The Other Oregon

by Steve Anderson

  “Donny, I … You got to help me out here. I don’t know what you’re taking about—”

  A flash of hot pain hit Greg’s eye. It shot out the back of his head, yanking him backward.

  Donny had punched him, a sucker punch.

  40

  A small hill of rock formations presided over the entrance road to Pineburg Dam, like some ancient and crumbling castle ruins that the earth had reclaimed as its own. These rock palisades were so dark by night that their silhouette didn’t always show against the sky. On this night the profile of a man could barely be seen moving over the hill’s crest, between a gap in the rocks. FBI Special Agent Richard Torres jogged over the hill followed by four others—FBI agent Mitchum and three far-flung county sheriffs who’d been shocked awake by the FBI calling them. All wore black Kevlar vests. They scanned the rocks behind them, their path ahead, and the road down before them constantly, like the last soldiers on a lost patrol fearing they’d be outnumbered again.

  They jogged along the hillside of the road, keeping to its shadow as they made the turn that would reveal the dam. All were surprised to see no light coming from that direction. The lights to the dam entrance were out—lights any human could get at if they really wanted. The dam itself though, while not large, still had lights on that shown like a stadium at night.

  Torres led his men in closer, to take stock. They crouched in the gully of the entrance road. The requisite Off Limits sign lay in the road battered and bent as if hit by sledgehammers. The gate, part of a chain link fence that ran from either side of the entrance, was torn off and trampled. Padlocks had been cut.

  Objects caught the light from the dam. Fish. Salmon lay strewn about near the entrance, shiny and slimy, some still flopping.

  Torres pulled his Glock and the rest followed suit, Mitchum with an assault rifle, two of the sheriffs with Glocks like Torres’, and the other with a shotgun. They crept closer at Torres’ hand instructions, stepping around the fish.

  Inside the gate, more fish, fish blood, and what looked like a mound of cow shit left a trail along the dam’s passageway leading to the dam house, a stout concrete block structure a third of the way in atop the dam and no bigger than a large backyard shed. The dam itself stretched no longer than a couple playing fields. Still, it stood high above the reservoir, higher than a man could jump and survive.

  Torres led his men to the busted gate. They walked like crabs now, guns aiming. They glanced at each other as they eyed the mess and made faces from the smell and surreality of it.

  They spread out and took up positions along the fencing, aiming through the chain links and sweating from crouching, listening, and breathing through their mouths so they didn’t have to smell the fish mess.

  One county sheriff kept watch behind them as they focused on the gatehouse about forty yards away. The metal door was dented, partially open. The trail of slime and shit led inside. They heard a couple thumps and banging, and they reset their grips on their aiming guns.

  The dam house door flew open, clanging against concrete.

  A cow stumbled out.

  A cow?

  Two locals followed, Casey and Damon. They held a whiskey bottle between them and staggered as if the bottle was the only thing keeping them up. Each had a hunting rifle.

  The cow stumbled in a circle, its tail and side quarters bumping at the passageway fence, not sure where to go. On the cow’s hind quarters: X X.

  Casey and Damon looked out, saw Torres and his men. The two froze. Three more Double Cross regulars stumbled out of the dam house, laughing and drinking. One carried a Double Cross flag.

  Torres had dropped to his stomach for cover as had his men behind him.

  He didn’t have to yell a warning. Casey and Damon dropped their rifles. They got down and lay with hands up. Seeing them, the cow lowered itself down. The other three Double Cross regulars already lay prostrate.

  “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. Oh, god. Please don’t shoot,” one muttered.

  Torres came in closer, onto the passageway, aiming at Casey and Damon.

  Damon vomited.

  Torres crouched over Casey. “Wayne Carver!” he shouted. “Where is he? Charles Adler? Where is he?”

  41

  A warm thickness spread down the side of Greg’s throbbing face. He touched it. Blood.

  Greg looked up, squinting. A blur of a shadow stood over him. It became Donny. Donny’s eyes had softened. He bent down and grabbed Greg by the hand.

  “I thought it was you … I thought you were the one who might of did it,” Greg muttered.

  “Come on,” Donny said, his voice gentler.

  They heard a grunt.

  Wayne Carver stood in the doorway of the study. He aimed a rifle at them.

  Was Greg really seeing this? The gun was black and stocky but with a long skinny barrel. Wayne wore tan combat boots, desert camo fatigues, and a Kevlar vest, looking like he just stepped off a military transport craft; all that was missing was the helmet.

  “I knew it,” Wayne said. His eyes had locked on Donny.

  Donny was still crouched, but his hands had raised. Greg’s arms went up.

  “Little lover’s quarrel we got here?” Wayne said.

  Donny cracked a smile for Wayne but it stretched thin. “Hey, come on, feller. I’m just playing Greg here. Just in case.”

  Wayne stepped closer, his eyes darkening. “In case of what?”

  “What about the dam?” Donny said. “Why aren’t you there?”

  Wayne laughed. “Now, that there’s me playing you. I wasn’t there either. I only wanted to see if you’d really show. I guess I got my answer.” He aimed the barrel at Greg. “Get up, your back up straight. Turn around. Let me have the back of your head.”

  Greg did so. He was on his knees, his back to Wayne and that skinny barrel. Was this a test, some joke? Greg couldn’t believe this was happening. His logic wouldn’t let it. He eyed Donny.

  Donny lunged at Wayne. Wayne swung the butt of his rifle. It hit Donny’s stomach with a thwack, like a meat tenderizer on a steak.

  Air launched out Donny’s mouth with a whoosh and he dropped, stunned, his eyes wide.

  “Turn around!” Wayne shouted at Greg.

  Greg did it. He felt the barrel’s mouth, millimeters from his skin, prickling up the hairs of his neck. “Listen,” he said, “you have to listen to me—”

  A crack—a blast. Red mist and a roundish object flew over Greg’s head and hit the desk. It looked like a deflated gym ball dunked in berry jam.

  It was most of Wayne’s head.

  Greg jerked to the side. The rest of Wayne’s body thudded at the floor, almost on top of him.

  Greg’s eyes found the doorway. Gunnar stood there, his stance rigid, still aiming his rifle at Wayne’s body.

  Donny and Greg stayed in a crouch. Gunnar couldn’t stop staring, aiming at Wayne.

  “Shit, boy,” Donny said.

  Gunnar saw his father now, eyes wide too as if he’d only just now discovered him here. He released his stance, mechanically. He stood the rifle against the wall. He sat in a chair, leaning forward. He wore his dark paintball gear.

  Donny scrambled over and hugged Gunnar. Gunnar hugged him back, squeezing, his fingers white from it.

  Donny turned back to Greg. “Listen to me. I did it. Okay? I did this,” he said.

  “No,” Greg said.

  “No, dad,” Gunnar said.

  “Be quiet. Please, be quiet,” Donny said in the tone of someone who just needed to think. He said to Greg, “I did it. I did it before. You know I did. That one time I did. So I did it again.”

  Greg nodded. Okay. He would have demanded the same to save a son.

  Donny kissed Gunnar on the forehead and stood facing the room. He looked around. He looked to Greg. “Take care of him?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  Gunnar was crying. Donny went back to his son and held him.

  “Turn yourself in,” Greg said to Don
ny’s back. “Right now. I’ll help you. It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t control it. You can give them information.”

  Donny turned back to Greg, eyeing him up and down as if recognizing Greg wasn’t what he thought. “That’s what I was going to do,” Donny said. “Then you come along.”

  “You still can. You can.”

  “Just don’t say anything about you and me, what we done. That it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “But what if they know? What if they already know? Huh? They could use that against us? Between us.” Donny’s face had gone pale with urgency, with anxiety, and a stream of drool and sweat and tears shone on him like someone had rubbed his face with an oil.

  Donny had a point, Greg had to admit. “Just don’t say anything,” he heard himself say, his voice calming, in monotone. “You don’t know what they’re talking about. You know how to do that. You know how better than anyone.”

  Donny stood again, between Greg and the doorway. “Sure. And I learned it all from you,” he said. He backed up to the doorway. Gunnar was watching him, his eyes stuck on his dad, pleading with his dad to look at him. Donny kept his eyes on Greg. “Want this house?” he said. “Karen’ll take you in. She just won’t love you. You’re not her type.”

  Donny turned and headed out the door and down the hallway.

  Greg moved to run after, but Gunnar in the room made him stop. He checked himself. Oddly, he had no blood on him except for a few specks. The trajectory must have gone right over his head. Maybe he had some on his back.

  “You don’t have any on you,” Gunnar muttered.

  A back door slammed shut.

  A handkerchief stuck out of Wayne’s back pocket, a blue plume. Not knowing what else to do, Greg yanked it out and used it to wipe down Gunnar’s rifle as Gunnar sat there stunned, staring at the body. Greg grabbed Gunnar by the shoulder.

  “Come on. We have to go. We have to go now.”

  42

  Greg’s eye ached and swelled and he told himself to get ice when he could. The bleeding had already stopped; the gash was just broken skin, and the bruise would be far worse. He could drive, no problem. Gunnar directed him to a junction, to an old gas station that had been closed for years. Gunnar disappeared around the back, somehow made it inside and opened the garage. Greg drove in, parked. Gunnar had a flashlight. He led Greg into the office where the moonlight through the windows let them see so he clicked off his light. Gunnar led them to a desk and two chairs, holding Greg’s hand and calling out objects Greg should avoid hitting. They sat in silence a few minutes. Gunnar sobbed a little, and Greg held him by the shoulder.

  Gunnar wiped at his eyes. He told Greg everything he knew. This gas station was where Donny had hid out when he first came to town many years ago. Gunnar knew it like his own bedroom. He could get in from the back way or from the roof. There was even a cellar and a gas lamp if they needed it. It was safe. Outside was also where the Double Cross had ambushed the three men from the Feds and state. Suddenly Greg wasn’t feeling so safe, but Gunnar said it was the best place to be because no one—not even Double Cross—would be stupid enough to come back to the scene of a crime. That didn’t stop Greg from crouching at the windows and peering out. His stomach ached with hunger. Gunnar produced a package of beef jerky for Greg. Gunnar had other emergency goods stowed away, he said. He even had a pay-as-you-go phone that couldn’t be traced, though the signal was no good here.

  “I know where dad went,” Gunnar said.

  He laid it all out, proving his hypothesis as if explaining a science experiment at school.

  “You sure he’s heading there? You gotta be sure, buddy.”

  “I’m sure. He’s my dad.” Gunnar added, now reciting his own instruction manual, “When you are on the run and on the move, you must become a creature of habit or you will not make it.” Greg imagined Donny drilling a young Gunnar with such lines. Words to flee by.

  “Stealth helps too,” Greg said. “I’ll have to leave the bicycle here and the rack with it. They know me by my bike.” He had to; otherwise, he might as well fly Cascadia flags from the car and airbrush headshots of himself on the doors.

  “It’s safe here,” Gunnar said. “I like your bike.”

  Greg pressed fifty dollars in Gunnar’s hand. “Don’t look at me like that,” Greg said. “You’ll need this to get by. I know someone—Tam, of Tam’s tavern. Can you get to her?” Gunnar nodded. “It’s a good thing you have that phone,” Greg added. “Call her when you get a signal.”

  Gunnar nodded. “I have my own ways back into town. No one will know.”

  “Good. Now, once Tam says it’s okay to come, remain there with her and stay put. She won’t let anyone get near you, not even any Feds. She’ll keep you out of sight. I know she will. All right? Anyone does ask, you were there with her the whole time. You were nowhere near your house tonight.”

  “No, I mean, right,” Gunnar said. He fought more sobs, and Greg felt a pang of guilt leaving Gunnar in this situation. How many times had Donny put his son on the spot like this? And now here he was playing the role of Donny.

  Greg’s phone rang. Unknown caller. It had to be Torres. He let it ring.

  “Can you tell me something?” Gunnar said. “What was dad talking about? About what you two did one time, years ago?”

  Greg looked into Gunnar’s eyes. He held him by the shoulders. “It was nothing. We did a couple break-ins when we were young. He was always scared someone would find out. You can imagine how it must have bothered him back then. He was your age.”

  “Yes,” Gunnar said. “All right, time to go. You have to go. I’ll be okay.”

  “Good man.”

  Greg pulled over, gathered dirty wet snow from the side of the road, dumped it into a plastic bag he had, and put the cold bag over his swelling eye. He began to feel safer as he drove on. He was up in the Cascades and taking all secondary highways back to Portland. He and Donny had a few things working in their favor, he realized. He hoped. Torres would have to deal with the Pineburg Dam incident, since that was his turf; meanwhile, there was a murder at the Callum place. Greg imagined Torres and his agent Mitchum pulling up to the Callum house and finding a corpse in the den—the body of one Wayne Carver, the public leader of a would-be militia group at war with the Feds. They would also see that Donny had taken off only with what he needed to live on the lam. Maybe there was a safe in the house too, or a secret stash now emptied? Whatever they discovered, it would require eyes and legs and Torres could only leave so much to his county colleagues. He and Donny had some time on their side.

  The sun came up over the Willamette Valley, painting the fields purple along Highway 99. Less than an hour from Portland. Greg’s phone rang again. Unknown caller. He turned it off. And felt less safe. Could his phone give him away? Was that even legal? He wondered if Torres would defy the rules again to locate Donny—and now Greg himself.

  By eight in the morning, Greg sat in a doorway about five blocks from Emily’s apartment—his home. He had a beanie-style stocking cap on and could have been a homeless guy to the casual observer. His car was parked on a side street. He had another bag of ice on his face.

  Emily walked up and sat next to him. Right on time. She was always that. Another reason he didn’t deserve her. She had on a stocking cap like his but with a ball on top. In better times, they would’ve chuckled about it.

  “Are you okay?” Emily said.

  “Yes.” He pulled away the ice to show her the little bandage. He’d live.

  “Did you deserve it?”

  “Depends. Anyone come by your place asking for me?”

  “No. Who is anyone?” Emily said.

  “They’ll probably look like they’re in the FBI.”

  Emily didn’t seem to wince, but she hugged herself as if cold.

  “Actually, they are the FBI,” Greg said. “If they come, just tell them exactly what happened. You saw me, right here, and I told you tell to them this.”
>
  “Okay.” After a silence, Emily said, “Does this have anything to do with your Cascadia activities?”

  “No. Certainly not. I’m not wanted for anything.” As far as he knew. “I’m sorry about this. I’m just trying to help someone.”

  “I gather that.”

  “Look. About Leeann. I owe her. I’m sorry,” Greg said.

  “Quit saying that. Is she in danger?” Emily said.

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Then I know where she is.”

  Greg hopped on the Number 15 bus and got off minutes away in Central Eastside where bridge overpasses rose over warehouses and train tracks close to the Willamette River. Renamed Produce Row, this area of old brick buildings, narrow loading-dock lanes, and equipment supply stores had been proclaimed the next big thing in Portland ever since a DIY skateboard park sprung up under the Burnside Bridge in the early 1990s. Greg’s Cascadia Congress was held here. But the area hadn’t fully arrived just yet, and the stretch under the on-ramp to the Morrison Bridge definitely was not there. The street was a patchwork of cracked concrete, asphalt, and exposed cobblestones showing old streetcar tracks. The bridge overpass hovered above, a concrete sky. It sheltered a homeless village of tents and tarps, cardboard, and shopping carts that lined one side of the street. Few of the inhabitants were out, Greg saw as he walked along the hovels, and he wondered if they were still inside their structures or already out doing what they had to do to get through another day. The few he asked didn’t know of anyone who fit the description of Leeann Holt, but Greg suspected there was an unwritten rule always to say no.

  He walked the few blocks south toward the Hawthorne Bridge overpass and the next homeless camp, the river and the I-5 Freeway at his right shoulder and the railroad tracks to his left crisscrossing the river bridges.

  “Oh, sorry.” He’d bumped into someone coming around a corner.

  Leeann?

  Her look said the same about him. She had a blanket wrapped around her and wore a baseball cap that was too big, her hair hanging down like greasy strings.