, that’s OK. You can all thank me later.”
For saving your fucking jobs.
Seated on the edge of her desk, Jane refreshed her lipstick, sharing a disappointed glance with Eddie.
“I don’t know why you do this to yourself, Hack,” she said. “He doesn’t give a shit about you.”
Hackett turned away from Jane, breaking a protracted stare. He stared at Ward’s closed office door.
“Yeah, I know.” Hackett gave them both a resigned shrug. “But what am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” Jane said, tucking her lipstick back into her purse. Hackett and Eddie watched breathlessly as she unpinned her hair and shook it loose onto her shoulders. With a sigh, she pulled it back behind her neck, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “That’s up to you, I guess. See you boys tomorrow.”
As Jane walked away, Hackett and Eddie pushed their chairs into the corridor, their eyes locked on her rear end, picking up the faint swish of her skirt fabric echoing off the cube dividers. They exhaled in unison as she rounded the corner at the end of the pit.
“For god’s sake, Hackett. What the hell are you doing? You could be all over that.”
Hackett rolled his chair back behind his desk and began organizing the files on his computer.
“What are you talking about? She’s dating that accountant downstairs.”
Eddie spun in his chair, his jaw hung in disbelief.
“Who cares? Do you hear how she talks to you? She wants to drain your sack, Hack.”
Hackett stopped working and they stared at each other in stoic, monumental restraint. Eventually, Hackett broke down, sputtering with laughter.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie said, raising his eyebrows. “Something funny?”
“Uh, yeah. You—” Hackett cleared his throat and composed himself, glancing around the nearly empty suite. “There’s something wrong with you. Really.”
Eddie waved this off.
“Nah, I’m fine. You, on the other hand, are dangerously close to losing it, my friend. This—” he said, pointing to Ward’s office door and then to Hackett’s computer, “—is making you crazy. If you don’t bust your nut very soon, the consequences are going to be severe. Now, you’ve got a smokin’ hot piece of ass waiting at Harry’s to help you out with that, so…tell me why the hell we’re still here.”
His fingers laced behind his head in thoughtful silence, Hackett watched as Eddie’s expression settled.
“You make a solid case,” he said, reaching for the bag under his desk. “But seriously, I do have a lot to—”
“You’re damn right I do! So get your ass down there right now and turn on the charm.” Eddie was on his feet, waving Hackett up from his desk. “It’s the least you can do after ditching her last week. She was asking all over about you.”
Hackett looked up with a smirk.
“No shit?”
“Yeah, this is what I’m sayin’. You need to move on this.”
“Screw it, let’s go.”
Eddie slapped Hackett on the back.
“Atta boy!”
Hackett closed the files on his computer and began to clear his desk, giving Eddie a sidelong glance.
“She really asked about me?”
“Christ, you’re such a girl. Where the hell were you, anyway?”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Ward dragged me to that convention in Houston. It was really last minute. I couldn’t get out of it.”
“He…wait, what? You were there with Ward?”
Hackett looked up as he shoved a stack of documents in a drawer.
“Yeah. What—?”
Oh, shit.
He shut the drawer and let his arm fall to his lap.
“Why?”
Ward was here all last week. Pretty busy too, from the looks of it. Lot of suits coming to see him, lots of meetings, some pretty serious looking shit.”
Hackett slumped in his chair, his vision beginning to blur as he regarded his friend with a protracted stare. Eddie snapped his fingers in Hackett’s face, forcing him to blink and turn to Ward’s office door.
“Hack. What’s going on?”
“Uh…oh, nothing. He…I don’t know, must have finished early. Left during the weekend sometime. Never told me he was leaving though.”
“Typical. He’s such a goddamn hypocrite. I guarantee if it had been the other way around, he would have torn you apart.”
Hackett picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder as he stood.
“Yeah.”
Hackett’s desk phone began to ring. Together, he and Eddie leaned over, reading the incoming call display: ‘Ward, ext. 2500’. Eddie stepped backwards into the pit, hiding himself from view of Ward’s window, waving Hackett to the rear exit.
“Let’s go.” Hackett stared at the phone, shaking his head. Eddie’s expression sank. “Don’t you dare. You answer that, and I’m keeping Jane for myself.”
“Sorry,” Hackett said, picking up. “Hello?”
“My office. Now.”
“Be right there.”
He hung up. Eddie was gone. As he crossed the corridor to Ward’s office, he paused, looking back at the empty suite.
“I’ll catch up with you,” he called.
Eddie’s voice floated over the cubicles as Hackett opened the door.
“See you tomorrow, Hack.”
The lights in the office were off. Ward was at the window with his back turned, watching the rush hour traffic below, his briefcase and coat on the desk. Hackett knocked softly on the door as he entered, drawing no response. He swallowed hard as he crossed the room.
“Something wrong, Mr. Ward?”
Ward turned his head aside, the side of his face concealed in shadow as he stared at the floor. Hackett stopped short of
the desk. With a sigh, Ward turned back to the window.
“Yes Hackett. There is.”
“Uh, what—is there anything I can do?”
“You can tell me why these goddamned tree huggers are still fucking with us.”
Ward returned to his desk, the window light behind him casting a sinister shadow across his face. Hackett swallowed, his knees weak as he staggered to the chair and sat, his cell phone digging into his side. He removed it from his belt, on the edge of crushing it in his clammy fist.
“W-what are you talking about?”
“A concerned citizen called PR in Houston an hour ago asking about our nosy little friend. ‘Why was he investigating our Cheyenne site…are we hiding something…could we make a statement about the border dispute…?’ Interesting questions, wouldn’t you say Hackett?”
“Shit. What—who was—?”
“It would seem to me, Hackett, that if things had been taken care of properly, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Well…I don’t know, Mr. Ward…about that. He could have told anyone he was…you know, looking at the site. And I told you before, you know, that we probably couldn’t get everything. I’m sure he had copies of all his files, or he’s working with someone, or—”
“Shut up, Hackett.”
Hackett looked down at his phone. His fingers slid nervously over the keypad as Ward continued. “I made a call myself just now. Had a very interesting conversation with a friend of mine at the justice department. Turns out they’re looking for a man missing in Wisconsin since last Friday. They have no idea where he is. What do you make of that?”
Hackett lurched forward against the desk, his voice cracking.
“They just haven’t found him yet! He’s dead, I’m sure of it! They just need to—”
“Jesus Christ, Hackett,” Ward said, glancing over Hackett’s shoulder. “Keep your fucking voice down. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Hackett looked around the room, inspecting the blinds on the windows to the suite, his hands shaking.
“I—so, are you saying you think this guy, the concerned citizen, knows what he—what Butch was doing there?”
“It was a woman, and I don’t think she knows shit. At least not yet. But I guarantee…this gets out of control and we’re fucked.” Ward took a cell phone from his desk, cursing under his breath as he slammed the drawer.
“Butch,” he said, shaking his head. “Christ.”
He worked his thumb hesitantly over the phone’s keypad.
“‘Just swap the files and get out,’ I said. Shit. Should have sent the fucking janitor.”
Hackett wiped away a bead of sweat sliding down his temple with the heel of his hand.
“Who are you calling?”
“We need someone at the site, Hackett. If these fuckers want to play, I’ll play.”
Hackett stood up and began pacing the office.
“He’s not alive,” he said, stopping to brace himself on the corner of Ward’s desk, his breathing erratic.
He can’t be.
Hackett closed his eyes and Butch’s bloody face appeared, staring at him from the shed. His image dissolved into blinding light through the shattered back wall. Hackett sat back down, leaning across the desk.
“This is crazy. We have to end this. We’re just going to get in deeper shit, can’t you see that?”
Ward disconnected the call with a dark, silent stare. Hackett tightened his grip on his own phone.
“It’s too late, Hackett. We’re already up to our necks in your bullshit. Can’t you see that?”
Hackett leaned back with a shrug.
“I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore. I killed someone. I’m turning myself in.”
The corners of Ward’s mouth twitched.
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Are you—what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Ward raised his hands, his expression turning conciliatory.
“Jesus—all right, all right, just calm down for god’s sake. Just…let me think for a second.”
Hackett stared at the floor, turning Ward’s file swap idea over in his head. Thinking about the hundreds of ways he could have said no and the lines he’d be using on Jane down at Harry’s if he had. Ward would never let him confess. He began to dial his phone, concealing it behind the desk.
“All right, look,” Ward said, laying his arms out over the desk, his posture slackening. Hackett looked up, disconnecting his call. “You’re right, Hackett. This…I guess this has gotten way out of hand. I know it’s probably not fair of me to ask, but…can you just give me a little more time? I know you’ve really got your ass in a sling, but…you know how I feel about that site.”
Hackett hung his head.
“Yeah.”
I know how you feel about that fucking site.
“All right.”
He began dialing his phone again.
“Okay. Great, thank you, Hackett. So…I guess as of now you’re off the team. You never worked on Cheyenne and don’t know anything about it. Got it?”
Holding off on sending his call, Hackett looked up, incredulous.
“But that’s…Cheyenne’s all we do. How’s that going to work?”
“I’ll take care of it, Hackett. Trust me.”
“What about all my files? All my work?”
“I’ll take care of it. Just go home. You’re out.”
Ward’s expression hardened as he straightened in his chair and again began pecking at his phone. Hackett shook his head, clearing the lump in his throat.
“Do we really need to involve this guy?” he asked, motioning to Ward’s phone. “I mean, you said yourself you don’t know him that well. Or what he’s capable of. He’s just going to make everything—”
“Okay,” Ward said, looking up with an air of annoyance. “Didn’t we just decide you were done? You don’t really have a say anymore, Hackett. You wanted out.”
“But…what are you going to tell him?”
Ward shook his head and pointed to the door, his face flushing. With a nod, Hackett sent his call, leaving the phone on the chair as he got to his feet. He pushed the chair against the desk and went to the door, stopping short and turning on Ward with a cold stare.
“So, were we both in Houston last week? Or was that just me? I just want to make sure I get my story straight before—”
“Jesus, Hackett,” Ward said, slouching back in his chair with a gasp. “Just…let me deal with this, okay?”
Hackett nodded with a kept smile.
“Yeah. Sure.”
He turned and left Ward’s office, easing the door shut behind him. Now empty and dark, the suite echoed with the ring of his desk extension, and Hackett ran to his cube and picked up, muting the call as he pushed a flash drive into his computer. With the handset wedged against his shoulder, he began copying his work on Cheyenne to the drive, listening to Ward’s end of the call—muffled but intelligible.
“Could you just get him for me, please?—thank you.”
With practiced precision, Hackett tapped into Bighorn’s intranet system, calling up encrypted files and communications from all levels of the company and copying them to the drive. Production reports. Projections and inventory. Regulatory audits, shipping manifests. Drilling leases and refining costs. Enhanced recovery. Site surveys and pending lawsuits. Judge Walton Stone, First Court of Appeals. Shoshone Indian burial grounds.
“It’s Ward. I’m going to need you at the site—keep an eye on things for a week or so—I don’t know, maybe nobody. I hear you’re a smart guy, you’ll know if something doesn’t feel right. Just—”
The ventilation fans in the suite turned over, drowning out Ward’s voice. Hackett scrambled to copy the last of the files to the drive and crawled under the desk, plugging his open ear.
“Well, he’s a problem now. After the site’s in the clear, I need you to get back here and deal with it. I’m not sure how much time we’ve got
—right.”
Ward said no more. His stomach turning, Hackett reached back over his head and hung up the phone, taking the pack of cigarettes from the top drawer of his desk. The ventilation system shut down, leaving him in a deep, isolated silence. He stared at the back of Jane’s chair, imagining her at work on a meaningless report. The air conditioning was set too high as usual, and she took the sweater from the back of her chair and draped it over her bare shoulders—hiding the delicate sweep of freckles running from one to the other. He closed his eyes, wondering if she would miss him. The latch on Ward’s door clicked and Hackett plucked the flash drive from the computer and crawled around Jane’s cube into the pit.
six years ago
PJ
He pulled his father’s car off the cemetery road and killed the engine. PJ’s breath clouded as he gazed out the open passenger window, studying the column of headstones retreating over the wet grass to the modest but well-kept hedgerow. A gray mist enveloped the grounds, condensing in the canopy of the oaks lining the road and falling with a rhythmic patter on the roof of the car.
His mother’s stone was set three rows in, the fresh patch of earth over the grave covered in a light fuzz of green. PJ’s breathing grew shallow as he lingered on the inscription. He read it several times, analyzing the cut of every letter:
Beautiful Daughter, Loving Wife, Devoted Mother.
He turned to Sara’s stone, nestled alongside her mother’s, graven simply:
Our Angel.
Snapping from his daze with a quick, sucking breath, PJ popped the trunk and got out of the car, glancing up and down the empty road. He rifled his father’s tool box, inspecting and then casting aside various tools as unsuitable. Settling on the hammer, PJ marched across the grass, checking the entrance gate over his shoulder. He hovered over his mother’s stone, again reading the inscription, his face drawn, the hammer hanging at his side.
“What a crock of shit.”
He lowered into a crouch and touched the hammer to the word ‘Loving’. After a few light practice swings, he put his weight behind them, his technique honed during the rebuild of the house’s front porch steps the previous summer. The granite slowly gave under the onslaught, reducing the letters to a jagged depression on the surface of the stone. PJ sat back on his heels, catching his breath as he studied his work. With a satisfied nod, he placed his free hand on top of the stone, now setting the hammer’s head on the word ‘Devoted’. He attacked it with redoubled force, wincing as the blows sent shotgun-sprays of crushed granite back at his neck and face.
The Ascent of PJ Marshall Page 17
