The Other Oregon

by Steve Anderson

  “Darwin Awards? You sound like a cop,” Greg said.

  Donny chuckled. “I am definitely not that. As you well know.”

  “And those kids? In the woods.”

  “Jamie and Rory. April’s their little sidekick.”

  “They were doing something. It looked like a drug deal.”

  “That right?” Donny said. “Wait, don’t tell me—meth use is getting big in rural areas, you read it in Willamette Week, or maybe it was the New Yorker even?” He had locked his eyes on Greg. Was this just a ploy to find out where Greg lived now, where he was coming from? Greg had to consider everything a tactic, a maneuver. For a moment he froze up again and had to look away, out the window at the landscape that seemed to be turning greener by the yard. Crops lined the road now, sprinklers and sparkling green on one side, neatly stacked hay blocks on the other. The brown Pineburg was behind them. They were going uphill.

  Screw it. It was no secret where he lived. “I see it on Portland streets all the time,” he said.

  “Touché,” Donny said.

  Greg had probably first read about it in something more like the Atlantic or Mother Jones, though the Oregonian often had articles about the onslaught of meth, especially on how it had hit rural Oregon. Some called it cliché now, yet the epidemic would not die. Authorities had been fighting back against local meth labs by getting those over-the-counter cold medicines that meth cookers used changed to be prescription only; that and an increase in raids, awareness programs, and counseling had helped. But in the last few years Mexican drug gangs, seeing a market opportunity, had moved in more pure and potent crystals to build on the demand that the amateurs had created. Yet Greg dropped the subject, refrained from talking too much. He should let Donny do the talking and let him reveal himself.

  Donny had one hand on top of the steering wheel, his sinewy, bony fingers hanging off it. His lips shifted back and forth. And Greg felt like a kid the parent had to pick up from school after being sent home for the day.

  “We’re not going back into town?” Greg began.

  “You don’t have a place to stay,” Donny said almost before Greg finished asking as if thinking the same thought. “Your car will be safe. I’ll make sure no one touches it.”

  “Thanks. I’m not worried.” Of course he was, but what could he do about it?

  “Or your bike,” Donny said.

  Did Donny really have such power? Was it just a bluff? “You know I can’t help having questions,” Greg said.

  Donny stared at Greg, his lips pressing together like he wanted to spit. Greg’s face had lost the numbness, but he did his best to pretend he still had not lost his shock.

  Donny put one eye back on the road. “You come over the mountains?” he said.

  Greg nodded. “Only way.”

  “You stop there? At the lake spot?”

  Greg showed a blank face as if he didn’t get it at first. “Nah.”

  “Don’t gimme that shit, boy,” Donny said.

  “All right, yes. I did. I was there. Just for a minute though. I couldn’t even find the exact spot. It looks like it’s never been touched.”

  “You’re damn right there.”

  “It was my first time,” Greg said.

  “I went once. Long time ago. And that was enough.”

  The road headed uphill. Donny slowed for a broad gate constructed of thick logs so nicely stained they looked just finished; ironwork framed the logs with designs of horseshoes and saws and, along the horizontal log above, the words Old Callum Ranch. Signs to the side read No Access, Private Road, and No Trespassing. They passed through. The entry road, lined with trees, ended at a grand old restored Victorian house. It looked like a high-end B&B or something out of the Old South. Greg didn’t ask questions, and Donny offered nothing. He parked at the front steps, barked, “Come on,” and went inside. Greg followed. He found Donny in a study. Donny was closing the thick wood blinds, making it so dark he had to turn on a desk lamp. In the middle of the room stood two broad chairs upholstered in a soft piebald cowhide. Lining the walls were bookshelves showing trophies and art pieces that looked, to Greg, like those corporate inspirational awards he always laughed at in in-flight catalogs, while other shelves had photos of vast landscapes or horses or bulls. Donny poured a whiskey for them, C.W. Irwin, sighing with each pour.

  “Charles Adler doesn’t drink,” Donny said as he handed Greg his whiskey. He added a smile. “That’s what they say. He’s reclusive. Few see him or would know if they saw him. You don’t even remember the name, do you?”

  Greg didn’t. Maybe it was someone they used to joke about. “Back in Portland? I drink the same stuff,” he said. “Here’s to Oregon whiskey.”

  Eyeing Greg again, Donny pressed his glass to his mouth as if by a mechanical arm and drank. “Why the hell are you here?” he said. “You tell me exactly.”

  Greg gave a long sigh, like Donny’s. “I’m not going to lie to you. I was looking to do an article, maybe a book.”

  “A book? You?” Donny’s eyes sparkled a moment, then dimmed.

  “About how city and country conflict. Ready? It was going to include this guy named Donny Wilkie, talk about what led him on the path he took.”

  “Why he done what he did, how he ended up where he was? That kinda deal?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Bullshit. You came here to make sure I didn’t tell anyone about the lake. Or won’t.”

  “That would be true. I would admit it,” Greg said. “Except that I thought you were dead.”

  “You had to have a hunch. It’s the real reason you come. Just admit it.”

  “I just told you, I’d admit it if I had any idea.”

  “You are looking after your own skin though,” Donny said. “Just like always.”

  Greg nodded. “You’re probably right about that.”

  “Well, I didn’t tell anyone, and I won’t,” Donny said. “But, you? You have to be sure. I know that about you. Maybe you came here to kill me. Maybe that’s it.”

  A laugh burst from Greg. “That’s absurd. I didn’t even know you’re alive. Besides, I could say the same about you.”

  “I guess you could, couldn’t you?” Donny burst out laughing, but it was affected, a mock of Greg’s laugh. His mouth snapped shut.

  Greg didn’t like the shiver this gave him. “I could,” he said.

  “Okay. Okay. Well, did you?”

  “Tell? Fuck, no. I never told a soul, and I never will.”

  Donny sighed again, this one long enough to leave a whiskey aroma in the air. “I didn’t even tell Leeann. Don’t eye me like that. Leeann Holt. Of course you were wondering about her.”

  “That’s good to know,” Greg said.

  “We were together a long time, you know, me and Leeann.”

  “Oh? How is she?”

  “I wouldn’t know. She left me.”

  “Oh. So, about the time you died? In Mexico?”

  “It was around then, yes. How did you know?”

  “I was a reporter then. I read it was in Mexico. Must have been on the wire.”

  “Okay, all right,” Donny said, nodding. “I didn’t tell her though, Greg. I never did.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  They drank. Donny stared at Greg, his fingers tight around the whiskey glass. “Now. What about this book bullshit?”

  Greg shrugged. “Sounds like a bad idea now, considering.”

  “Little close to home, isn’t it? You’d have to leave out some real good parts.”

  “I guess so. Of course.” Ideally, the book was now an ever better idea, considering the latest revelations. But it could never be told, not with Donny alive and able to talk. Finding Donny had changed everything. A part of Greg had not yet accepted that he would ever actually locate Donny, and especially not so easily. He took a quick drink, and another. What the hell had Torres led him to? And was Donny right? Had he really been prepared to kill Donny if need be? He told himself that
he wouldn’t even know how.

  “Don’t look mad at me. It was your idea,” Donny said.

  “I’m not mad. It was just research, Donny—”

  “Charlie. It’s Charlie.”

  “I could easily not have found you here. You could have avoided me no problem. I would’ve just moved on. You know that, right? You could have stayed hidden.”

  “I know,” Donny began to say, but he had turned to face the window as if hearing something outside. “Turn that off,” he barked.

  Greg switched off the desk lamp, bringing darkness. Donny bounded over and raised a wood blind a little, about an inch. Greg expected light to stream in, but it only brought the purple dusk. Donny knelt there and peered out, his eyes just above the windowsill. He closed the blind.

  “False alarm,” Donny said and stomped out. “Come on.”

  Greg followed Donny out to a long back porch that stretched to either end of the house. Dusk had thinned out fast. Donny kept the porch light off. They stood looking out at the dark, the darkness pure out here. As his eyes adjusted, Greg could make out the contours of a barn-like building beyond. It looked tidy and organized with none of the farm machinery or junk or goods left out like he’d seen driving past other ranches.

  “I always feel better outside,” Donny said. “Got a smoke?”

  “Quit years ago, or I would.”

  Donny turned to Greg, a black silhouette imprinting even the darkness. “I don’t think you understand the spot I’m in. No, I know you don’t. It’s only a matter of time before they’re on to me.”

  “Before who is?”

  “County Mountie, state, Feds, who knows?”

  Feds. Greg faced a choice here. He could tell Donny the FBI had approached him, gain his trust that way. His gut told him not to—not yet. It might only have the opposite effect, make Donny mistrust him more, or worse. He needed Donny’s trust to make sure that Donny would never tell. “For what, exactly?” Greg said.

  “It’s not about the lake. Don’t worry.”

  Not yet it wasn’t. But after they caught him? Who knew? “Okay, that’s good—I mean, you know what I mean,” Greg said, stalling. He calculated a response, one that would sound logical coming from a former reporter: “What about the city police?” he said.

  Donny shook his head. “Pineburg PD? No more. Not since last budget cuts. Which people voted for, by the way.” He smiled and shook his head again but this time on a perfect swivel. “Oh, sure, there’s a county Mountie on a string who makes the rounds, but he don’t know the score as much, not nearly. Made it easier for me. Why you think I’m still here?”

  The darkness, it amplified every nuance of their voices. Any hesitation hinted at deception. Every assurance suggested worse.

  “Whose house is this?” Greg said.

  “Whose you think? Mine? A woman named Karen Callum.”

  “I’ve heard that name.”

  “If you haven’t around here, you’re deaf or Chinese.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re telling me.”

  “We’re not married, but we might as well be,” Donny said, looking out into the darkness. “We partnered up, see.” He didn’t say it like congrats were in order.

  “So, let’s back up a second. How do you know they’re on to you?”

  Donny took his time. He leaned on the railing, and he rocked forward and back, the floorboards and balusters under his weight so sturdy they did not creak, not even out here where it was so silent. He looked to Greg, his face a compact black monolith, but Greg could see the glints of his eyeballs. “This is between you and me. There was this group of officials come snooping around a little while ago. Because of our dam. Her dam.”

  “There’s a dam somewhere on this side of town. I saw it on a map.”

  “Yep. Pineburg Dam.”

  “I saw billboards about water. Homemade ones or something. Wait—her dam?”

  “It’s privately owned. Callum Utility Company owns most of it.”

  “It’s for power?”

  “A little, but mostly for irrigation—that’s water for farmland. Ranching.”

  “I know what irrigation means.”

  “Well, those officials, they done come around, and they bring their enviro cronies of theirs. The relicensing is coming up, but I don’t think they aim to give it. They’re all looking to remove the Pineburg Dam, you see …”

  Donny paused. He went into a crouch, grasping at the railing balusters. The Greg of twenty years ago would have stood there smirking and told Donny: “Dude, you look like you’re already in jail”—maybe just to see how Donny would react. But the Greg of today only waited it out. Appearing respectful. He needed to show Donny that he wasn’t going to make Donny say anything he did not want to say.

  Donny said, “Some fellers I know, they went and played a little trick on those people. I don’t think those people liked it too much.” He stared up at Greg, and the glints in his eyes looked softer, wetter.

  “What kind of little trick? Who are these fellers—guys—you know?” Greg said.

  “The deal is, they really fucked up.” Donny shook his head, and he stood. He paced the porch, passing right by Greg and then back again, his thumbs tucked into his pockets and his elbows out. Greg couldn’t help being reminded of a gunslinger before a big draw, waiting for sunrise outside the saloon. Donny reached the end of the porch again. He pivoted, faced Greg. He said: “Only reason I’m telling you this? I’m thinking you can help me. Both God and the Devil know you do owe me that.”

  13

  Greg woke up in the dark startled, then paranoid, anxiety squeezing at his chest, hot and cold and hotter. He was exposed, both he and Donny were, just by being together. And what was next? He canceled out the nonstarters. If Donny wanted to blackmail him, he would have tried it already. If Donny wanted to kill him, he would have buried him by now. Donny could have revenge in his head, sure, but Greg couldn’t sense it, couldn’t see how. So, why was Donny confiding in him? Did he really think Greg could help him after what they had done together, done to each other?

  Donny had put up Greg in an upstairs bedroom with a huge four-poster bed and decor that Greg would’ve described to Emily as country foofy. All that was missing were the stuffed old bunny rabbit dolls wearing prairie dresses. The bed was too high off the ground and the mattress so soft it wanted to pull Greg down, submerging him, and he just couldn’t sleep, not with Donny somewhere below him lurking. Donny had a bedroom upstairs, but he had never gone up, claiming he preferred to sleep in his den downstairs. As Greg lay there, he kept feeling twinges of an alternate reality in which he would do whatever it took to keep Donny from destroying him. But was it alternate or just what loomed?

  He fought the urge to call Agent Torres, tell him he’d come to Pineburg on his own. But it was too late for that. He’d already rejected that route. It would only make Torres wonder why he’d suddenly come around. Torres might start asking tough questions.

  Out on the porch earlier, Donny had never said how he thought Greg might help him. He needed to think some shit out first, he had said. They had shared another whiskey and tried to talk up the good times of twenty years ago like when Greg had Donny do his rural Western thing to confuse and lure Portland chicks—working their own brand of Midnight Cowboy scam. They had laughed about it. But now Greg thought: If Donny was playing the bumpkin babe magnet, what had that made him? The wannabe Ratso? Some third-rate pimp and con man?

  It was near five in the morning. It would be light before long. He needed sleep or at least something to help it along. He had a little pot in his car, a baggie that was mostly shake and had to be below the legal amount. But it was still stupid of him. This was all so fucking stupid.

  The next morning the big old house was full of light, its tall windows getting lots of it despite the large shadowing trees that stood at precisely the same distance from each corner of the house, more like giant sentries than sturdy old friends. Greg couldn’t take it anymore and was up
by seven and downstairs by eight, roaming the living room, looking at photos of what had to be a young Karen Callum—the sole remaining child of one Loren Callum. Donny had told him: Once there were three great families in Pineburg; but the other families’ children sold off the ranches, moved away, or died, and only the Callums remained standing. A first-born son, Ben, had died in an auto accident on a twisting road outside Pineburg, hitting a utility pole so hard that it knocked out electricity for miles. Loren Callum had been sitting at the kitchen table at the time, mulling over how best to pass on the ranch to Ben. After the loss of Ben, the Callums might have died out too. Loren Callum had already lost his wife too early, to cancer. Then young Karen stepped in to keep her father going. They were quite the partnership until Loren died a few years ago. None of the photos Greg saw included Ben, though he imagined there had once been many. He saw Karen looking like a tomboy in western riding gear, then posing with her father in multiple photos, the man always wearing a western suit and a Stetson. Greg wasn’t surprised to see the similarity to Donny’s new self, Charlie Adler.

  Donny came in and sat Greg at the dining room table by the window looking out on one of the big sentry trees. In the daylight, coming back to his senses, Greg felt all the more relieved that he didn’t come here as an informant for the FBI. This way made his questions all his own, thus all the more credible. For the answers, he might have to go places that a guy like Torres could never know about.

  Donny sucked from his coffee mug. “That bad, huh?” he said.

  “What?” Greg had forgotten to drink his coffee. He took a quick sip.

  “I know it’s not your Stumpville brand or whatever from Portland,” Donny said, grinning. He still had those bright and healthy teeth, still all white. How had he kept them like that all these years, after all he’d done and seen? While on the run, had he paid off dentists to clean and whiten his teeth at midnight? Or maybe a guy like Charlie Adler could simply afford dental care.

  “Coffee’s fine,” Greg said.

  They heard the stairs creak from footsteps. Donny sat upright and tried on a smile as if for an interview, which Greg thought odd. He did the same.