The Ascent of PJ Marshall Page 2

  PJ stood and brushed the sand from his pants.

  “Okay.”

  “You can mark the water again if you want. It’ll probably rise a lot tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  In bare feet, PJ shuffled through the soft sand of their camp to the cool, packed surface of the river bank where a forked stick was jammed into the sand, holding his rod tip off the ground. His line hung slack over the water, swaying in the wind. He reeled in and grabbed his line near the end, dangling the pale, waterlogged worm inches from his face, letting it spin around for a full inspection before stripping it and tossing it into the river. PJ sniffed his fingers and dragged them over his pants leg before sniffing them again. He pulled the stick from the sand and pushed it back in at the waterline. As he secured his hook in the foam rod handle, the first bite of cold, slanting rain found him and he turned and leaned into the wind.

  The storm’s leading edge boiled over with a rolling head of black and gray, lit from within by a steady flicker of white. Thunder echoed up the river in a continuous rumble punctuated with an occasional ear-splitting crack. In the near distance, a thread of lightning escaped from the clouds and disappeared behind the far shore of the river. As PJ watched the storm bear down, a gust of wind drove river water into the air, adding a hint of earthy warmth to the spray. Butch called to him from the top of the bank.

  “You coming, PJ?”

  PJ turned and climbed up to his father as thunder cracked and rolled over their heads. He glanced back.

  “Four seconds.” Butch grabbed PJ’s hand and pulled him up. “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we come back here on my birthday?”

  “Sure, partner.”

  “Just you and me. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  PJ pointed up at Butch’s camouflage baseball cap.

  “Do you like your hat?”

  “I love it,” Butch said, taking it by the brim and repositioning it on his head. “Best Father’s Day present ever. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  PJ put his fishing pole under the canoe and they took their cups of hot chocolate into the tent and closed the door. As PJ and his father sat in their tent drinking cocoa, the river slipped past them under the storm.

  chapter one

  Hackett

  He watched the house from the hilltop clearing, his view occasionally blurred by the smoke of his dying cigarette. The man inside crossed the front window for a third time and then the house went dark. The front door opened with a distant creak and the man stepped onto the porch, glancing up and down the gravel road, locking the door behind him. Lowering his binoculars, Hackett crouched behind the massive oak, squinting through the undergrowth at the clearing’s far edge as he crushed his cigarette in the wet grass. He slipped the phone from his shirt pocket.

  “Okay, he’s coming out now.”

  “Does he have the computer?”

  “No.”

  “Good. We need to move on this, Hackett. Call me when it’s done.”

  “I will. Don’t worry, Mr. Ward.” Hackett disconnected and returned the phone to his pocket. He withdrew it again, checking the display before putting it back.

  “Asshole.”

  Creeping to the far side of the clearing, Hackett watched the man walk to his car, craning his neck to keep him in view. He stood behind the tangle of buck thorn, squinting through the binoculars as the man opened the car door and once again checked the road in both directions, his face hidden under the brim of his camouflage cap. Hackett chuckled, shaking the binoculars off target.

  You ever get that feeling…?

  The car backed onto the gravel easement and disappeared into the woods at the edge of the lake, its headlights throwing a receding dome of light on the canopy. Hackett waited, binoculars half-raised, until the squeak of tires on wet blacktop drew a satisfied grin.

  Hackett got into his car—pulled tight against the dense brush—and set the binoculars on the passenger seat. Turning off the dome light, he pushed in the cigarette lighter and eased the door shut. He reclined the seat, listening. The receding hiss of tires, and then silence. The lighter popped and he lit up, holding the cigarette out the window, waiting.

  Heavy with water from a day-long rain, the trees circling the hilltop released a rhythmic patter on the undergrowth, lulling Hackett into a daze as he watched the yellows and oranges over the lake fade to purple dusk. He slid his thumb into his shirt pocket, stuffing the folded sheet of paper deeper inside.

  What the hell are you doing?

  Hackett’s third cigarette hissed under a drop of water and he sat up, flicking it to the ground. He took the knapsack from the back seat and got out of the car. Hesitating at the edge of the clearing, he went back to his car and took the tire iron from the trunk and put it in his pack.

  He shuffled and slipped down the hillside to the soggy rustle of leaves and the occasional slap of undergrowth on his face, which drew muttered curses and retaliatory snapping of wood. Pausing short of the gravel lane, Hackett peered across through the crotch of a dead tree, panting. The light from the neighboring houses cast a dim, uneasy glow onto the easement and he checked it in both directions, mopping the sweat from his brow. Through the front and back windows of the man’s house he could see the lake beyond, calm and gray in the fading light. A steady blink of red inside.

  Bolting from the woods, Hackett scanned the misty gloom as he ran in a crouch across the road and side yard to the back door, nervously glancing back around the house as he rummaged in his pants pocket, struggling to catch his breath. His fingers shaking, Hackett slid the pick into the lock. He pulled his hands away with a jerk.

  “Shit.”

  Tucking his hand into his sleeve, he wiped the doorknob clean, his breathing erratic. From his jacket pocket, he gathered a pair of latex gloves and forced them onto his gritty, sweat-soaked hands, causing him to drop the pick.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  With the flashlight from his pack, he searched the porch floor, sweat dripping from his nose. He found the pick and continued to work the lock, his urgency redoubled. From across the lake a loon called, and its high, throaty yodel—amplified as it crossed the water—echoed off the hill. With a start, Hackett shut his eyes, frozen.

  Never again, asshole.

  Drawing a deep breath, Hackett opened his eyes, his determined gaze fixed on the lock as he scoured its inside with the pick. A metallic click. Hackett turned the latch and exhaled, mopping his forehead with his sleeve as he went inside.

  He took off his shoes and crossed the living room, sweeping the floor with the flashlight and glancing nervously at the black, curtainless windows. At the desk, Hackett quickly removed his pack and sat, snuffing the light against his leg as he opened the laptop computer. He took the slip of paper from his pocket.

  With judicious use of the flashlight, Hackett accessed the man’s files and email account using his hand-written passwords, cursing under his breath as his gloved fingers caught and misfired on the keyboard. He checked the windows as he took a flash drive from his pocket, the answering machine on the desk blinking in his peripheral vision. Turning off the flashlight, he made quick work of scrubbing the man’s computer and email archive, moving all ‘Bighorn’ and ‘Tim-Oil’ files to the flash drive with measured confidence, the corners of his mouth lifting.

  What would he do without you, Hackett?

  He ran the ‘Cleanup’ program on the flash drive and leaned back, mopping the sweat from his brow as he watched a collection of new files transfer from the stick to the laptop. Looking up from the computer, Hackett froze, his gaze fixed out the front window, his breath held. Intense light washed over from the backside of the hill across the road, silhouetting the oak tree and filtering through the brush on the near side. The outline of his car was vague and broken, but visible. His legs shaking as he rose from the chair, Hackett peered over the seam in the double-hung sashes. He exhaled upon tracing the light to the f
ull moon rising behind the hill.

  “Jesus Christ…”

  He sat and pulled the flash drive from the computer and put it in his pocket.

  You owe me big time for this, dickhead.

  On his knees, Hackett stuffed all manner of documents and discs into his pack as he methodically rifled the desk and file cabinet. Crossing to the bookshelf on the opposite wall, he found the man’s camera and replaced its memory card with one from his pocket. He carefully set the camera back in its place on the shelf.

  After a second look at the computer, Hackett shouldered his pack and went to the back door, checking his watch as he put on his shoes. The desk phone began to ring. He swept the room behind him with his light and then turned it off. The man’s outgoing message played.

  “Hi, this is Butch. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

  Hackett opened the door and locked the latch, mocking the recording.

  “With my one phone call.”

  The incoming message stopped him short.

  “Pick up the phone. I know you’re there.”

  Hackett’s throat tightened during an excruciating pause. The man’s slow, rhythmic breathing buzzed on the machine. Turning to face the room, Hackett crouched against the door, quietly closing it behind him. The man on the phone chuckled.

  “Look outside.”

  Shit.

  Hackett ducked under the large picture window next to the door and peered over the sill, his breath held through another pause, scanning the darkness.

  “Out the front.”

  Hackett turned, his bladder threatening to give.

  “Shit!”

  He crawled to the front door, his body shaking as he fumbled to remove his pack. With his back against the wall, Hackett’s terrified gaze bounced over the surrounding windows as he struggled with the pack’s zipper. Snatching the tire iron from inside and cocking it by his ear, he rose to his knees at the front window. On the bookshelf behind him, the clock’s second hand ticked in maddening time with the caller’s breath. Moving only his eyes, Hackett searched to the limits of his vision, heat radiating from his brow. Aside from the brilliant wedge of moonlight peeking over the hilltop, he saw nothing. The caller sighed.

  “All right. Guess you’re not there.”

  Hackett turned to the machine.

  “I thought we could catch that full moon we missed. Skies are pretty clear down here, but—”

  “Oh for chrissake…”

  Hackett rose and slung the pack on his shoulder, crossing to the back door. Locking the door behind him, he snapped off the gloves and shoved them into his pocket as he jogged across the side yard—oblivious to the muffled rumble of the caller’s ongoing message inside. Muttering and cursing, he crossed the easement and plunged into the woods, pushing and beating the undergrowth aside with the tire iron.

  Shrouded in mist, the ghostly silhouettes of oaks and maples led the way up the hill in ragged formation, Hackett stumbling and slipping behind. He stopped frequently to catch his breath and shrug the dense load higher onto his back, glancing furtively at the silent houses below. Exhausted and soaked through, he reached the clearing, laughing despite himself at his first glimpse of moonlight reflecting off the hood of his car. He collapsed against the driver’s door, fishing in his shirt pocket. Redialing his last call and raising the phone to his ear, he tipped his head back against the door, panting.

  “Is it done?”

  “Yeah. Piece of cake.”

  “You got rid of the virus?”

  Hackett shut his eyes, rolling his head against the car.

  Spyware, you dumb shit.

  “Yeah. First thing I did.”

  “Good. Where are you now?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “You made the call?”

  Hackett’s eyes flew wide as he jerked forward off the car.

  “Uh, no. I was just about—”

  “God damn it, Hackett! I told you to call me when it’s done. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “I’ll do it, Mr. Ward, I—”

  “Pull the fucking car over, make the call and get your ass back here. Six o’clock.”

  Hackett bit his lower lip, hissing through his nose.

  “Right. See you then.”

  No response.

  “Mr. Ward?”

  He checked the display and disconnected.

  “Fuck you too.”

  Hackett stood and opened the car door, tossing the tire iron and backpack across to the passenger seat. He pushed in the lighter and took a cigarette from the nearly empty pack. A check of the houses. Quiet and lit as before, the road and easement empty. Hackett flinched as the lighter popped.

  He lit up and turned to face the opposite side of the clearing, pulling from his cigarette as he leaned back against the door, his thumb lightly sweeping the buttons of his phone. He gazed at the countryside below, where scattered trees threw long, creeping shadows across the valley floor. The clouds had pulled away from the moon completely, and he squinted at the intense light through the oak’s massive, branching silhouette, pulling a long, final drag. He flicked the spent cigarette skyward and dialed, his breath quickening.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “There’s a man—” Hackett gasped. “He—he just tried to kill me!”

  “Okay, are you still in danger, sir?”

  “I don’t know. I got away, but—oh god, he knows where I live!”

  “Who tried to kill you, sir?”

  Hackett was pacing the hilltop, panting.

  “I—his name is Butch, I think. That’s what I was told.”

  “Do you know his last name?”

  “It said Marshall on his mailbox. He lives on a—a gravel road up at Long Lake.”

  “Is that Boulder Junction, sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Theresa Lane?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “And is that where he tried to kill you sir?”

  “Yeah. I was up there to—holy shit! He said there was someone else! I think he’s got someone else in the house! You have to help them!”

  “A unit’s on the way, sir. Did the man have a weapon?”

  Back at his car, Hackett braced himself against the open door with his free hand, his body shaking.

  “Yeah. A gun. He had a gun.”

  “And where are you now, sir?”

  “I’m in my car. He followed me for a while, but he turned around.”

  “Okay, can you tell me where you are?”

  “I—I don’t know. I pulled over on the highway. I don’t know, north of town somewhere. I’m not from around here.”

  “Is that highway M?”

  “Could be. Yeah, I think so.”

  “Okay, sir. Just stay on the line and sit tight if you can.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “No. I’m okay.”

  “What is your name, sir?”

  Hackett froze, forcing down the lump rising in his throat. Through the thin canopy of trees on the hillside, he could see the lake. A smear of moonlight reflected across its surface from the near to far shore, holding him in a speechless gaze.

  “Sir?”

  “J-John. John Reynolds.”

  “Did you see someone else in the house, Mr. Reynolds?”

  “No, I was—oh, shit, I knew this was a bad idea.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “I—a friend told me about this guy. He said I could make a lot of money doing computer work for him.”

  “All right, and you say the man turned around?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which direction was he going?”

  “I don’t know, back the way we came, I guess. Back to his house, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Okay Mr. Reynolds, the officers will be there shortly. Just stay on the line with me, you’ll be fine.”

  “I should go, what if he comes back? I shouldn’t stay here. I should�
�”

  “Mr. Reynolds, there’s a unit on its way to help you. I need you to stay put if you can, okay?”

  “Uh, yeah, okay. I—”

  Hackett hung up and turned off his phone and put it in his pocket. He got in the car and eased the door shut, locking his hands onto the wheel, staring out into the darkness. His voice came as a hoarse whisper.

  “Jesus, Hackett. What the fuck did you do?”

  The steering wheel unlocked with a twitch as he turned the key, and the glow of green and blue light flooding from the dash drew a sigh of relief. He stepped on the clutch, urging the car into a silent roll down the grassy access lane. The moonlit clearing funneled into the darkness of the surrounding woods, and Hackett turned on the headlights, squinting and tapping the brakes as he rounded a narrow, hairpin curve. As he reached to push in the lighter, his arm froze, and he stopped the car with a jerk. The gate had been closed, blocking his exit to the main road. On the other side, a car was pulled tight against the honeysuckle, its side markers reflecting through the trees.

  “Oh, shit, shit, shit!”

  Nauseous and stiff with fear, Hackett stared at the car, his left hand clutching the wheel, his right sliding the tire iron across the seat to his lap. His foot shook violently on the brake pedal. The door ajar light came on, and Hackett gazed at the ominous red square, numb. Cool metal pressed into the base of his neck as the rear driver’s side door closed. A low voice floated over his shoulder.

  “Stay put.” Hackett lifted off the seat, his breath quickening as the pressure on his neck grew. “Let me see your hands.”

  Leaving the tire iron on his lap, Hackett complied, his hands quivering in the air as he squinted at the rear view mirror.

  “Who—what do you want?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “I…no, I don’t.”

  The man chuckled.

  “So…Hackett. Ward’s only got a few weeks left.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—how do you know my name?”