The Other Oregon

by Steve Anderson

  Greg gave her a hug. She hugged him back and grasped at his shoulder blades, holding on. He didn’t ask if she was okay—of course she was not.

  “Donny’s here,” he said. “In town. Gunnar told me.”

  “Donny hit you? What happened?”

  “I deserved it.”

  Leeann held her chin up. She pushed hair out of her face.

  “It’s all right. Come on.” Greg took her arm and led her off.

  Leeann shook her arm free and led him along instead, asking him where his car was.

  “Where’s Gunnar?” she said once they reached the car.

  “Safe. I got him safe.”

  Leeann sighed in relief. “Good. Okay.”

  Greg’s phone rang. He let it. “Torres again,” he said to answer Leeann’s stare.

  “He won’t like that,” Leeann said. “You sure Gunnar’s safe?”

  “As sure as I can be. Where you taking me?”

  “Years ago, before me and Donny hit Mexico? We had this nice little squat up the river a ways. It’s got to be the place.”

  “That’s what Gunnar said too. He told me.”

  Leeann stopped, glaring at him. “He did, did he?” Then she broke into a smile that was broad and rare, one Greg had not remembered—it seemed like pride, he thought.

  Greg delivered Leeann back to Emily, who got Leeann to a budget hotel room and set her up. Greg took off. Emily called Greg back to report: She had left Leeann in the hotel room sitting on the bed, just her and the phone that Greg bought her. She had Leeann’s car towed too and paid for it. Leeann had thanked her and told her she should go home. But, Emily told Greg, she couldn’t help noticing that Leeann kept staring at her new phone as Emily pulled the door shut. It meant Leeann might call Torres, Greg thought, but what could he do? He just had to hope she wouldn’t.

  North of the city, Greg walked along the east bank of the Willamette River. Nearby shipyards and their cranes loomed as Greg navigated a void in the riverscape—a low basin that held train tracks, a few abandoned buildings, and rusted, busted moorings that poked up from the water like giant deadly weeds. The punks and skaters called this area Pirate Town. Greg could see the tallest downtown buildings when he looked behind him, which was often. His path was a mix of railway gravel, oily scrubs of grass, and encroaching river mud and rocks, bringing a smell somewhere between algae and motor oil.

  He tried to predict Torres’ next moves. Torres had to be in Portland soon if not already. Greg could just see him and his agents pulling up to the Holt home to find it confiscated and Leeann gone.

  He pushed on, but the ground started to feel softer and wetter so he moved up onto the train tracks, trying not to stumble on the greasy ties.

  He wondered if Torres was on to him yet. They had their ways, and Torres wasn’t against flanking the rules.

  He looked at his phone again. It was already off. He looked at the sky. Who knew what devices they could track? He took his plastic bag, shook and wiped it dry, and set his phone in it, wrapping it tight. He dug a little hole in the gravel, set the phone down inside, and placed a rock over that. And he walked on.

  43

  At the farthest end of Pirate Town stood an abandoned grain exchange from the days of the robber barons. The two-story stone block of a building looked majestic but was small, like a rural bank or a library branch. Decades of neglect made it look blacked out, bombed out. The sun was about to go down, casting angular yet misshapen shadows down its facade.

  Greg approached, peeking in windows and doors. He shouldered a side door, and it opened, delivering him into a minefield of debris and smells he didn’t want to know about. The tall ceilings and windows made for more long shadows. It was becoming night inside here already. Gunnar had told him to bring a flashlight, so he’d bought one at a minimart. He clicked it on. Dust and mold covered the overturned tables, chairs, and hard contours of unknown origin, and green-spotted streaks of mold owned the walls like ivy—one of those images that belonged on some blog for majestic buildings in ruins. The floor plan was open, and Greg imagined traders hustling here back in the day. He saw a broad and grand stairway that rose from the far middle of the floor, leading upward. Now he clicked off the flashlight. Gunnar and Leeann had each told him not to use the flashlight if he could help it since it invited trouble and spooked any others holing up here.

  He headed up the stairs. The second floor had lower ceilings and fewer and smaller windows, the first floor having served as the showy main entrance hall while this was the grimmer paper-pushing reality of whatever grain exchanging entailed—grain that probably came from areas east of Pineburg, Greg realized. He moved along in the darkness, sliding one toe out in front of the other. He hit a board, a brick, and something soft that tumbled away. A rolled up sleeping bag? Dead rat? Who knew? A window far in a corner brought in some light and a draft. The glass was gone. He made his way over to it and looked out. Beyond the train tracks stood a wooded ridge with a cozy North Portland neighborhood, a horizon of lights as dots, and a tree line as spikes. He looked down. Connected to the outside wall and cascading down the building was an ornate fire escape of black iron, thick and slick and probably far heavier than it needed to be.

  Greg turned back to the floor and clicked on his flashlight for a quick scan of the room. A few yards from the open window stood an office that was missing one wall, creating an L-shape that provided both shelter from the open window’s draft and a hideout from the stairway. Greg made his way over.

  In the corner of the L were a foam bedroll, sleeping bag, backpack, and small cooler.

  It could be Donny.

  Greg clicked off his flashlight and stood still, listening. Heard nothing. He sat on the bedroll a long while. His eyes closed once, then twice. He shook himself awake. He rested the back of his head on the backpack. He thought about Torres and imagined FBI whizzes in the Portland’s Federal Building somehow locating Greg’s phone under the rock. They could ping it or something. Who knew what they could do with technology? He read about the NSA being able to track phones even when they were off. It might have required some authorization Torres had to push and even lie to get, but a man like Torres would probably get it. But at least Greg had a head start, he thought, and his eyes closed again. They kept closing.

  Greg’s eyes popped open. Morning light streamed in, a blast of rays from more windows than he’d expected in the dark. Squinting, he adjusted to the light and propped himself up, feeling his joints pop and his muscles strain from stiffness.

  Donny sat before Greg. He sat on his haunches, perched on his sleeping bag like a yoga instructor, but he wasn’t dressed like one, or Charlie Adler for that matter. He had on old coveralls and a cheap fleece pullover over that, all worn and faded so as not to look out of place, Greg thought. He already had a stubble going. He had transformed into a passable homeless guy.

  Greg didn’t know what to say. His pulse had quickened, but his face still had the numbness of sleep. His eye throbbed, the throb making a straight line down his neck to his heart, which thumped from it. Donny kept staring.

  “I figured this was your stuff,” Greg said.

  “Good thing it was. Street guys don’t cotton to squatting.” Donny added a smile.

  Greg smiled, but it only made his blood race more. “I can’t believe I slept this long.”

  “You been out. Long time. You must have needed it,” Donny said, losing the smile.

  Greg looked around. Donny had a couple of lines of meth going on a little shaving mirror on top of his cooler. Donny went over and snorted them. He stood and stretched. A pistol was tucked into the front pocket of his coveralls. The gun was small and black, no bigger than a flask, only the end of the butt showing. He could have kept it hidden easily. He wanted to show it.

  “You didn’t call the cavalry,” Donny said.

  “Leeann told me you’d be here if anywhere. She wants to help you. And, no, I did not tell anyone.”

  Donny lifted a half-empty b
ottle of Old Crow, took a big swig. “Is Gunnar safe?”

  Greg nodded. “Only I know where he is.”

  “Good, good.” Donny passed the bottle to Greg. Greg took it and drank, the rim wet from Donny. It burned and gave Greg an instant headache as if skipping right to the hangover. He handed back the bottle and Donny took another swig.

  Donny crouched, stretched, and walked the floor, anything but sit comfortably like Greg. He grabbed a chair and turned it backward and sat staring at Greg, but he was looking on through Greg as if asleep with his eyes open. His stubble seemed thicker already.

  He threw Greg a sandwich from the cooler. It was peanut butter. Greg ate it.

  Donny didn’t eat. He paced the room again.

  Greg knew he didn’t have much time, but he couldn’t rush it either. He also wondered how Leeann was holding up in that hotel room. Alone again. She had to be worried about them. It was a fine line. All she had to do was pick up that phone he got her and call Torres.

  Donny stretched again. Greg really wished he’d quit fucking stretching. Donny sat on the chair again, eyeing Greg, nodding.

  “They don’t know you’re here,” Greg said. “Got no clue. You tricked them.”

  “Sure. Just like I fooled Wayne.” Donny let out a big sigh. It turned into a groan. He paced the room again. He came back and crouched close to Greg’s face. “What are you doing, man? Huh?”

  “I’m clearing my conscience,” Greg said. “No reason to lie.”

  “Then tell me how you came to Pineburg,” Donny said. “Go ahead. I already searched you for a wire. Not even that woke you up. Well?”

  “All right. The FBI came to me. They wanted me to inform for them. To act as an informant. They wanted to find out what was going on with the Double Cross. When they first contacted me, they led me to believe you were really dead. Then I got the old bait and switch; oh, guess what—Donny’s alive now. Surprised the hell out of me. I think they planned it that way. But I rejected them all the same. Told them no the whole time. I came to town on my own.”

  Hearing himself confess this out loud, Greg realized just how stupid it was. He was prepared to get Donny’s pistol in his mouth, to be thrown out that window, a boot to the balls, anything. Donny just nodded along.

  “You had your own reasons,” Donny said.

  “That’s right.”

  “That fellow Torres involved? The FBI Agent.”

  “Yes. And he still is. He’ll be wanting to know where I am. But you know what? I’m on the run too, in a way.”

  Donny stopped nodding. “Is that what this is?”

  “At first I was hoping I could get you to prove your worth to them, or at least your relative innocence. Lay it all on Wayne. But you kept screwing that up, and I did too, and I didn’t know how to tell you. So now I’m telling you.”

  “Bullshit. You were just making sure I didn’t tell anyone about the lake.”

  “Yes. Of course. That too.”

  Donny bounced a knee. “And you didn’t tip off the cops about it?” he added. “You weren’t the one?”

  “No. I was thinking maybe you did it. Thought it was some kind of move you were making.”

  “No. No.”

  “So, worst case is, someone is putting pressure on us. Or, it’s coincidence.”

  “Hell of a thing, either way,” Donny muttered.

  They brooded in silence a moment, leaving a void where they might have speculated on who it could be.

  “Not a great spot we’re sitting in, is it?” Donny said eventually.

  “You know what I’d really love?” Greg said. “If you’d come walk with me right to the police. Portland police. FBI can wait. We’ll call a good lawyer on the way. Maybe a civil liberties specialist. I think some rules might have been broken.”

  “Yeah, well, we broke some rules too, ain’t we?” Donny pulled back, his eyes to the ground. He shook his head as if he had a bug in his hair, the meth not letting him think.

  “And, we’ll get you some help,” Greg said.

  Donny didn’t respond. He marched over to the open window and looked out. He looked down. He turned to Greg, the pale light of the window framing him in silhouette.

  “You know how you can help me? You tell them that you never saw me.”

  “You mean, say that I never found you here?”

  “That’s right. I must have headed the opposite direction.” Donny grimaced, his teeth glowing inside his shadow. “He went thatta way.”

  “It would give you some time. Okay. If that’s the way you want it.”

  “Even with that news story, cold case, whatever, they’ll never figure you were in on what went down at the lake.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because there’s me instead,” Donny said. “There’s always me.”

  With that, Donny fell silent. His smile dimmed away. His head hung down.

  “You know I will look after Gunnar,” Greg said.

  Donny rushed over crying, the tears rolling so hot off his chin they gave off a little steam. They splashed on his knuckles as he grabbed at his stuff and started to pack it in the backpack.

  The problem was, Greg still wasn’t sure Donny wouldn’t talk. He wanted to grab Donny by the wrists and shake him, talk him out of it. He needed more from Donny. He had to make sure he wouldn’t tell. But he played it cool, just showed Donny a shrug, and then he pushed it: “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said. “I’m guessing a family like the Callums had quite a stash. Karen must have had a safe right in the house. You probably scored.”

  Donny glared and wailed, a yelped from deep in his gut. “There was one. She took it, took it all. She emptied her fucking safe! It was like the bitch knew somehow …”

  Greg glared back in horror. She had probably done it sometime after he had confronted her. He, unknowingly, must have woken her up to the threat. “That’s terrible,” he said.

  “I wanted it to be for Gunnar. It was for him. For him!”

  “I’ll take care of him. I told you. I’m guessing you got a nice new fake ID though. Where is it this time? Alaska, Canada? Mexico again?”

  “Yes, yes. Mexico didn’t work out so well, but …”

  Donny stopped packing. He had stopped crying. He pushed himself up from the chair and stood tall.

  He laughed at Greg.

  “Oh, shit. Man, you’re doing it again, aren’t you?” Donny said. “That’s just what you’re doing. You’re screwing me again.” He came over to Greg and sat down right next to him. “You know what? I’m not going anywhere.”

  After a few minutes, Donny lay out on the bedroll and stretched his legs. He had twitched into position, scratching at his crotch. His eyes had slowed to a stop, taking in everything and nothing at once. He was rethinking things, and Greg didn’t like it. Now Greg paced the room. He kicked debris out of the way, an old tin box and a parched leather glove. He looked out the open window and saw no threats yet, only the afternoon glistening on the train tracks. He thought it strange that no trains had passed, but he wasn’t even sure if this was a working rail line. He went to the other windows and rubbed off dirt but saw nothing to worry him.

  “My beard’s growing in good,” Donny said. “Got a shopping cart, now all’s I need is a bunch of cans. No one notices a homeless guy or girl for that matter. I wait it out like that. Then I go.”

  He jumped up. He fished around in his stuff. He pulled on a soiled and threadbare riding coat and slapped on a grimy, open-crowned cowboy hat. “This is what you think of us. What you thought of me back then. Then came that ole security guard—didn’t quite get what you thought you would, did you?”

  Greg didn’t take the bait. Donny was just stalling now. Holing up here wasn’t good for either of them. Donny was slowly losing his marbles. It meant Greg was going to have to shut Donny up. “Every minute you wait? They’re going to figure this out.”

  “You brought all this on me,” Donny said.

  Greg shoute
d: “Don’t be a fuckin idiot!”

  Donny laughed. He danced his goofy country jig. It was barely amusing before. Now it made Greg want to kick out Donny’s legs from under him.

  “Know what I should go do?” Donny said. “Go bomb the Federal Building, leave a big ole Cascadia flag and a bicycle behind, and blame it all on you. How’d that make you feel?”

  Greg could only hold out his hands and sigh. Donny dropped back on his bedroll. Greg paced and paused, paced and paused, listening for sirens or intruders. But of course they wouldn’t use sirens, he thought.

  He wished he would’ve tried to get a gun somehow before he came here. But he had no idea how. He paced. He glanced again for Donny’s gun. It was still in his belt.

  “It’s like you’re the one on meth,” Donny said.

  Greg stepped over to him. “I’m telling you everything. What more do you want? They needed someone to be an informant. For prosecution. Maybe they don’t have a case.”

  “Informant? You mean a weasel. Backstabber. A narc.”

  “Don’t forget ‘hypocrite.’” Greg huddled with Donny. “Okay, look. I will go with you. How about that? Gunnar’s good and safe for now. But you have to listen to me. We have to go now.”

  Donny stared at his knees, his hands upturned and limp at his sides. “No. I don’t believe anyone. They’ll just fuck you over. They will. Us.”

  Greg felt like a father talking to a boy who got beat up at recess. He tried to simplify things. “That pistol you have? At least get rid of that. It’s not smart, remember? You told me that. Violence is never smart. You gave violence up yourself. That was your vow.”

  “Yeah. That I did. I did learn that then, when we did that.”

  “So,” Greg said. He was whispering now, cajoling. “I tell you what. Why don’t you just give me your gun?”

  Donny scowled. Donny grinned. “Oh, no. No way. I see what you’re doing, what you’re trying to pull—”

  A knocking sound from downstairs, echoing.

  Greg tightened up inside, his pulse throbbing. Donny’s eyes locked on Greg’s, urging him to be still.

  Donny tiptoed to the middle of the room, facing the open stairway.