The Other Oregon

by Steve Anderson

  Again Greg didn’t answer.

  Torres leaned forward and looked out each window, at what Greg wasn’t sure—all Greg saw were knotty trees, a parking lot needing paving, and an empty road leading to empty shops. The heat in his head was gone, replaced by a chill in his gut.

  Torres spoke with staccato precision:

  “In a few minutes, you’ll see a blue pickup roll by. A Chevy, the rear fender dented. Follow it, but not too close.”

  And he jumped out.

  22

  Greg had frozen up, like a lever had been pulled that locked up the gears inside him. Fear had done it to him. All this time, he had let himself believe he had been on his own. Now he saw that he’d only been on a very short leash. That’s what he was—a dog. A small and not ferocious or heroic dog no matter how hard he tried. A Chihuahua. Pomeranian. And like that sorry little excitable dog, Greg could not think straight now. His brain was a pea.

  He had followed the blue Chevy pickup out of town with Torres sitting in the truck’s passenger seat in his disguise. They had driven off the main route, down a long gravel lane that skirted one hill, turned into a dirt road, and ran between two more hills before ending at scrubby woods. Inside the trees stood a mobile home patched together with rusting aluminum siding, gray plywood, and flapping tarpaper—like an old quilt. The yard was strewn with debris, engine parts, and the requisite dead fridge, this one on its side.

  The fear in his pea brain making him fret over just how much Torres knew about him and Donny.

  Greg was standing inside the mobile home. He watched from a window as his rental car was driven away back down the lane, slowly to avoid stirring up dust.

  “The car can’t stay here. You’ll get it back,” Torres said to him, to his back.

  Greg pulled the dense curtains shut and made himself turn back around. He saw laptops, surveillance gear, papers, and files running the length of two fold-up tables down the middle of the mobile home. It had a bathroom and a fridge, but the rest of it was basically dedicated office space. A war room.

  A bulletin board had stakeout photos of Donny, Wayne, Gunnar, and Greg. All looked to be taken in Pineburg in the last couple of days.

  Torres had pulled off his farmer beard. He stood with his arms folded, letting Greg take it all in. “Have a seat,” he said.

  Greg didn’t sit. Why sit? He just felt foolish now, like a guy being used by a girl to make another guy she really liked jealous.

  Torres went over to the fridge and produced two tall 22-ounce Portland beers—Lompoc Special Draft. “Look, just sit down,” he said.

  Greg sat at the long table. Torres put files and photos, documents and newspaper clippings in front of him. They included: a state report on how poor Pineburgers have gotten poorer since the long downturn in logging; a business article about the Callum family expanding its vast land holdings; an impact study from a reputable, impartial science think tank that showed how removing the dam owned by Callum Utility Company would give disadvantaged farmers more water and Native American fisherman more salmon while restoring the habitat, which would also offset any negligible impact from controlled flooding; and an FBI dossier on the Double Cross Militia that illustrated instances, the dam removal most importantly, where militia members worked behind the scenes to exploit populist anger, though who exactly was leading these efforts was not confirmed.

  Greg took his time, returning to some documents to re-read them, and Torres let him. He got Greg another beer and some beef jerky. Over an hour passed. Torres sat across from Greg, tapping on a laptop.

  “Why isn’t this more publicized?” Greg said finally. “Story is clear enough and big enough for some enterprising investigative reporter.”

  “First things first,” Torres said, shutting the laptop, checking Greg’s beer. “I can tell you there are a couple reporters of national stature—no offense—who are waiting to pull the trigger. But we’ve asked for embargo. First things first.”

  “Why don’t you just bring in some of the Double Cross for questions? That’ll scare them.”

  Torres shook his head, took a drink of his beer. “This isn’t a sprint. Slow and steady wins this one. Besides, guys like Wayne Carver don’t scare. He only reacts, attacks.”

  “Yeah, he does. Like some goddamn forest boar.”

  Torres had a folder in his left hand. He opened it and passed a photo to Greg. A bloated, purplish, and bloodied face stared into the camera. A second photo showed the body, stripped down to underwear and in similar condition. One eye was swollen shut, but the other glared at the camera as if to say, take a good look—this is your proof. Greg thought it was a girl—from the long black hair and soft dark skin that was untouched. Contours were hard to make out. It was as if someone had stuffed rocks under her skin.

  “You know Tam. Tam’s Tavern? This is her daughter. Melanie. Native American girl.”

  “Wayne did that,” Greg said.

  “You got it.”

  “Does Tam know about you?”

  “Let’s just say she’s aware of us. Probably the only one in town who is, on account of her daughter. No use even bothering the so-called mayor. Basically been fishing ever since the local PD went away. Voters took away so much funding anyway, so what do any of us expect? It’s practically an unincorporated area.”

  “You get what you pay for.”

  “And be treated as you want others to be treated.”

  Greg and Torres took a drink at the same time. Torres stared at Greg.

  “What?” Greg said.

  Torres produced another photo. This one showed three sets of buttocks. They were men, judging from their narrow hips. Their pants were down and their hands held up their shirts. Each butt was branded with the two Xs—one X on each cheek, the bright red, blistering brands glistening in the flash from the photo. In a cartoon, this could have been funny. Like this, it was pathetic and a nauseating display of the human condition to Greg. We had advanced so far, and yet human nature was still unchanged—man was always so close to treating his fellow man like cattle. First comes the brand, then the slaughter.

  Then it hit Greg. “This was the trick,” he blurted.

  “Come again.”

  “Donny mentioned Wayne and the boys playing a trick on some outsiders. Donny wasn’t happy about it at all. Freaking out about it, in fact. It’s one big reason he’s so edgy, I’m guessing.”

  Torres shifted in his seat, and it hit Greg again. He recalled Torres at the Cascadia Congress: Greg had asked him to sit, but Torres wouldn’t. And he recalled Torres scratching at his rear. “Wait—you were one of them?” Greg said.

  Torres’ mouth had scrunched up again, but he nodded. “Need to see it? How about I pull my pants down?” He stood. “You need to see it.”

  “No.” Greg said. “So, let me get this straight: You were willing to hold off on pursuing criminals who branded your rear end?”

  “They only used propane to heat it up, didn’t get it near hot enough to do lasting damage. Luckily. Look: I’m not holding off on anything. What do you expect? We weren’t even sure who they were and still aren’t. Guessing isn’t busting.”

  “You want a bigger result,” Greg said. “That’s why.”

  “It’s part of it. Do you go with the glorified felony battery or something much bigger? Things have to tie together. It’s what we do.”

  “That makes sense,” Greg said.

  “Does it?” Torres took a step toward Greg. “Or are you just trying to fuck with me?”

  “No, not all. I—”

  “It sounds like you are. It sounds like you’re a fucking know-it-all.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine. Does it hurt?”

  “Not anymore. The itching was worse than anything.”

  Greg finished off his beer, to give Torres a moment. Torres paced the room, stopping at docs on the bulletin board and looking out windows, keeping to the darkest shadows in the room. And Greg figured it out. Torres wanted these guys so bad. He
wanted all he could get on them. Revenge was all about patience, Greg had read somewhere. Was it Machiavelli?

  “This isn’t about my ass,” Torres said finally. “All right? Let me lay this out for you.” After his pacing, he had ended up in a dim corner of the room; Greg could only make out his silhouette. “They could hit anything. County offices. State Capital. A federal building. Reservation property. Anything. So, you keep listening. If they talk about going on a trip, hunting, anything.”

  “I’m not really close to any of them,” Greg said. “Except maybe Donny, but he says he’s trying to stay clear.”

  “You’ll get closer. You’ll get there very soon.”

  “Hold on. Are you deputizing me or something?”

  “FBI doesn’t deputize. FBI turns informants.”

  “And I have no say in it.”

  Torres shook his head. “I told you. Not anymore.”

  “But, I told you I didn’t want to. I was up front about it. It’s a free country, right? I can visit whatever town I want.”

  “Sure you can. And I got free speech. So I’m speaking to you now: We can always go and look into you, too.”

  There it was, the moment Greg had feared. Leverage. He hoped Torres only meant his dream of a Cascadia, but how could he be sure?

  He didn’t force it. He shook his head. “So that’s it? I’m your informant.”

  “That’s it. You wouldn’t like the alternative.”

  Greg said nothing. What could he say? He had been running right toward it all along.

  “You can make it your own. At least ask for a per diem, something,” Torres said.

  Greg fell silent a while. Let Torres wait. “I want a per diem,” he said finally.

  “Done.”

  “And I want the kid Gunnar clear of this.”

  In his dim corner, Torres fell silent now, his silhouette facing Greg. Greg stared back, making him answer.

  “Okay, the kid is clear,” Torres said. “Or at least, he will be.”

  Greg nodded. He stared at all the documents and laptops and photos in this war room built to fight what Donny had lent his fake name to. His paranoia crept back in, prickling at him like a line of ants running up his ankle, up his pant leg, thigh. Torres seemed to know so much. What else had they learned? And now Torres watched him from his shadows, probably learning more just from the way Greg was acting, simply by the way his temple muscles were working.

  “And, Donny?” Greg said. “How much do you know about us?”

  “I guess I don’t know what you mean there,” Torres said.

  “I just mean, I think Donny senses that I can help him. That I’m here for more than I appear to be. If that’s possible.” Greg hadn’t dialed it back so much as forced an angle. It was as if his subconscious was speaking for him, anticipating how he should play it. His angle would have to keep Donny motivated to say nothing about what they had done. “Donny did mention the possibility, in his way,” Greg added. “But he’s smart. He keeps it in terms of only me alone helping him. There’s still something there between us. Less like suspicion, more like trust in my outsider status. Does that make sense?”

  Torres didn’t answer at first. Greg looked to the darkness but could barely see Torres’ silhouette. It was as if Torres, the wall, and the shadow had fused into one.

  “Only Donny can help himself,” Torres said eventually, stepping forward from the shadow—first his face, then a shoulder, then limb by limb. “Identity theft, fraud, these are federal crimes. But they don’t have to be the end-all.”

  “That’s something,” Greg said. “So, what’s next?”

  “What’s next depends on how smart he is. That or dumb. Same goes for you.”

  23

  Torres had told Greg to get back in town, mingle, act normal, and wait for his signal. They gave him his car back. Torres never said where Greg could or could not go. Greg went to the white house in town. He waited there. He didn’t ring the doorbell. He sat on the front porch in a nice new rocking Adirondack chair, spotless white, a decoration. He didn’t even know if he would answer Torres’ signal. He had to think about options, angles, his own leverage—anything he had that no one else did. Everyone else had that, something in their back pocket. He only had the anti-thing, his secret that could destroy him.

  The garage door was closed. Was the Jaguar in there? He couldn’t hear anyone inside the house. He wondered if he was the only one who knew about Karen Callum. Torres had never brought it up, had barely mentioned her. Donny had to sense it, had to fear his disposable status.

  A late-model SUV pulled up the driveway, the same color as Karen Callum’s Jaguar. It stopped a few car lengths from Greg’s car. Hanging back. It kept idling. At the wheel sat what appeared to be a woman with short hair and a face that was full but in an attractive way. She eyed Greg. She had music on, a female country singer; it sounded like a faint muffle but was probably real loud inside the SUV, the level of loudness that you sang to.

  Footsteps, from inside the house. Karen Callum came out the front door. She locked the door behind her. She had a bag over one shoulder. She passed Greg. She stopped on the edge of the steps. Turned to him. Her expression was so cold and blank, she might as well have been looking at the chair alone, wondering where else she could put it on the porch.

  “You all right there?” she said.

  He nodded. He wondered how long she had known he was there. She had probably watched him walk up the path and find the steps. Expected him to ring the bell. Imagined him coming in, telling her something only he knew. She probably expected to pay him off somehow.

  Inside the SUV, the music had stopped. A window was probably partway rolled down by now. Karen might even have called her, told her there was a guy on the porch, but it was okay, nothing she could not handle.

  “I’m okay,” Greg decided to add.

  “How did you know about this house?”

  “Found it by accident. Noticed your Jag,” he said. He fought an urge to rock in the chair. That would be overdoing it.

  “You can’t find Donny? Can’t get in the other house?”

  “No, that’s not it. Gunnar is there. He would let me in.”

  She nodded, and she shifted on one leg to keep the bag from pulling her down.

  “You want to come in? You can have a key? I don’t give a rip.”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Then have a good one,” she said and turned, heading down the steps.

  Something about the way she’d said this got to Greg. He said, raising his voice, “You know, I don’t get to see you much around here.”

  Karen stopped on the last step. She seemed to take a breath, just a half second, and turned to face him, a smile spreading across her face. “Well, that is so kind of you. I am out in the country a lot. The whole land agent rigmarole. Sure got a fine network of places to stay, though.”

  “You should write a book on that.”

  “Like you do? Will do. Say, a travel guide-type book? That’s a good idea, Greg.”

  Karen was still smiling but holding it as if she was posing for a photo. Like the former rodeo princess she probably was. The sturdiness of it impressed Greg and made him want to kick himself. Of course, strong women were the linchpins for everything—all women were, for that matter, and this one was carrying the heavy water of one local legend named Loren Callum. He couldn’t even begrudge her. She was a product of her environment and living up to her full potential. He was the creep. He was the one sitting on her front porch.

  But he held his own smile. “I know, right? But I was thinking more like a how-to: How to get good and rich doing what you do.”

  Karen eyed him for a long beat. Her smile had lodged in place as if her jaw had stuck. “Hey, I know what. Maybe you could help me write it,” she said.

  The SUV rolled closer, the tires crunching at gravel.

  Greg stopped smiling, and Karen did too.

  “Yeah. Sure, I could,” he said. “I’m ready when you are.�
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  “I’ll tell you,” she said. “I’ll tell you when.”

  “No one cares, you know.”

  “What?”

  “That you’re a lesbian.”

  Karen said nothing. She took a deep breath. She turned to the SUV and held up a hand as if to say, just wait there a minute.

  “No one has anything against it,” Greg said. “Against you. It’s not even an issue anymore.”

  She looked him in the eye and held it. “Maybe not, but they used to. He did.”

  Greg was rocking now. He hadn’t realized it. He stopped by planting his feet, pressing down on the chair arms.

  “Exactly. Me, I was talking about Portland. A lot of other places in the country. Even around here? You’re probably fine too. But who knows? You never know.”

  “All it takes is one hater,” she said.

  “That’s right. Who knows who knows things? I’m not talking about someone going after you just because they know you prefer women. I’m talking about because of it. Just to spite. They out you to get at you for other things.”

  “I don’t know if this is a threat or a warning.”

  “Maybe I don’t know either. But you’re smart. You’ll know. You know that it’s best to keep up appearances—until it isn’t. Your father, he probably even had a saying for such situations.”

  She sniffed. She shook her head.

  “Donny could lose face, way worse than you,” Greg said. “He might do something drastic in the aftermath. I don’t think anyone wants that. I sure don’t, not after all me and him have been through.”

  “It could be broke, though, is that what you’re saying? You could do some breaking?”

  “All I’m saying is, when people finally figure out how they’ve been strung along for so long, they are really going to be pissed.”

  “Is that right?” Karen said.

  “Yup. It’s only a matter of time. It’s called progress. Giving folks a fair shake. Maybe that was one of your daddy’s sayings too?”

  Karen nodded. Her teeth clenched, muscle flexing at her jaw.

  “Are you going to get the fuck off my porch?” she said.

  “Yes. Don’t worry.”