The Other Oregon

by Steve Anderson

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You got your own business to worry about. The water issue will come out. Here’s a fact in the West: Private little utilities can control irrigation and make deals for irrigation and buy up land that’s not irrigated. Not to mention power generation. If the conditions are right—or wrong, as it were. But the real issue they want us to believe? That the dam’s too important to their business, and they create all the business here, giving people jobs, however meager, so they’re too big to fail. They’d pull everyone down with them.”

  “This is what I’m saying,” Greg said. “It doesn’t look like people can get pulled down much further.”

  “That’s a good point.”

  “But, it’s not yours to make.”

  “Our main focus has been the salmon,” Tam said. “It’s much broader than that though. It’s about our legacy, our right. I shouldn’t have to say that every time, though I do.”

  “But you’re not big enough.”

  “There just aren’t many of my people here. Our time might have passed. Not like in other areas. Take the Klamath for example. But even they have a hard time of it. They’ve been promised help for decades, practically a century. And so have we. Until most of us went and left. I left.”

  “Yet you came back?”

  Tam rolled her eyes as if fighting the urge to make a self-disparaging joke.

  Greg held his iced tea with both hands, studying the ice melting. He wanted to bring up her daughter, but Torres had forbidden him to talk, and he’d already said enough.

  Tam eyed him a moment, giving him the slightest nod, like a little salute. “Excuse me, I got things to do,” she said. “Thanks for bringing it up though—I mean it,” she added and went into the back.

  Greg stared into his ice tea, which had reduced to slivers of ice drowning in an inch of watery amber. A squashed lemon wedge. There are people whose driving ambition is to control others, he thought, and there are people whose driving ambition is to resist the control of others. The problem is, Greg knew, the resisting often becomes the controlling but even worse. The country kid’s fear of becoming a farmhand reliant on a rich rancher turns that kid into a cunning robber baron. The city kid’s fear of being an overeducated slave in a corporate cubicle turns him into a corrupt broker or politician. This played out in a million other varieties, scenarios, tragedies—

  The front door burst open with a flash of light. Torres bolted inside and in three long steps reached Greg at the bar. He grabbed Greg under each arm, hauled him through the swinging door into the kitchen. Greg tried to shake it off. Torres tightened his grip and had Greg off the ground, his toes dragging like a toddler’s. Torres pushed him out a back door.

  Torres’ blue Chevy pickup pulled up. Driving it was Field Agent Mitchum, who Greg had met at Torres’ secret roost. Mitchum was a stout little man with a square head, like a wrestling coach, and crow’s feet, Greg imagined, from a life of stakeouts and vigilant teamwork. Mitchum pivoted around, checking all directions. Torres pushed Greg around to the passenger side, threw him in, locked the door. He came around to the drivers’ side and drove them away.

  Torres drove with bursts of speed like a man who wants to break the speed limit but knows there’s radar. He parked them in a small parking lot behind the town’s tiny library. Greg and Torres said nothing the whole ride. Greg could practically hear Torres’ teeth gnashing. Mitchum had made his way over and stood a block up on Callum Street watching out for any incoming persons of interest or anyone trailing them, all the while looking like a bored guy waiting for a bus.

  The blood had drained from Greg’s face, he could feel it. It all rushed to his heart in a panic. He had ignored what Donny had told him, was really telling him. Donny had tipped him off about the Double Cross, but he had been too wrapped up in planning his own way out. Greg sat up straight and tried to match Torres’ and Mitchum’s hard looks as if he were ready for action too.

  “What do you got?” Torres began, “you have something—”

  “Donny thinks that they’re going to pull another prank,” Greg blurted as if he couldn’t wait to tell Torres.

  “A prank? When?”

  “Tonight, it looks like.”

  “This night, tonight?” Torres pulled out his phone.

  Greg grabbed Torres’ wrist. Torres glared at him.

  “I have to tell you something,” Greg said.

  Torres was still glaring, but then he sighed and lowered his phone to the dashboard. He nodded; he would let Greg have his say. Greg let go of his wrist.

  “It’s about when Donny and I were teens,” Greg said.

  “All right. You got one minute.”

  “Donny was this real bumpkin. I was the only one who didn’t make fun of him, okay, not to his face anyway. He was funny. He had a way. Chicks dug him. Sure, he had a screw loose even then, but that’s kinda cool when you’re eighteen, and you want the world fucked up.”

  “Country in the city. Got it. Look, I’m not your dad—”

  “Just listen. We did speed, coke. Even did crank when we couldn’t get those—what they call meth now. And, we did a couple break-ins, little mom and pop stores.”

  “I don’t think you should tell me this.”

  “I do. Because the thing was, it was all me. It was my idea. I led him to all of it.”

  “And then you quit. Right? You stopped and he didn’t. So some are smarter than others.” Torres reached for his phone.

  “Wait. Okay? Just, wait. Later, when we weren’t getting along so well? We … were going to break into this hobby shop near my house. I knew where they kept the money. Donny really wanted to do it, way more than me. You see, before that, around that time, something … had happened to him.”

  “Nothing just happens.”

  “This did. It was like someone else had taken over his body. His mind.”

  “I think that’s called the late teens. Growing up. And look who had something to do with it.”

  “I admit that. I told you. But, this was different. It was like a switch had turned on, you know?”

  “It happens. I could see how that can happen. Go on. What do I need to know?”

  “I told him I would be there. We were going to do this hobby shop, middle of the night. I hated the owner guy. This one was my idea too.”

  “Don’t tell me. Donny’s first arrest. Breaking and entering? Like I said. You got smart.”

  “I never showed up. I was the one—and then I didn’t get his back.”

  Torres sighed. “Okay, fine, you screwed him over. That what you want to hear? And tell me something else: Why is your bike back on your car? You going somewhere?”

  Greg’s chest burned and seemed to expand like a balloon, pressing at his ribs. “You don’t understand!” he shouted. Hot tears spilled out, ran down his cheeks. “Afterward? With his one fucking phone call? He calls me. Me.”

  “And?”

  Greg turned away from Torres. He could take Torres’ pity or disgust, but he could never give away that he wasn’t telling the whole truth. He wondered what was worse: Accidentally killing a man or having the cunning to cover it up. Donny had done the deed, sure, but Greg had schemed to make the murder vanish forever. He had expunged all trace of a human being. And now he was aiming to do it again.

  “I didn’t pick up the phone,” Greg said. “Not even Donny knows that. I got questioned about it briefly. I said that I hardly knew Donny. Said, he was new in town. I didn’t really know him no matter what he says. He was a little bit of a hanger-on, if not a stalker, I told people. My alibi was always easy. I was a good student. I was the one going to Dartmouth.”

  “All right, look. We make choices. You made yours. Donny Wilkie’s obviously gotten over it. Has he ever brought it up?”

  “No. I thought he would for sure, but he hasn’t. We ran into each other after that, right after he got out, and I thought he was going to fucking kill me, considering. He probably should have. I told him that I couldn
’t get out of the house and that he should’ve waited for me. This being before cell phones.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he didn’t need me to do it. He said he understood me looking out for myself.”

  “He definitely learned from it, in his way.”

  “That’s what he had said: ‘I learned a lot from all this.’ But none of it was doing him any favors down the road.”

  “Well. There you go,” Torres said.

  “But, it’s more than that. The thing is, I don’t believe him. We might be going camping, tomorrow. That’s why I got my bike, my bags. I’m freaked out though. I think, maybe he’s going to use it … to make something happen.”

  “You think? I’m not seeing it. Besides, the Double Cross will need him.”

  “I don’t think he wants that. I told you. It’s all bullshitting.”

  “Well, he might not have a choice.”

  Greg shook his head, playing the innocent. He held up his hands in frustration.

  “Look, okay,” Torres added, “so maybe you’re the cause of Donny in the big scheme of things. I get it. All I care about is what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to show them. Donny, Leeann Holt, even Gunnar. Show them how I’ve changed. How a person can change.”

  Torres stared a moment as if waiting for more, but Greg was finished. He had said what he needed to. It was done and doled out. Even he didn’t know how much of it was true.

  “Okay. We’re good? Then good luck,” Torres said and grabbed his phone. He dialed and turned away, talking on the phone in coded language and acronyms that only emphasized to Greg how on his own he was.

  Torres hung up and his face looked drawn, deflated. “This prank of theirs? It has to be something to do with Pineburg Dam. Am I right?”

  “I don’t know. Donny didn’t say.”

  Torres added a snort of annoyance. “And you didn’t fucking ask.”

  “What about Donny?” Greg said.

  “Word is, he’s supposed to be there this time. Running the show.”

  “What?” Greg straightened up.

  “A leader needing to show he’s a leader and all that.” Torres added a grunt. “So much for your campfire.”

  The situation had just changed and drastically. But one thing still didn’t gibe. Why was Torres not riled and ready? Torres should have kicked him out of the truck already. Why would Torres even take the time to listen to Greg’s story with all that was going down?

  “Shouldn’t you be all fired up?” Greg said.

  Torres sighed.

  “Well? Shouldn’t you?” Greg added.

  Torres paused a moment, staring out the window. “There’s a meeting coming late next month—a town-hall type event here, about the dam. All the players will be in town. State, fed, the main interests. Whole delegation. It’s been secret, a real tight lid. I was the field scout. I probably shouldn’t tell you that, but, fuck it.”

  “So, Wayne and company couldn’t have known. That’s good, right? They’re in the dark …” Greg let his words trail off. The way Torres shifted his lips back and forth like he needed to spit already told Greg the answer. The Double Cross was forcing Torres’ hand without even knowing it. Torres wouldn’t get to play the hero this way. By foiling their prank now, he wouldn’t be preventing anything but a bunch of yahoos whose ideological platform seemed to be the proliferation of nasty practical jokes. Then the truth hit Greg. He said:

  “Ah, I get it now. You want them to know about the meeting.”

  “What are you talking about?” Torres said.

  “You know exactly what I mean—you wanted them to know so that they would make a play for it. And you could be the one who stops them.”

  “You got no idea what I want.”

  “I have some idea. I can see it on your face. And I sure as hell am not doing it—I’m not leaking that info, if that’s what you’re trying to get me to do.”

  “Shut up, just shut it,” Torres, said. His phones buzzed, rang. He picked up, listened, and started up the pickup. “I’m on it,” he said into the phone. “Be ready to rock.”

  He drove off with Greg still in the pickup. He slammed on the brakes with a squeal.

  “Get out,” he shouted at Greg. “Get the hell out.”

  39

  Greg was in a dilemma—a vice, more like. If he went to the dam, he could be seen as Torres’ man all along and Donny would know it. Donny would feel betrayed, again. That alone could make him spill the beans about the lake. The game had changed. If Torres had it right, Donny was only stalling by telling Greg they would go camping. He wouldn’t be able to get at Donny, to get him to react, kill him, whatever he had to do.

  The Callum house was his only chance.

  It was getting dark by the time he got there, quiet all around except for his bike rack rattling on his trunk. He pulled up with his lights off.

  He just didn’t buy it that Donny would hang himself like Torres was saying. The guy had gone so far as to fake his own death to stay alive and keep living. He would never let himself be caught at the dam.

  The garage door was open, no cars. Greg poked around outside. He found Donny’s pickup parked around the side of the house. The house had a couple lights on somewhere deep inside, giving the front windows a glow only, like a train set home illuminated from some small light bulb behind.

  Greg went inside. A light was on in Donny’s study, the door open. Greg walked toward it. He heard drawers opening and closing and someone stomping around as if looking for something. He heard Donny’s voice, frantic like Greg hadn’t heard it for years, if ever: “You there? Goddamn it, I told you I’ll be there. Any sec. I’m in my truck right now hauling ass, what the fuck you think?”

  Greg entered, but with one foot only, like a cat testing out a perch.

  Donny had hung up. He had one eye on Greg. He smoked from a glass pipe, really sucking it down. Papers were strewn about the den. Drawers hung open. Meth paraphernalia lay out on Donny’s desk. A mirror held lines of coarse white powder.

  Donny blew out smoke with a pop. “Yes, that’s meth. Oh, so scary. You all watch too much Breaking Bad or whatever. But you know what? There are people who do benefit from it.”

  “Until they don’t.” Greg moved inside the room, but kept close to the door.

  “I’m practical,” Donny said. “I usually snort or ingest it, keep things even keel. But tonight? It’s a special night.”

  “You’re supposed to be there,” Greg said. “At the dam. You were talking to Wayne about it just now, I heard.”

  “Yeah? And you were supposed to meet me that night,” Donny said. His hands grasped at air as pincers that needed to itch, scratch, pull. “Said you fucking would. You said robbing that hobby shop was the best deal ever ‘cause the owner was a dick.”

  “Donny. Come on. I was seventeen.”

  “Eighteen. I was still seventeen. You were going to score us the coke too, remember? From Leeann.”

  “Here we go,” Greg said.

  “Here we go,” Donny sneered, mocking Greg. He stomped in a circle, and who knew what the meth was doing inside him. How do you convince a child that his puppy needs to be put to sleep?

  Donny stomped his way over to the window. “Know what?” he said, his back to Greg. “I shoulda killed you instead of that old tin badge.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

  “You shouldn’t say that,” Greg said. “You don’t mean that.”

  Or should he say it? This place could be bugged too, like the Rooster Lair. Torres said it wasn’t, but who knew? If it were, Donny would be doing all Greg’s work for him.

  “You got no idea what I mean.” Donny twitched, stole peeks out the window. “I saw you coming just now—saw you this whole time since you came here. Know that? So don’t think I didn’t. I let you in here. Let you play around. I did.”

  Something about the way Donny said that, with that kn
ow-it-all tone, reminded Greg of someone Greg had known. Someone he had left behind. Then he realized: It was himself. Something about the horrid thought made Greg bound into the center of the room, his legs and arms surging with mad energy. “Oh, right, just like you let Wayne in. Am I right? Or did he only let you play on account of the Callums?”

  “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up with that.”

  Greg was like the one on meth now. He pivoted around the middle of the room, his arms cocked. Bugged or not, there were things that needed to be said. “That big speech? To your followers? You don’t believe that bullshit any more than I do.”

  Donny faced Greg. “Hey, if they’re stupid enough. Oh, what, was it going to be so much better in your Cascadia LaLa Land?”

  “It’s a book. Mine’s just a book. But it will be; it will be.” Greg was shouting. “So fuck you!”

  “And screw Leeann,” Donny said. “She gave up Gunnar. She was the one. How could a mother give up custody? After I went and married her and tried to make it work. What did you make work? Words? Some stupid fucking book.”

  “It’s more than that. People believe in it. And good people will find their way to it. Want to know why I’m still here? It’s Gunnar. What do you think he’s gonna do when he finds out about all this? Look at you. The great Charlie Adler’s a fucking meth-head.”

  Donny sucked in a gulp of air as if taking a hit. He started to leave the room.

  “That’s all you got?” Greg said. “You haven’t done anything? You regret nothing. You have nothing to hide …”

  Donny had passed Greg. He turned back. He glared at Greg.

  “You did it,” Donny said. “You’re the one.”

  “Did what?”

  “You tipped them off. There’s a news story. All over the place. Someone found the body. Don’t look at me like that, like you don’t know. At the lake. I’m thinking someone tipped them off, more like. Told the cops. Or is working with them.”