The Other Oregon

by Steve Anderson

  30

  “I’m going to have to tell Donny I saw you,” Greg said as he drove on. “He’ll know somehow.”

  “Yeah? Have fun with that,” Leeann said.

  They shared an uneasy chuckle that sounded more like small dogs being kicked.

  Greg was driving Leeann downtown. Rain streamed down the windows of his rental car. He had taken Sandy Boulevard, and they sat waiting at stop light after stoplight. From the sound of Leeann’s laugh-cough, Greg had expected her to have a cigarette every five minutes or at least wear a coat that smelled like cigarettes, but she had neither.

  “I woulda taken Burnside in,” she said as about the tenth streetlight in a row caught them.

  “That’s even more lights,” Greg said. “Should’ve just taken the Banfield.”

  Another stoplight. Two bicyclists waited next to them, unfazed by the rain. Greg wished he was out there with them, keeping it simple like he had for so long.

  He took the Burnside Bridge. “Good choice,” Leeann said.

  “Thanks.”

  Greg’s phone buzzed. He slid his phone out of his pocket. Unknown caller, it read. Again. He let it buzz, again.

  He could feel her studying his face as he drove over the bridge, the pink US Bank tower and that neon Old Town deer sign coming at them.

  “What really did happen with you and Donny?” she said. “You didn’t just leave him be. Something happened.”

  “Nothing happened. He didn’t tell you much, did he?”

  “He wouldn’t talk about you two ever. I tried to get him to.”

  Greg gave a little shrug as if just thinking about it for the first time. “We just turned out different, I guess,” he muttered.

  He hadn’t asked her where she was going, though he knew there was a county assistance office down near one of the food-cart blocks. As he navigated the one-way streets that delivered them into the heart of downtown, he winced a little inside imagining one of his bike-riding Cascadian cohorts spotting him driving an actual car or asking him if Leeann was his oldest sister or even mother. Leeann would probably kick whomever that was right in the spokes.

  He could feel her watching him again. Could she feel him wince, or something deeper?

  “I’ve been going to the Main Library,” she said. “In case you were wondering.”

  “Where you are going is your business.”

  “I’m looking into going back to school.”

  “Oh? That’s great. I’ll get you closer.”

  He drove around the rear of the library, across from where the Max trains did their U-turns, and pulled to a stop, having to double park. Leeann moved to get out.

  He pulled on her elbow. “I’m going to give you a phone number,” he said. “It’s my, well, basically she’s looking like my ex-girlfriend the way things are going. She’s a good girl. She gives a crap. If you need anything.”

  Leeann was biting her lip.

  “What?” Greg said.

  “My phone, it broke.”

  “I’ll get you one of those pay-as-you go ones. There’s a phone store around the corner.”

  “Okay.”

  “But you will call her if you need her, right?”

  She nodded. “How long is it for? Until you get back?”

  He hadn’t expected this question, especially since she’d said it like a child would, her voice higher and without a guard up or a joke attached. “That’s right,” he said. “I want to help you. Okay? I will help you.”

  “And Gunnar too?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  Back at his apartment, Greg made half an attempt at tidying his room after stuffing more clothes into his bag on the bed. He had called Emily on the way over, and she had taken it well considering he had not called her for days and now here he was showing up to pack more clothes and leave the dirty ones in a pile. She heard his request to help out an old friend well, too—as he knew she would. She was always ready to help anyone, dropping everything. She said it was in her family, in her Midwestern pioneer genes. That’s what the women did. So this was not some trite charity, wasn’t like giving some unknown entity a buck on the street. This was a contract, and Greg had never signed one of those before. Emily knew that more than anyone. Still, why was he really doing it? Because he still felt something for Leeann? He wanted to help? Or because he needed Leeann on his side in case she knew about the lake. This was far cleaner than having to silence her somehow. He really could help someone for once.

  Emily showed in the bedroom doorway. Her arms were folded across her chest.

  Greg’s phone buzzed again.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” she said.

  “Nope.”

  “It could be her.”

  “It’s not.”

  She shrugged.

  “Listen, I really appreciate you offering to help,” Greg said. “She says she wants to go back to school.”

  “What, so, this is a trade?” Emily said. “You know what—don’t answer that. And stop packing for a second.”

  “It’s a way of helping. Doing something.”

  “Make the world a better place. Is that it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re driving back tonight?”

  “I was going to.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s still your room.”

  “Thanks, but, I just want to get back.”

  Greg zipped his bag shut and eyed the room for anything else he’d need. He already had his toiletries. He had told himself not to roam the rest of the apartment, because he didn’t want to find evidence of another guy.

  She stayed in the doorway. He stood at his bag.

  “This is about more than some book, isn’t it?” she said. “More than some freaky militia?”

  Greg sighed. He nodded. “You know how they say that we can kind of end up doing what we liked when we were young? When we were kids. Becoming what we were, in spirit? If we’re lucky, we become that. Well, I’m different. I don’t want to become what I was. And I’ll do anything to prevent it.”

  31

  Greg had actual newsprint in his hands. It left ink on his fingers. He had forgotten what that smelled like, a mix of oily and sweet. Before he hit I-5 heading south, he’d stopped for a coffee at a new roaster in the Ladd’s Addition neighborhood. He rarely drank coffee near evening, but then again he didn’t usually expect to be driving into the night. He was sitting in the window on a high stool that didn’t feel so steady for such a new coffee shop, his elbows planted on the narrow plank of a counter mounted at the glass. the Oregonian, Willamette Week, Tribune, Mercury, all were lying mixed in a rumpled stack at his fingers, so how could he not pick them up? The sections were almost interchangeable these days, smaller format, thinner sheets, the same headlines wanting to be click bait, the subheads wanting to be apps. Used to be, you could tell the Big O just by the far superior headlines let alone the tone, but now it was just another brand shouting for attention. He skimmed the sections, barely reading, just like he did online. He was sorry to see papers go, but who needed them when he got the same on a tablet without the ink on his fingers? It made him flinch inside, and he buried the notion under his thoughts of Emily and Leeann and Pineburg piling up like all this newsprint.

  Of course Emily had wanted to know more. Of course he would never tell her. He could not damage her with this. He had to keep this contained. They had hugged in the doorway, shared another joke about him driving a car, and he left. She didn’t ask him when he’d be back or watch him from the doorway like she always did. He did not ask her if she was seeing anyone, or if she wanted to. She had to know she was an angel for offering to help if Leeann called, and he could only assume she would put Leeann up in his room if Leeann would accept that. Which left him where? He didn’t want to think about that.

  He put down the “Living” section with stories he’d already seen two days ago online and picked up another section, the Oregonian again. Metro news. Another five-year plan
for Old Town, more startups coming, another drunk-driver hit-and-run off Powell, multiple injuries and one on life support. Statewide news section now. He scanned on, reaching the briefs.

  BODY FOUND AT REMOTE CASCADES LAKE

  Authorities Confirm Homicide Cold Case

  SANTIAM JUNCTION, Ore. (AP) — Police agencies are investigating remains of a body found at a remote lake in the higher elevations of the Willamette National Forest. A Linn County Sheriff’s Office spokesman said the body is believed to be male and was buried there for many years. However, evidence indicates someone had recently dug up the remains and re-buried them, possibly to hinder evidence gathering. The cause of death has been determined but not released. The investigation is continuing and federal authorities alerted. A county spokesman confirms this is a homicide cold case and says that a strong new lead, based on a tip, could result in more conclusive evidence.

  32

  Greg drove at a steady speed, but not too fast now. He didn’t want to attract attention. He needed to get back to Pineburg, but he wasn’t in any hurry to be back there. He had only needed to get out of Portland. Needed to keep moving. It was after dark now. He was back on a secondary mountain highway, driving alone in the darkness, heading over the Cascades.

  He was better now. At first he had panicked in that coffee shop, his lungs squeezing flat against his chest, his brain flashing with anxiety like spotlights going off inside it. He’d snatched up the Mercury and Willamette Week sections in that pile, scanning for the brief story there too as if they weren’t weeklies and wouldn’t be out again for days—and didn’t even print spot news unless there was a damn good news reason. He was just reacting, stupidly, from the synapses charged inside him, practically drooling from it. Of course they wouldn’t have it, if at all. The Tribune would get around to it eventually if they had room. He grabbed the Oregonian section, then stuffed it into a garbage can on the way out as if that was the only one ever printed. His legs propelled him into the car, his foot hit the gas.

  His mind racing, barreling as he pushed the speed limits, he had decided to drive east over Mount Hood instead and then south and east. The Associated Press byline meant the story was posted all over—state wire, regional wires, national desk even. It could be picked up by anyone, anytime. The AP wires were always to be feared. They were social media for the establishment, the one newsfeed everyone had to know. Any law authority could know about the story, the case. The Feds had already been alerted, it said. Torres was a Fed. But could Torres ever imagine him doing such a thing?

  By the time he had cleared Government Camp and was coming down the other side, he was breathing easier, shaking his head, even chuckling about it. Think about it, Greg. It had happened so long ago. He would be okay. It didn’t hurt either that by now he was already driving past the narrow forest road leading to the small, ignored lake south of his new route. He was past that vertical line on the map, in his head.

  As he drove on, in the dark, he realized the real threat. The threat was not that this could be a cold case. It had happened so long ago, and no unknown third-party could hardly be expected to connect him to it. The real threat came from whoever might have tipped off the authorities. Maybe that person, or the authorities, or both, were only getting this out to the media to see what certain people might do. A person like him. A person like Donny.

  At this point, he was fine just driving the speed limit. It calmed him.

  It could have been Donny. Maybe Wayne had found out about it. Karen Callum? Who knew. Sure, it might have been someone innocent, a hiker or even a fisherman not knowing the water held no fish. Even so, Greg was realizing what had to be done. This thing had to be cauterized, to prevent bleeding, infection. No matter what. Torres be damned. Leeann would have to wait.

  He cleared the mountains and contours of the pale and rolling central state showed in the moonlight. His eyes kept closing, blinking shut.

  A truck came from the other direction, blared a long angry honk his way.

  It was past midnight, so late he didn’t want to look and see what the time was. It was a Monday now. He could have used that caffeine. Like an idiot, some spooked amateur, he hadn’t remembered to take his coffee with him when he’d bolted from that coffee shop clutching the Oregonian.

  His headlights shined on a turnout ahead, on a blur of a historical marker sign. A rest area, more or less. He turned for it and found himself rolling along an inlet road lined with trees, which opened up to a parking lot, empty. Perfect. He turned his headlights off and, letting his parking lights guide him, coasted into an approximate spot. He turned off the car. Took a deep breath. It was all darkness around, enveloping him. Like he was that security guard under dirt, he thought for a moment and buried the horrid feeling with a laugh at his wordplay. But it was true that he was sitting here inside of nothing. He couldn’t see a thing. He rolled down the windows. He heard nothing, not even animals. Was everything deadened here? He listened, kept listening. An occasional faint crack and rasping of branches high above and far away reassured him that something could live in this world he had entered. So he leaned the seat back. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, his eyelids went heavy like lead sheets, and they stayed shut.

  At some point, he dreamt …

  The city of Portland is a labyrinth of dark, rainy, rubble- and debris-strewn streets. Fires burn from the windows of condos and wrecked streetcars. Reckless bicyclists ride with axes and guns. Shots ring out and ricochet, just missing them. Barbed wire rings front yard gardens. On side-street black markets, the gaunt and desperate barter for food. Corpses float down the leaden, oil-tinged Willamette River. Thugs in Sasquatch masks load screaming parents into sewer dungeons and carry away wailing children. A ripped and dingy Cascadia flag flies above it all. On Pioneer Square, Greg’s corpse hangs upside down, strung up by his toes along with a line of other dead. And yet Greg can watch all of Cascadia’s capital descend into a Dark Age from here, from his limbo state. He can watch the thugs pile up corpses on carts as they laugh and howl. Greg’s dead and not dead but can feel himself surely dying inside, a slow, shrinking feeling as if his limbs are curling up taut, as if for sleep.

  He woke, but not with a start. His muscles felt loose but firm. His eyes alert. He had energy. He was, oddly, rested. It was near dawn again, the sky purple and ashen, the black tree line silhouette replaced by shades of gray-greens. He yawned, stretched, and he went over his dystopian dream of Portland and Cascadia and felt surprisingly warm inside as if, he imagined, he was a philosopher or mathematician who had finally come to solve a major conundrum after years of trying.

  He looked around again. Beyond the parking lot was a clearing lined with trees, the area punctuated by tens and possibly hundreds of gray squares and rectangles and a few gables here and there. This was a cemetery. His harbor was a cemetery. That was what the historical sign was for. These were old tombstones. Why were they here, of all places? Was this connected to some early branch of a pioneer trail that ended up leading nowhere? Had these settlers gone separate ways from the ones he had seen in Portland, in Lone Fir Cemetery? It didn’t matter. They all ended up the same, Greg thought. Though it probably hadn’t felt that way to these good people at the time, for these ones who had surely chosen wrong when they thought they were creating something new, to last forever. He chuckled at the sick irony of that, his muscles twitching low in his gut then rising up his chest and throat until it became a full-blown laugh. Out loud. Who was going to hear him? They, out there? A deer?

  “Deer and dead, they don’t talk,” he muttered, shaking his head at the thought now. He started up the car, and drove on for Pineburg.

  33

  “I tried and tried his phone. Makes me so fucking mad,” Donny told Wayne, screwing up his face to match that rage he could see inside Wayne. If Wayne wanted him to be like Wayne was, so be it. Though he couldn’t match Wayne’s awkward demeanor or that odd breath. Sometimes he wondered if Wayne had a bad tooth.

  “And
what? You tried his phone and what?” Wayne said.

  “He’s just not answering.”

  It was early on Monday morning. Donny had another appointment with Wayne, in Wayne’s den. Why Wayne always had to have them sit at two sides of that desk with a lamp on, Donny would never know. Wayne’s desktop was little wider than a sideboard, like a kid’s desk. If Wayne was going to act so damn big, why couldn’t he get a big boy desk? Wayne didn’t even have anything to show under the lamp this time, and yet he glared into the light on the desk as if imagining the FBI agent’s card still there or a tiny version of Greg Simmons, like some voodoo doll Wayne could interrogate with extreme prejudice. Because Wayne wanted to know things.

  Wayne still wanted to know why Greg had come to town.

  Wayne wanted to know why Greg was talking to people.

  Wayne wanted to know when Greg was leaving.

  Wayne wanted to know why Greg couldn’t be located now.

  “I have to assume he went back to Portland,” Donny added. “Can’t say I blame him.”

  Wayne grunted.

  “I thought you wanted him gone,” Donny said.

  “Not this kind of gone. Who knows who he’s getting with,” Wayne said.

  “Oh yeah? So how come nothing’s happened? You’re the one keeps telling me that we’re good.”

  “Maybe we are. But, what do we do? In case someone is watching us. You’re the one keeps telling me that someone’s coming to get us.”

  This was the risky part, right here. Giving that speech in the Rooster Lair had apparently not given Wayne enough of that Donny-juice that Wayne needed. Donny knew Wayne was wanting to push things, so Donny had to be ready to show that he could go there. But just how far to take it? Wayne wanted less talk, more do, and preferably before his daddy the mayor got back. The upshot: If Wayne went for broke, Donny would just have to make it work for himself.

  “Well, we go for it, that’s what we do,” Donny said. “Do something inspiring. Don’t hurt anyone. Just, you know, throw them off.”