Wayne fell silent. He leaned back, out of the light and into the darkness of his den. Donny let the man think. Maybe he was coming to his senses. But then he saw that Wayne was smirking, simpering, practically leering at him. The sicko said: “We need to show them whose dam it really is. They can choke on their relicensing. It’s our dam. It’s our water.”
“It’s the Callum’s, technically.”
“So we defend them. We defend it. And we go down with it if need be.”
This was not going for it. This was idiocy. Wayne really was sick in the head. “No, we do not,” Donny said. “That is what we don’t need. I was thinking more like, we hold another public rally, put you out in front again. Let the rough stuff fade away. Really let you rile things up onstage, but with sugar on top. You know? I’m telling ya, you were so damn good strutting your stuff up there—”
“So you can stay hidden. That’s what you mean.” Wayne grinned now.
“What, you don’t like being in front?”
Wayne dropped the grin with a sloshing sound, half his face seeming to sink into his jowls. He glared. “Going for it means going for it … Donny.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m going to pretend you did not just call me that.” Donny leaned into the light, glaring back. “Now you listen to me: Going for it, balls out or whatever, it means what I say it means. I promised Mister Loren Callum that.”
Donny didn’t like to invoke the name of the grand old man, but it was the one thing that always shut Wayne up. Wayne had always tried his hardest to suck up to Callum. The good man had given more notice to his cows. And yet, Wayne still respected the name. Donny wondered if there was something inside Wayne that wanted to be neglected, if only to make him meaner on the outside.
Wayne’s shoulders had drooped. He had his head down, shadowed, his heavy brow shrouding his face like the bill on a hat.
Donny reached into his gut and pulled out, kicking and screaming, a smile that he slapped on from earlobe to earlobe. He held his arms out.
“Wayne? Hey, come on ole boy. Look at me.”
Wayne looked up, showing Donny big yellow teeth. He lunged, came around the desk. He grasped at Donny’s hip fat, squeezing it, clamping down, twisting. Goddamn, it was like fire—like what getting branded must feel like. Donny groaned.
“You listen to me,” Wayne said, breathing his weird stank all over him. “Why should I trust you? Don’t even really know who the hell you are, what you done before you got here. Not really. But you want us to support you and vice versa? Support the Callums like we always done, so long as it’s about more than that money he—his dear daughter—given us? Sure you do. So, we are going to go for it. We are going to show them. And this time, you’re going to be right there with us. Right out in front. Waving our flag. Front and center. Giving us all the goddamn orders so everyone knows it too.”
Wayne let go, but the burn stayed. Donny hunched over, squinting from the pain. He blacked out a moment, saw stars. When he came to, Wayne had left the room.
Donny stood up to leave, wondering just where in the hell Wayne got that freaky move. Then he remembered—he’d seen Wayne do that with sheep and even cattle.
Wayne came back in, holding an ice pack. He threw it on the desk for Donny, and it lay there shining under the light.
34
Greg’s phone buzzed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Unknown caller, it read. Again. He let it buzz, again.
That same Monday morning, Greg sat on the back porch of the Callum house. He was waiting for Donny to come back. He was still stinging from the new reality but coming around. Everyone was a true threat now, he knew. But they could all be kept in check. Even Wayne Carver. Possibly even Karen Callum. Above them all, Donny was the real true threat and always had been. Karen might push Donny toward revealing the secret, and Wayne could suck it out of Donny eventually, but only Donny could release the secret. He could release it right to Torres even. Maybe he already had?
Now he had to consider disposing of Donny. Why beat around the bush about it? He would be doing everyone a favor. But could he do it without Torres knowing? He thought it out calmly, reasonably. There were ways. He could pretend to make another trip to Portland as his alibi. He could use Emily, Leeann, call ahead, tell them he was there. He let himself think about doing the deed, keeping it there in his head, imagining things, like a person does when preparing a meal and holding a just-sharpened butcher knife in their hand. People don’t let themselves think about things like that too long. They put the knife away back in the drawer, move on. But not Greg. He held the blade out in front of him, watching the sharpened edge gleam. He mulled it over good and long, the blood and gristle dangling, glistening, all wet and greasy. He could practically lick that sharp edge.
He had to do it cleanly, not like it had happened to that security guard all those years ago. He had to do it in a way that prevented it from ever returning. He blamed Donny for making him come around to think this way. This went all the way back to when they’d first met. He had used Donny, thought he was just a bumpkin. Donny could have stopped that real quick. Why hadn’t Donny just punched him in the stomach when he’d first seen him? This would all have made more sense if Donny had stayed violent and not become manipulative like Greg himself had acted all those years ago. Way back when, it was Greg calling the shots and gullible Donny Wilkie going along. Then it had changed in a moment, that moment. He could admit that he had come looking for this, but it didn’t make things any easier. Finding Leeann like that had only reminded him of the way he had left her. Of what a dick he had been. And then he had the idiotic gall to think Gunnar was his child.
And Donny still wasn’t home. This gave Greg more time to think. Maybe he could ask Donny to take him out shooting. Or they could go on a hike, without anyone knowing. It could even be at the dam. Make it look like Donny was up to no good for the XX gang. Maybe even make Donny write a suicide note saying he had done the security guard all by himself.
He was just going to have to make it work. Do it clean. If he could only have believed Donny when he claimed he had never told anyone about the lake. He could have helped Donny then.
Greg’s phone rang. Unknown caller. It had to be Torres.
He ignored it. He had to think.
35
Donny sat inside the old diner in the near dark. Just enough daylight got in somehow through narrow gaps in the boarded-up windows and a couple moldy skylights. He needed to hunker down a little after experiencing Wayne like that.
Wayne was a freak. There was no reigning him in. The guy only understood force. The other thing that Wayne told him after being so damn kind as to get him that ice pack was that he, Donny, was to refrain from ever going into the old diner again. It was Wayne’s favorite place as a kid. How did Wayne even know that he came in here? Well, fuck Wayne. Wayne wasn’t going to tell him what to do. No one had, not since Greg had all those years ago. So call it the start of Donny fighting Wayne with force instead of stroking him like some spooked alpaca.
Fuck the lot of them. He sat in a booth, grinning out into the room as if ogling after a hot new waitress. His meal was out in front of him, such a fine special today. It was two fat lines of meth, fifth of CW Irwin bourbon, tall can of Oly. Now he could finally relax. Take his time with his meal.
He was all spread out, feet up on the bench opposite. Had his phone out. He had newspapers out, too, Bend Bulletin and the Oregonian, bought them like he always did when picking up beers in the morning, along with pork rinds and Jo Joes from the deli case and hand sanitizer so that he didn’t look an alky, more like a guy going fishing maybe.
He had out that card from the FBI man. He had decided it was finally time, and once he had decided on something, it was like it was already reckoned with. He was going to cooperate, tell the man things, and make it work for him. The old win-win. Only question was, how far back should he take it? To Wayne, to Karen Callum? Back to Old Man Callum? Or, and this was the real kick-ass kicker
, would it, could it, reach all the way back to one Greg Simmons and what Greg Simmons had “told him” he had done at the lake one time? If it got that far. If maybe Greg Simmons went telling some things about him that he would have to counter. His word against Greg’s. But, only if he had to. He would take it step-by-step, reward FBI guy with prizes as FBI guy rewarded him. “Quid pro quo,” Loren Callum used to call this. He doubted he would even have to lie about the lake though. It was going too far back. The only thing that he had ever feared was if someone else, some third party, found out about it. That was when he was fucked and Greg was fucked. That was when he would have to come up with something new, no win-wins or quid pro quos, but something like clearing out and starting over. Mexico, part two.
In the meantime, though, it was just: Call that FBI guy. Make contact. The baby steps. To get him in the right frame, he was going to have a little snort first, dance around a little, and fire right the fuck up for running his sneak play, take it in for the touchdown, the big win. He had the Bend Bulletin out in front of him. Pork rinds and Jo Joes were in a plastic bag ready to rock. Things looked natural with the paper out on the table. And the newsprint would cover up stuff real quick if need be. He had to be more careful now, seeing how Wayne knew he liked to go here. Sure, he had an iPad, but he just never got used to reading papers online. He was careful to lay the newspaper page like a little tent so as not to budge the good shit he had underneath and mess it all over. As he did so, a blur of letters and words combined and leapt out at his eyes like 3-D movie titles, boring into his brain:
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….
Big and bold and sharp and hot the words were, like a brand. Fucking branded.
He started, shot up as if sitting on a wet seat, and the papers scattered as did the meth, like so much salt. “Fuck!”
He pushed the papers away, off the table onto the floor. “Fuck me!” He pounded the table, but that only made the meth jump and scatter more.
He stood, staring at the mess like it was a dog he’d just shot—by accident; it was an accident. He pivoted around, listening as if anyone could be here. And he realized he was actually listening for sirens outside, for cop cars—it was something he hadn’t done in so long. He used to be able to tell them just by the sound of their tires.
He needed that kind of focus now. He crouched down and licked his fingers and wiped up the meth with them and licked it off his fingers, letting the bitter chemical taste burn and numb; and he swept some more off the table with the side of his hand and into his other palm, snorting that up right out of his cupped hand. He grabbed the can of Oly, cracked it open, spun off the cap of his whiskey bottle and took a swig, then the Oly. He did this mechanically, re-hitting each spot until the booth and dirty floor was clean of it, and he didn’t give a shit how much dust he snorted up along the way.
He picked up the paper and read the short news article again, about the body “believed to be male … buried there for many years,” about how someone recently dug up the remains and re-buried them, about the investigation continuing with “federal authorities alerted,” and about how a “strong new lead, based on a tip, could result in more conclusive evidence.”
He found the same news in the Oregonian. It was a newswire item. AP meant Associated Press. The AP was everywhere, that underground spring running under and through all, like an aquifer—the published news being only the well on the surface, becoming a river, then rapids, waterfall. There could be so much more behind this, and he could never know what till it was too late. He had been here before, in this position.
He felt ten feet tall anyway, stomping around the diner, wanting to punch shit. He kicked at a bar stool, hit it so hard it flung up and did a three-sixty, almost landed back on its feet if one of the legs hadn’t broke. He got the newspapers balled up in a pile. He lit them with his lighter and danced around it, letting the smoke char in his nose.
Once the flames were at their highest, he threw in the FBI man’s card.
He watched it all burn, stomping in place, his hips shifting back and forth, blood pumping. Then he started dancing, and dancing, and danced on top of the embers till they were all out and good and black, practically ground right into the linoleum floor.
Well, that was that, he thought as he grabbed the CW Irwin in one hand and the Oly can and plastic bag in the other, found the back door, and instead of cracking the door open like he usually did, just went and kicked the fucker open, the bone-white daylight blasting him as he jumped into his king cab.
36
After noon, Greg saw Donny on the back porch where he himself had been half the morning. Greg had gone for a walk; he hadn’t been able to sit still for another minute, not even after driving and sleeping in his car the past two nights. Donny was slumped in a porch chair. Gunnar was back from wherever he had gone, too—he was out in the open field where the sheep usually gathered. Gunnar had a small rifle and was shooting targets pinned to stacked blocks of hay. Finding the two here freaked Greg out as much as anything. They had all been on the same property today but had never run into each other. These vast lands out here were like that.
As Greg walked up, Donny raised a hand as if he was pushing back an imaginary cowboy hat. “Well, lookee. You’re back,” he said, sitting up.
Greg took a chair. “I am.”
They watched Gunnar. He took his time aiming, getting the right stance, the shot itself almost an afterthought. On the little table between them, Donny had a carafe of coffee and two mugs as if he knew Greg would return. He also had a bottle of Oregon bourbon out—Donny didn’t drink it, didn’t offer it. They drank the coffee instead, in silence. Greg eyed Donny when Donny was watching Gunnar out there, and Greg could tell Donny was doing the same to him. They were like mirror images. Greg broke their copycat state by telling Donny that he had gone to Portland. He used Emily as an excuse and the breakup. Emily needed to see that he was okay, he needed clothes, and frankly he had been frustrated as hell in Pineburg. He didn’t come here to see Donny fuck himself up again and certainly didn’t want to be a part of it. Then, on a whim, he said, he had ended up trying Leeann Holt’s parents back in Portland—and found Leeann there. He couldn’t help it. All this bringing up the past had sent him there. It seemed the best way to cover himself, just let the falsified story reveal itself. He and Leeann had caught up, he told Donny. She only had kind words for Donny. At this point, Donny nodded along, but his hands hung off the chair arms, ropey and bony like some tired old farmer’s. He said he didn’t blame Greg for looking her up. And they sat a while longer, sipping the coffee that was now cold. A slight breeze brought over the dry, earthy smell of those hay bales but, oddly, none of the gunpowder.
“You all right?” Greg said to Donny.
“Sure I am. Why?”
“You look like something’s wrong. Anything wrong?”
Donny shrugged. “You don’t look so great yourself. Long drive?”
“Always is. Think you’re almost here when you get out of the mountains, then it’s a whole ‘nother slog.”
“What you do? Listen to the radio? Play music on your phone?”
“All of that, sure. News is always good. I forget to check the news otherwise.”
Donny sat up, smiling. “Me too. Never get used to all this news on my iPad. There’s too much. Too hard to concentrate on one thing. You know?”
“Totally.”
“Though I know this one trucker, he mounts his tablet right on his steering wheel, reads the latest news that way. You ever do it?”
“Sounds like a good idea.” Greg added a smile.
Both had glanced at the whiskey bottle.
“You do it on the way in?” Donny said.
“What’s that?”
“Read the n
ews like that?”
“No. Oh, no. Too dangerous—”
“What you like to read? Local stuff? Or I bet you’re a New York Times guy.”
“Sure, sometimes. the Guardian also. Locally? Oregonian still too, even the Tribune.”
A pop rang out. Both started. Greg’s cup tumbled to the planks, Donny’s chair skipped with a crack.
It was Gunnar out there with a new target. He got off a couple more shots. They laughed at each other, mirror grimaces.
“I think I broke my chair,” Donny said. “Don’t tell Karen,” he added in a whisper.
“I won’t if you won’t,” Greg added. “My cup’s cracked.”
They sat in silence a moment, watching Gunnar reload and pop off a few more.
“I have to say, you kinda had me on edge there, feller,” Donny said eventually. “A guy like you doesn’t leave his bike behind for nothing.”
“I had to. It’s safe in your garage.”
“Sure is.”
“There’s another part to this, Donny. I had to make sure Leeann didn’t know anything.”
“Of course, she didn’t. Doesn’t. I’d never tell her. I told you.”
They eyed each other.
“I have to make sure you don’t tell anyone,” Greg said.
“Sure. And I could say the same about you.”
“Yes, you could.” They looked away, now unable to eye each other. Greg saw the bottle. “Mind if I do?”
“Knock yourself out, cowboy. See if you can catch up.” Donny handed him his cup.
Greg poured a five count, took a sip. Donny watched him, nodding.
“She’s Gunnar’s mom,” Greg said. “She made sure I knew that.”
“Yep. But we cut each other off a long time ago.”
“She’s had a rough time of it.”
Donny opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t. Again he looked away from Greg and now from Gunnar. He was looking out in the direction of the dam, Greg noticed.
The Other Oregon Page 19
