Gone Town- A Story

  A brilliant beam of sun filtered into the tight rectangular space, prompting Rod Cartwright’s rude awakening. He squinted, his brow furrowing and clenching together in a wrinkled mess before releasing and partially lifting a strand of dark hair off of his forehead. Cartwright shaded his face with his calloused palm as if he was some kind of irritated primate.  The cheap, antiquated mattress squeaked as Cartwright sat up in the small twin. He swore that he had closed the curtains the night before, he cursed himself for allowing the faded pastel blue drapes to let the piercing rays inside the small apartment, if it was to be called that it would only be for lack of a better word. Cartwright’s stockinged feet stuck out from under the thin comforter, yellowed with age, his slight paunch showing from the light grey crewneck t-shirt that was draped across his torso. He slid out of bed, slipping on his weathered dark leather boots that hung loosely around his ankles. Their heavy soles pounded the seemingly ancient oak floorboards as Cartwright snatched his heavily insulated denim jacket off of it’s rusty hook and slipped it over his broad shoulders. His hand smacked against the wall with a hollow pounding noise as he did so. The space confined Cartwright to the most limited of movements. Cartwright stepped over to the narrow rectangular window and peaked out of it down onto Main street. A few cars filled the slanted curbside parking spots on the street, an avenue dotted covered with old brick buildings, hotels with neon signs protruding from their sides, windowed storefronts presenting nondescript wear. Many of the cars were rusted models from decades past, the once bright blues, reds, greens and yellows were now peeling, bleached and faded. 

Cartwright descended down the narrow wooden stairwell and out a small squeaky door into the back room of the diner. It was less a back room and more of a meat locker, as a chill shot up Cartwright’s back and his breath shone in the white light that hung from the low ceiling. His pale, clammy hand grasped onto the handle of the heavy steel door and with a firm tug, swung it open. Cartwright then entered the old fashioned looking diner, surveying the nearly empty area scattered with booths adorned by red leather seats, and a flat, pale blue linoleum counter. Cartwright plopped himself down on one of the faded, partially torn leather stools, resting his boots on the metal bar below. 

“I knew you would show up here pretty soon Cartwright.” Dana uttered in her usual somewhat krass tone of voice. She was a tall woman of about 35 who’s red hair had faded into a beautiful earth-toned orange. Her face had tight corners and was marked by high cheekbones and gleaming hazel eyes. She wore a loose blouse and always stashed a pen behind her ear and a notepad in the pocket of her jeans. 

“Sure you did, just because I’ve lived here for two months I’m mister predictable now huh?” Cartwright responded, a tinge of amusement stretching across his face, forming a thin smile across his lips.  

“Alright, how about some coffee?” Dana turned around to the coffee machine that must have been about 20 years old and poured some of the steaming liquid into a white ceramic mug. 

“Wait a minute,” Cartwright’s eyes darted around the sparsely filled dining area and down the lunch counter, “where’s Ol’ Russ? He’s usually in here this time of the morning.” A look of worry was in Dana’s eyes as she bit her lip. 

“You know, I didn’t want to tell you this until I knew for sure, but Ol’ Russ was gunned down by state cops last night out on highway 26. I don’t know what the hell happened, I mean, Russ is no criminal!” Dana was flustered, fighting back tears as she recounted the events. Cartwright immediately knew why this had happened, it was a day he feared would come. 

“Dana, I’ve done a terrible thing,” Cartwright winced as the words slipped from his mouth. “Four months ago, Ol’ Russ and I stole 350,000 dollars from the federal bank in The Dalles, we fled south to Vegas and blew all the money in a matter of weeks. We figured that we would be safe here as long as we laid low, and since this town is so small and isolated, no one would suspect a thing.” 

“350,000 dollars? You motherfucker! How could you do this to me!” Dana raised her voice incredulously. Panic began to wash over Cartwright, as he knew this betrayal of Dana was unwarranted. He slid off of his stool without a word and quickened his pace toward the steel grid of mailboxes, antiquated and rusty, to pick up any last scrap of mail he could get before he hightailed it out of town. He found his last name and felt around in his pocket for the small brass key to unlock the steel mailbox. Inside the cavernous rectangle he found a single envelope that bore his name. Well, his real name. Rod Cartwright was a true fraud, perhaps it was because Rod Cartwright did not exist. 

William James Matheson was wanted for robbery and had a bushy brown beard protruding from his chin. Upon arriving in Las Vegas, he stumbled into the bathroom of his hotel room on the strip, slamming his hands on the marble sink and promptly vomiting into it, as he had consumed enough cheap liquor to make a 1500 pound bull sing “Sea Shanties.” He had never accounted for the lingering guilt that festered inside him still. Matheson stared at his frowning face in the mirror and fished his archaic razor from his duffle bag and began to shave. In a matter of  minutes his chin and upper lip were smooth as the edges of a marble. Although Matheson’s eyes had bulging, dark bags under them and his eyelids were fluttering and his eyeballs bloodshot, he felt liberated. 

Matheson wildly tore open the thin envelope and extracted the small, folded up piece of paper from within. The scribbled note was a short and to the point: 

Grace and James Hammond 

147 W Morton Street 

Matheson was deeply puzzled by the cryptic scrap of paper, but he had no time to waste. He hurried down the hall and burst out the back door into a tight alleyway. Matheson peered down either end, catching a glimpse of Main Street down one end and turning towards it, taking off in a burst of speed. As Matheson’s heavy boots pounded the cobblestone alleyway, he realized that it was extremely surprising that the state police had not yet found him, but at any rate, he had to leave immediately. Exiting the alley, Matheson darted to the left and snatched the keys to his car from his pocket. The sidewalk was dotted with passersby, many caught up in the rush of the morning. 

The automobile was a fairly handsome old machine. It was an ink black Chevrolet Nova convertible with a faded brown leather interior, a wonderfully obsolete vehicle from the early 1970s. Matheson slipped into the driver's seat, turned the key and the engine growled as the car rumbled. Matheson peeled out onto main street and shot down it, past the quiet little shop fronts, barking dogs, running children. 

Once Matheson had taken the exit onto the old highway, he saw no one. Even though he was a man on the run, Matheson could not help but appreciate the expansive grasslands and the majestic snow capped peaks in the distance. His hands gripped the silver-lined metal steering wheel and his palms were drenched in sweat. After all, it was the most uncertain period in his life up to that point, flung into a situation where he would be tested like he had never been before. As Matheson gradually picked up speed, the farmhouses and livestock becoming a blur, his mind kept circling back to the impending danger about to befall him. They were coming. 

The Oregon that was known to the outside world was not the state that Matheson had experienced all his life. This was a poor, rural, brutal, beautiful place that seemed separate from everything else in the entire world. William James Matheson grew up in a small blue collar town at the foot of Steens Mountain, the rocky ridge ever present in the distance. William’s father was a gruff man who seemed 60 at 30 and  80 at 50. This was due in part to his fondness for growing patchy, unkempt beards and goatees that made him seem as though he was an aged cowboy who was sick of riding. But he toiled in the dirt every day, sweating through his white t- shirts even in the dead of winter, digging graves and driving beat up old rigs filled with lumber for a state company that gave him chicken change for working himself until he was nearer to death then most men would ever get without staring into the bony face of the reaper himself. 

When Willie Sr. would arrive at the small ranch house on the edge of town, he would practically limp up the few steps and practically tear the door off of it’s flimsy hinges, so eager to rest his weary bones. Naturally, Willie Sr. was in no mood for anyone anytime ever. This proved to be an issue considering his family. Willie Sr. was hardly a regular fixture in William’s life, so it was utterly baffling why he was so fixated on him even now. It was his mother who would feed him, clothe him, send him to school. And when said school, with it’s cheaply constructed walls that were practically made of cardboard and it’s almost humorously impractical and dangerous hardwood floors, burned down when William was 11, she drove him the 20 miles every day to the next town over to an even shittier building that would itself meet a similar fate in 1992. 

All things considered, it seemed even more ridiculous that Willie Sr.’s death at 51 meant so much to William. But nonetheless, it did, and that hole in Williams' life would be filled by Ol’ Russ. Willie Sr. had been arrested on Route 95, a flat desolate area surrounded by even more desolate hilly ridges devoid of anything except dust. He had been arrested because he had made the ingenious decision to get liquored up before hopping in his 42,000 pound red and white rig and brushing up against a hapless motorist driving an AMC Gremlin. For this he was sentenced by a judge in Vale to 100 hours community service. Then suddenly, as he was on litter patrol near the very same highway, he dropped dead into the dust, sage and dirt. Willie Sr.’s family was not invited to the funeral because there was no funeral. He was buried exactly where he stood. To this day, it is baffling how exactly this was legal or what crazed individual authorized it, but it remains a fact. 

This thought and many others criss crossed Matheson’s brain as he came to a road sign that pointed west to Seneca, he hung a left and sped in that direction, the country becoming more wild and beautiful as the engine revved even further. 

The two men were driven and walked with such a direct, deliberate pounding of feet that it was impossible not to see this as the two men’s stocky frames moved down the narrow street. It was an idyllic little villa, same as all the towns in this region, grassy hills in the distance, a narrow main street lined with turn of the century brick buildings adorned with rusty fire escapes and weathered stone stoops hanging off it like diseased extremities. In the hilly residential streets, a few revival Victorian homes with balconies overlooking the rest of the town and squatty little ranch houses that lay on the only partially paved roads on the outskirts of town. They two men wore heavily shabby jeans and thick sherpa lined trucker jackets bursting into a barbershop to their left. It was a sleepy little tonsorium, containing a few vintage looking leather chairs and a couple large mirrors mounted on the walls. A man with slicked back white hair and a white apron of sorts clipped the short hair of a much younger man who resembled Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. This man did not seem as though he needed a haircut, but the weekly routine of men in this area dictated that such a ritual be performed. 

“Hold on just a minute, I’ll be right with you.” The barber greeted them pleasantly as they sat down in the small waiting area. 

“What the hell are we waiting for? Let’s get the information we need and get out of here,” Deacon whispered to Rich, the man positioned to his right. 

“Now settle down just a little bit, we can’t seem too conspicuous.” Rich uttered under his breath. 

“What do we have to hide?” 

“Nothing, just be cool alright?” Rich got up, from the chair and addressed the barber directly. “Can we ask you some questions?” 

“What kind of questions would you be asking?” The barber asked somewhat incredulously. 

“We’re looking for someone.” 

“Aren’t we all.” 

“Listen to me dammit.” 

“Alright, alright, what do you want to know?” 

“Does this man look familiar to you?” Rich pulled up a number of images on his phone, scrolling through each available picture of Matheson. These images showed a man who must have once hustled God in a game of pool one night at a bar, and the Lord took him out back and pummeled him endlessly with a divine fury. In these photos he was a disheveled, noticeably hungover man whose hair was so mussed and unkempt that it was nearly impossible to know what it would look like with the application of a comb. 

“Yeah, sure he does, as I recall he came in here three days ago, he was a bit flustered and irritable and seemed to just be in here for a bit of a diversion.” The barber drawled, his clippers buzzing on the back of the young man’s neck as he did so. 

“Did he say where he was coming from?” 

“Not exactly.” 

“Did he say where he was headed?” 

“Sort of, when I asked him, he muttered something about going home.” This was so unhelpful almost to the point of hindering the investigation by the two men. As well it should not have been. The barber had seen Matheson before he was even on the run, and this seemed to be far from a logical place to start looking. It wasn’t. Deacon and Richard were freelance agents, rogue investigators who were at this moment, in the State of Oregon’s employ. These men did not drive an official state vehicle, in fact one that would undoubtedly fail the state carbon emissions test, and they did not operate under fixed incomes. They were bounty hunters, but since the practice was illegal in the state in which they chose to reside, Richard and Deacon were thus forced to operate under another name. They had stopped off in this town for lunch at a kitschy, lost in the ‘50s luncheonette when they received the phone call from the state police that afternoon, the sun perched atop the blue sky, bathing the main street in a hellish heat. Richard and Deacon positioned themselves around a small table outdoors, one of the few small circular ones facing the limited foot traffic on that side of the street. After a speedy inhalation of Ma’s Greasy Spoon Afternoon special, a gluttonous, last meal-esque concoction featuring everything fried and drowned in gravy, the two wayward gentlemen were contacted by the state police department. They were thus assigned with their mission to apprehend one William James Matheson, posing under the possible alias of Rod Cartwright. They then scampered across the somewhat busy road, narrowly avoiding a collision with an elderly woman with hair like a used cotton ball and who appeared to be shorter than her steering wheel, her flabby, outstretched arms grasping the circular device. Upon reaching the other side of the road, Richard and Deacon thought it best to prowl the profusely unexciting local businesses.   

Deacon was enveloped with stress, clutching his mess of dark brown hair and shoving open the thin glass door of the barber shop to stumble out onto the sidewalk. He then fished out his phone from his pocket and called the state back. 

“Hello, this is Deacon Phillips, can you put me through to Sgt. Willow?” Deacon asked somewhat impatiently. 

“Deacon, I’m very busy, what do you need?” Sgt. Willow pried. 

“Oh, I understand, sorry to bother you. Just one question. How in the fuck are we supposed to find this guy if we don’t know a fuckin’ thing about where he could be? At least give us his last known address or something to work with. I don’t even know why you saddled us with this anyway, this should be yours to deal with.” Deacon erupted, drawing looks of suspicion from people strolling by. 

“Alright, Jesus Chirst, show some respect. His last known residence was 341 Main Street, Prairie City, Oregon. At least this is an address we found in that guy Russell Warrenton’s wallet. Apparently they’re partners or something. Now go get that motherfucker, or there will rightly be a whole lot of fuckin trouble.” Sgt. Willow was abrupt in his manner of speech as he was fuming. He had been a high level desk jockey for a few years, he had a nice little corner office at the headquarters in Salem, overlooking a nice little creek and the adjoining patch of evergreen trees that swayed gently in the afternoon. His hair was nicely trimmed and his watch a silver showpiece with a gargantuan deep blue face. He always flashed a semi-genuine smile to his coworkers as they shuffled by his office and seemed content to most. But this brought out the greasy, dirty street cop within him. Willow sifted through the file on Matheson, and grew increasingly frustrated and what a loser, what a complete and utter buffoon this man was. A frequent truant and eventual dropout, a sorry, frequently intoxicated individual who could not hold down a steady job. It was utterly baffling to Sgt. Willow how, two hopeless people from the evident underbelly of society could pull off one of the greatest and most costly bank robberies in the history of the United States.    

The sun dipped below the hills as Matheson glided along the empty rural road, where the ponderosa pine trees stood tall and grew into a richer, deeper green as nightfall approached. As Matheson drove farther along the winding country road, the forest consumed it. It became a dark, imposing presence. Within about an hour it was nearly pitch black. As Matheson came out to an expansive prairie land, the farmhouses and towering mountains became simply vague silhouettes. His eyelids grew heavy and his bones ached as he squinted around, searching for some kind of dirty road to turn down or path to pull over on to. Matheson felt increasingly restless, worry spreading to every inch of his being. This was a feeling he had never experienced before, it was as if his mind and soul were only vast chasms of anxiety and fear. Matheson had technically been a fugitive for about a year now but it was something he had never faced alone. Ol’ Russ had always provided a wise and jovial presence, keeping the bitter loneliness and paranoia of running from the law off of both of their minds. It seemed that loneliness had been a great thing to share with someone. 

Ol’ Russ had been somewhere between 55 and 72 at the time of his death, it never came up, but he had an ancient spirit. He always had a patchy, salt and pepper beard that made him seem somewhat scholarly, complemented by tanned, leathery skin and a dusting of receding white light grey hair. Ol’ Russ seemed to always dress like a cowboy, wearing denim shirts and weather vests with high snakeskin boots and the occasional black ten gallon hat. Not much about Ol’ Russ was known to Matheson and much of this information was skillfully concealed by him through his razor sharp wit and passion for odd and often fictional anecdotes. These were immensely pleasing to hear and often detailed Ol’ Russ’s life as one of an audacious, adventurous neo-cowboy who did exactly as he pleased and had always been dashing away from law enforcement and spitting in the face of any known authority as soon as he knew how. 

Matheson had first encountered Ol’ Russ outside of the 5th street liquor store in Lakeview, a corny little western themed joint designed to entice travelers on the interstate to stop in for some booze. Their tagline used to be “You’ll vomit your guts out and wake up in a strange bed with a strange woman after you see our low, low prices!” No it wasn’t. But it was a common occurrence after visiting. Matheson waited out in the freezing December eve, a bright eyed 17 year old praying for a hapless individual to ask for liquor. Ol’ Russ agreed to assist in the purchase of a six pack of miller lite and a 16 ounce Colt 45. Matheson had never tasted malt liquor before but was an avid fan of the actor Billy Dee Williams(this was the very man who had peddled the cheap substance in low-budget television commercials.) When Ol’ Russ exited the store with the alcohol, Matheson caught a glimpse of a shining paternal figure within him. This was perhaps because his father had just deceased and lay somewhere below highway 95, as well as the fact that his once vibrantly beautiful and energetic mother had developed a fondness for heroin. When Ol’ Russ had informed Matheson of his given Christian name, Russell, Matheson snidely remarked: 

“I’m gonna call you Ol’ Russ, ‘cause you old as dirt.” Ol’ Russ was not at all shocked by the crudeness of the boy, as he had been raised in a wild area devoid of any kind of structure for him to learn from. In Matheson, Ol’ Russ saw a wild man after his own heart. In later years, Matheson would frequently prod Ol’ Russ about his age. He would always respond: “I’m old as dirt, remember?” This was followed by a hardy chuckle and a stiff slap on the back. 

Matheson retrieved the note from the pocket of his Levi’s once more, and was once more perplexed by it. Clearly Ol’ Russ had formed some fail safe plan in his mind for such a situation like this. But it was not evident by this note. Matheson crumpled the paper into a ball within his fist as the wistful reminiscing concluded and the emptiness returned. The evening was now dreamlike as the sandman beckoned Matheson to the sweet release of even a limited slumber. The day had been one of the longest in Matheson’s life. Matheson knew he could not afford to sleep, for it would mean letting his guard down, giving those who pursued him a chance to creep closer. The fuel indicator on the Nova was about a millimeter from reading empty, the need to stop was even more present now. He pulled back the cuff of his worn grey sweatshirt and peered at his watch whose hands read 9:15. Matheson glimpsed a quaint farmhouse down a short dirt trail whose lights still shone bright in the darkening dusk, it was as if it was a mythical, storybook lighthouse reflecting into the dark waters below. There was no mechanism within Matheson’s mind to preclude him from pounding on the door and wearily pleading to stay the night, for a glorious relief from the endless plight and awful monotony of the road. But this was not to be. The Nova puttered along the lane for about another mile before the ancient machine gave out in the middle of the road. Matheson let out a groan and tilted his head back to rest against the back of the seat. Right at this moment he noticed the brilliant stars, hundreds of radiant points of light crisscrossing the night sky. It was a beautiful sight, making it seem as though Matheson was the only being on Earth. The great, all encompassing silence of this area painted Matheson as a simple, awe-stuck observer. He began to weep at the realization that there still existed magnificence and majestic grandeur in the world. 

Matheson then shoved open the heavy car door and shuffled to the back of the automobile, using every ounce of strength contained within his half-asleep muscles to push the machine off the highway and onto a grassy gravel trail. He wheeled it farther and farther until he was forced to slump down beside it, wiping his brow and rubbing his eyes, frantically blinking in an effort to stay awake. Matheson staggered to his feet and found himself in the oddest of locations. Adjacent to the Nova, there lay a vast array of vines and bushes and shrubs. Matheson knelt down next to them, examining what he perceived to be berries protruding from their stems. He took one of them and squashed it between his fingers, causing it to coat his fingertips in a scarlet liquid. They were blackberries, sweet, juicy blackberries. Matheson took handfuls of them at a time, stuffing them into his watering mouth past his dry, cracked lips. Past these shrubs lay an expansive field marked by rows upon rows of squatty little fruit trees, fat, succulent plums and pears hanging from their thin scraggly branches. Matheson’s hunger drove him once again, causing him to step through the tangled mass of bushes and vines, attempting to find his way to the field just ahead of him. It was as if the vines were a seething horde of rattlesnakes waiting to sink their teeth into his tender flesh. The large, blade-like thorns stuck onto Matheson’s pant legs and attempted to pull him back into the sharp, verdant shrubs. They latched onto his shirt, and Matheson’s irritation grew as he grasped a pronged fencepost and it plunged itself into the palm of his hand. As blood began to run down Matheson’s arm in a steady scarlet stream, his ragged sweatshirt was torn by the still every present thorn bushes. He then decided to heave himself up the dusty slope infested with weeds and onto the flat dirt rows of the pear orchard. The incandescent, luminous light of the moon now shone down upon the dozens and dozens of little dwarf trees and it illustrated a once again quaint, idyllic on the country night. Sweat beaded on Matheson’s upper lip as he shook violently and collapsed to the ground from sheer exhaustion. His hand, now soaked in blood, clutched the loose soil and propelled his body forward. Matheson crawled along the ground, sliding forward only ever so slightly every time his hands pushed him that way. He was about ten feet from the nearest row of trees and was almost flat on his stomach as he inched toward them with an almost insane determination. His veins bulged from his throbbing, blush forehead as he quaking hand grasped a low branch of a tree and Matheson pulled his now limp body toward it, resting his aching back on it’s small but adequate trunk. He then pulled the largest, roundest pear he could find and plucked it down from the tree and his foaming jaws lunged toward and dug into its light green skin. The juices gushed down Matheson’s chin and stained the collar of his shirt. He was somewhat satisfied now, as his legs were at rest, outstretched before him and he was finally able to fill his belly with much needed sustenance. A rural orchard was such a perfect setting under the circumstances, it made Matheson think it was what Europe must feel like. He was not a well traveled man but found solace and amusement in dreaming of far away lands. Matheson imagined that Europe had a perpetual serenity and still beauty to it that made the people so cultured and patient. He presumed that the landscapes and orchards and cities and farms and people and cobblestone streets and tiny little shops where one could buy the finest of street delicacies were so often painted and portrayed in works of art because they were works of art themselves. But this moment was nonetheless a pleasant one because Matheson was lost on the winding road of thought and he had seemed to have evaded his would be captors, if only for a moment. 

The diner was silent now, as it always was, but this was an eerie silence on an  overcast day that was so bleak in nature that it muted all worldly colors. Richard and Deacon sat at the lunch counter and let their domineering presences fill up the empty space. 

“He stormed out of here and hoped in his car, and that was the last you saw of him, correct?” Richard interrogated, peering at Dana through his dark sunglasses. 

“Yeah, that’s right, who are you guys anyway? You sure don’t look like cops to me.” Dana answered inquisitively.  

“We don’t have to answer that, now what model was his car?” Deacon asked with cold, legalistic precision. Dana scowled at the both of them. 

“It was a Chevy I think, why do you even want to know?” Dana was still incredulous and hesitant to give away any information, and felt a continuous, deep feeling of suspicion. 

“What color?” 

“Tell me who you are!” 

“What color?!” 

“Alright!...calm down, we are agents of change, we are hunters. Extract the necessary information.” Richard spoke softly in Deacon’s ear as he attempted to quash the developing altercation. 

“We work for the state authorities, we need to know the color and model of the car, if you cooperate with us, there will be no further trouble.” Richard explained, calmly removing his sunglasses and placing them on the linoleum counter. 

“Ok, his car was a black Chevy Nova, from the early ‘70s I think he told me.” Dana, now shaken by Richard’s frank and direct nature, responded.

“Did you have any contact with his associate, a man by the name of Russell Warrenton?” 

“Oh, you mean Ol’ Russ, he was harmless.” 

“Define ‘harmless.’” 

“Oh, I don’t know, he was just a pleasant old man.” 

“He was involved in the theft of 2.6 million dollars along with Mr. Matheson.” 

“And you’re the motherfuckers from the state shot him dead.” 

“That’s not our problem. We need to know where Matheson was headed. Or anything you know about Warrenton.” 

“Well, I’m not sure where Matheson could have gone, but I know Ol’ Russ had some friends in the Dalles that he visited frequently.” This sparked something within the two investigators, and they sprung from the stools and shot as if they were bats from hell and dialed up the state police. 

“Hello, Willow, he’s driving a black Chevy Nova, early ‘70s, with Oregon plates.” Richard relayed the integral information in a hurried, urgent tone. 

“Nice work, you guys are slow as hell you know.” Sgt. Willow hung up and immediately sprung from his chair, making the infernal thing swivel around as he did so. He then tore the telephone from it’s secure resting place and smashed the buttons in an urgent, pandemonius manner. “Wilkinson! Let every single squad car and state vehicle we have deployed right now know to watch for a black Chevy Nova from the early ‘70s, and for a caucasian male, about six foot two with dark brown hair. He is not armed to our knowledge, but we have very little information on this guy, he is on the run and moving quickly, so get the fuck on it!” Sgt. Willow screamed, he was red in the face, pacing around the room. 

And so the message went out. Across the crackling radio lines filled with static and garbled shouting, urgent voices. Engines revved, sirens blared, massive squads of SUVs trucks and police sedans, of all colors, a wild horde on a mission. 

Richard and Deacon stood holed up in a tiny little phone booth, spreading an old roadmap across the glass and sketching marks on it with a short, black ball point pen. 

“If Matheson is indeed heading to the Dalles, he would be heading Northwest. That means he took this state road west,” Richard explained, etching a thick black line on the map, struggling to keep the expansive piece of paper propped up vertically on the glass of the compact booth. 

“So how much ground has this fucking fugitive covered on our watch!?” Deacon fumed, pounding the metal edges of the phone booth. 

“I don’t know exactly but he is definitely on either the 395, the 19, the 97, possibly the 197 or interstate 84. That’s a lot to work with but he’s heading in the same general direction each way and that Willow prick’s got a couple dozen cars heading from every which way.” Richard carefully plotted out each potential path with specific arrows, twisting and waving lines on the paper. 

“And if he is indeed in that agonizingly specific area, there aren’t many places he could hide are there? He knows we’re coming, he’s always known, but this time we’re going to catch him.” Deacon said with a snide look and a direct determination in his voice. 

The highway was a great bit more crowded than he had experienced in the last day or two. This was not the bucolic empty lane with a majestic, mountainous backdrop. It now seemed like a much larger, exorbitant strip of concrete with a dozen lanes and a racing continuation of America’s over optimistic postwar excess. Or so it seemed to a man who had been on lonely roads for many straight hours. Matheson was chugging down highway 26, headed north to a mid-sized desert town called Madras. The place was a corpse. You could see it right as you drove in, the sprawling wide intersections with massive blacktop parking lots and wretched little fast food hops on each corner. The strip malls and the soulless suburban homes were the dirt with which it was buried. Around the state it was a fairly pleasant season, late September, the leaves beginning to turn, the sun still shone but spariling now as the rains swept the deep green forests of the west. But here it was desolate, the sun bathed the searing concrete and it was awful to see the many drivers, immobile at each stoplight, slowly suffocating in their sweltering vehicles. Matheson was uneasy, he didn’t want to stop for anything, so sweat poured down his face for two reasons. As he cut through downtown with the rest of the hapless motorists, Matheson was hoping to be relieved by some quaint shops and old brick and limestone buildings signifying a social center of sorts. This was more of the same, a grim embodiment of what many of these highway towns had become. When Matheson’s mind drifted for a moment as it tended to do sporadically throughout the day, he imagined for a moment living here, and he shuddered, because it would mean only death. He would still be breathing but to live in a world as desolate as this would be a pointless existence, this was no oasis, simply a dry, bleak crater. Matheson shifted onto the 97 and was elated upon leaving Madras. But the pleasure soon faded as he raced down the flat plane and with miles of arid, dusty wastes on either side. As he drove he glimpsed a seemingly newly posted road sign beside the highway. It read in blue letters: STATE POLICE CHECKPOINT, 2 MILES. Matheson was now drenched in sweat, frantically looking for a turnoff. God dammit. He thought. Matheson knew it, he was unable to hide forever, especially because of the mistake he made. He did not attempt to leave the state, leave the country even. His cover was blown and he knew it. This seemed to be the last straw, the nail in the coffin. At that moment, he saw a small, straight rural road that was dotted with pastures and faded barns, with rusty, antiquated tractors. Neat little spread out ranch houses sat in lonely fields with tidy rows of crops. He turned down another even duller road and Matheson could see nothing for miles, it was quite liberating. 

The three officers clad in blue stood in an orderly formation and checked each car thoroughly and with a probing suspicion. It seemed like an awfully routine measure to catch an elusive criminal. But they searched nonetheless. They had set up a small checkpoint with yellow caution tape and a few traffic cones. It was a pitiable affair. But then they received a call. It was from an equally pitiable group of men, ones who were on the same rabid quest as they were. 

“Is this the first checkpoint on highway 97?” Richard asked as he stood outside a small gas station in Prineville. 

“Sure it is, who’s asking?” The state patrolmen were confused by the call at first. 

“This is Deacon Phillips, we work for the state as well and we think we have a lead on this bank robbin’ fucker.” Deacon said with a fiery certainty. 

“I’m listening,” The patrolman paused for a moment to hear the details. 

“Well, he’s heading North and apparently those guys in Salem were watching all the highways with these new drones, and they found the motherfucker. We’ve got it tracking him and he took a side road to get away from you guys and is bound to get lost at some point.” Deacon explained. 

“Then where is he? We’ll send some guys after him!” The patrolman answered eagerly. 

“I’ll give you updates, but we’ve got to corner him, so he can’t possibly escape us in that shitmobile.” Deacon determined, hanging up the phone. 

The sirens blared again and squad cars sped down lonesome highways from rural stations and parked in the dust, waiting like leopards in the tall grasses to pounce. Lt. Jameis was one of these leopards, a young, slender fellow with a dusting of facial hair around his chin and a bony, symmetrical face with large, intense eyes that pierced you whether you were engaged in simple pleasantries or a violent confrontation. He was a person of color, and the other men in the squad treated him as though he was some sort of anomaly. An abnormality that they had heard about but never experienced face to face. But Jameis was quick to assert his dominance. These were weak, indecisive men who required a leader. He was that leader. The squad’s bulky, dark colored SUV was parked on the dirt shoulder of the slim, empty old highway. Lt. Jameis checked the digital map on one of the tablets inside the car to monitor Matheson’s location. He was indeed cornered. 

“He’s moving towards us, coming north on 197, and it looks like those other guys we were talking to are about a mile behind him. Get someone up near that hill to keep as much of a lookout as we can for him.” Lt. Jameis ordered, looking down the winding road, he weaved through this hilly, sage infested region. One of the state patrol officers crouched down with his rifle pointed directly downward. The sagebrush and dead grasses partially hiding his pale face adorned with light, orange lense aviator sunglasses. Lt. Jameis knew he and his four other men could spot Matheson’s vehicle from almost miles away. 

Matheson looked behind his shoulder once every few minutes with a twinge of paranoia. Just beyond the hellish heat shimmer, Matheson swore he could see the same red pickup truck rumbling along the highway behind him. It was perhaps some other wayward soul, a nomad traveler seeking the same escape as he did. But it didn’t make sense. However optimistic and open minded Matheson was, this situation was a most unlikely one. It seemed as though this red pickup truck had been following the Nova since Matheson had stopped for lunch in Shaniko. Matheson questioned himself upon doing this but Shaniko was a ghost town anyway. A western hamlet filled with businesses and a hotel that were almost exact replicas of the two dimensional sets on the cowboy films which the town sought to remind a lost tourist of. There he consumed a ham sandwich at the hotel’s cafe which consisted of many more pickles than Matheson felt a traditional ham sandwich should have, but he consumed it gratefully, savoring every bite, every drop of meaty grease. He dipped his Portland Beavers baseball cap to conceal his face and left the store quietly and with a great deal of haste. 

Matheson’s father had taken him to see a ball game in 1985 when he was 11 years old. This was one of the few family trips they had ever taken. Matheson’s brother Chuck had already left home by then and Willie Sr. needed something to take his mind off this sudden departure, so he met it with one of his own. One day, Willie Sr. came home already in a less than jubilant mood and once he had downed a full bottle of Jack Daniels, his spirits lifted somewhat and he said in a drunken slur: “pack it up Maggie, we’re going on a trip.” Matheson’s mother sighed but knew that Willie Sr. hated to contradict himself so they would indeed be going somewhere. And it was decided that they would take the agonizingly long Greyhound ride to Portland that weekend. Upon arrival, Matheson was dumbfounded. He suddenly found himself in a different world, a world where even the most modest of skyscrapers never ceased to amaze him. As he weaved his way through the many Trimet buses and the lights of  massive theater marquees, young Matheson could not fathom a world larger than his own impossibly small one in rural Oregon. When the disgruntled family entered the cavernous, somewhat run down and dilapidated Civic Stadium, Matheson’s amazement and utter elation did not stop. As they sat in the uncomfortable bleacher style seats practically right above the dugout, he was shocked that the venue was more than half empty, for this was the most breathtaking and exciting event Matheson had ever beholden in his young life. The ball game seemed as though it was a fast-paced, well oiled machine compared to the low rate high school games Matheson had taken in. He was fascinated, his eyes glued to bases, his hand occasionally dipping in a small plastic bag of peanuts. The precise reason why the Matheson family traveled to Portland in the fall of 1985 was uncertain, but one definite factor was it’s inexpensive nature. In the decade, the city had retained it’s seedy underbelly and it’s nickname from the previous decade “the pornography capitol of the west coast” held true. It was devoid of popular restaurants or certain so-called quirky features that Matheson had recognized and been disgusted by upon his most recent visit to the city. But this particular trip in his formative years scarred his developing country mind. On every block of the city’s downtown area, he could see snarling skinheads and sordid, nasty drug gangs looming and lurking around seemingly every corner, alleyway and stoop. Matheson was however still in awe of the titanic bridges and the mighty Willamette river flowing through the center of the modest and growing metropolis. Matheson had vivid memories of their stay in Rose City because it would come to influence and form his first impression of the city. The presence of the Rajneeshi cultists was still felt within the downtown, Matheson recalled groups of people holding signs outside the courthouse and many hotels. It was a city at a boiling point, but simultaneously on the cusp of revitalization. During the last day of their fateful trip, the family lurched along one of the fat, grimey streets that went east through town in a beat up sedan Willie Sr. had rented. They were suddenly approached by a young woman who looked to be in her late teen years who hopped off the sidewalk and leaned up to the window of the automobile. This woman was evidently a prostitute who was trying to get Willie Sr.’s attention for a transaction. When this woman glimpsed Maggie Matheson in the passenger seat, she looked dismayed and somewhat disappointed and retreated back to the curbside, attempting to waive down other unsuspecting motorists. The fact that the interaction lasted as long as it did showed that the family were not locals. When an ever so curious eleven year old Matheson asked who this woman was, Willie Sr. told him to retract the question or else he would be subject to a beating. 

As the family left the land of mystical opportunity, fascination and excitement(or so it seemed to Matheson at the time), Willie Sr. and Maggie were profoundly upset by the experience and were disappointed that they wasted their meager funds to finance a “vacation” that saw them experience nothing but a frightening cityscape that they were not prepared for. Undoubtedly, Matheson returned home a forever changed individual. He enthusiastically relayed fantastic stories of this city that existed only in shades of black and grey and his naive country comrades could not believe this place that seemed to be out of a gangster film. Matheson coasted through his schooling without much participation. For much of high school, he was involved in his school's prevalent drug culture and he was arrested his junior year of high school for shoplifting from the local gas station. This sent his academic career on a further nosedive and Matheson made the decision to drop out before the end of that year, as he had received news of his father’s death and his mother had begun to shun him. Matheson remembered leaving that building on a cold winter’s morning, shoving open the massive whtie wooden doors which he had passed through many times before to finally escape. Ol’ Russ waited in his baby blue Ford pickup truck and they sped off down the road, towards the dilapidated camper van that Ol’ Russ resided in at the time. It was of modest, if not below average means, but their fortunes were soon to change. Ol’ Russ was the supposed stereotypical bad influence within Matheson’s life. It began with small shoplifting jobs, then larger theft, automobiles that they would then sell, this continued for many a year but it soon had to cease for the two men had a desire for stability. All this dwelling on the past made Matheson think of his brother. He was always a smiling, yelling and exuberant presence and Matheson always went along with everything Chuck desired, every hair brained scheme or unlikely adventure. He was a handsome, intelligent young man with a sharp wit and recognized a no-win situation when he saw it. Chuck loaded his few earthly possessions into a weathered old army duffle bag of their fathers’ and made off into the night, carefully opening and closing the back screen door so as not to make it screech the high-pitched howl which it usually exhibited. When the sun crested over Steens mountain the next morning, Matheson soon made the connection as he rose from his twin bed and wept for he knew that his life would only get worse. Willie Sr. stood imposingly in the doorway and upon seeing his son curled up on the floor, said a few solitary words that would impact Matheson for the rest of his life: 

“Don’t cry, you’re a man now.” These were words that hit Matheson as if they were a freight train. Matheson then contemplated the thought of relying on no member of his family for anything, this prompted his further detachment. 

It was always presumed that Chuck had fled to New York City, the place had always babbled on about whenever he got the chance. Chuck had taken up the guitar and possessed a golden voice, often exhibited in church on Sundays. Chuck knew that if one was to stand out in a featureless environment, to be a vibrant splash of color in an utterly colorless world, one must escape upon realizing this. And so it was. When Chuck arrived in the big apple, a sleepless beautiful, cinematic dream, he simply could not believe he had made it there unimpeded. So he went from seeding underground club to seedy underground club, with his eccentric green and red Fender Maverick guitar slung on his back, looking for a band. Once he had finally arrived on the music scene, he began playing small shows in the city. These scraps of money that he got a hold of allowed him to fully immerse himself in the culture of drink, drugs and debauchery that awaited him. Undoubtedly, a redneck kid from Oregon did not last long in this place. Finally, in the spring of 1988, Chuck prodded his arm with one needle to many and met his mortal end. Matheson was informed of this when he found his brother’s name on the obituaries page in the New York Times, a small blurb, a meager bit of text attributed to a man that had meant so much to Matheson. He didn’t tell his parents, leaving them to find out for themselves if they even cared one bit.  

Upon turning thirty, Matheson decided to have a parting of the ways with Ol’ Russ, Matheson found their petty crimes rather childish. Ol’ Russ was deeply saddened to see him go, for beyond his rather rough and impregnable exterior, he was a lonely old man in his heart of hearts. So Matheson was thus committed to honest work. After many denied applications, he came to be employed at a small bottling plant in Pendleton. The ever moving assembly line within the cavernous space was like a precise dizzying dance, all the bottles streaming along in a line. It was a repetition that Matheson couldn’t stand. At day's end, he would return to his squalor overlooking the railroad tracks that shook every single cheap piece of furnishing he had in the place when a locomotive passed on them. At this time, Matheson drank as if he had gills. It was a daily routine for him, attempting to reach a more jubilant and fun loving mood rather than occupying his mind with the ultimate futility of his life and his career. Matheson felt this way because he had quite suddenly lost the ability to do however he pleased. This was an option he had seemingly always kept open throughout his life.  He worked this job longer than he should have, nearly drinking himself to death in the process. As the years went by his life remained stagnant and dull compared to his venturous youth. Each day he was saddened as he inched closer to middle age and his bones ached as the months of work slipped away. Matheson felt ancient and useless, sitting up in his apartment at the end of a long day, having a hardy drink and listening to the radio as it lulled him to sleep. The rigid routine of his daily life made him sick, he had entered a mundane existence while still in the prime of his life and was so full of regret that he had no choice but to wallow in his own defeat. He was now older than Ol’ Russ had been when they had first met on that fateful night at the liquor store.  Girlfriends came and went as often as the passing of the train, every one of them seemed as disgusted with Matheson as he was with himself. Then one day, seemingly out of the blue, the phone rang. It vibrated with a buzzing insistence that forced Matheson to answer. 

“Hey Willie J! How ya been?” Ol’ Russ’ voice was as glowing and full of valorous energy as it had always been. A broad smile stretched across Matheson’s face, a rare occurrence. Their conversation was one of comfort and familiarity and each was happy to discover that nothing had been going on and no adventures or daring crimes had been perpetrated without the other. “I’ve got a lead on something.” Ol’ Russ continued. 

“Listen, I’m done with that shit alright, isn’t that what I told you?” Matheson responded with annoyance. 

“I know, I know. But this is the big Kahuna baby! The holy grail! It’s what I’ve been dreaming about for the last twenty years! I’m tellin’ you, it’s bigger than anything we’ve ever pulled.” 

“Well spit it out then.” 

“Ok, ya see there’s this federal reserve bank in the Dalles. And I always thought it was just one of those run of the mill federal banks ya know, but it ain’t. The place has over $400,000 dollars in it and there are practically no security guards in the entire bank.” 

“I don’t know, the federal reserve bank? We couldn’t possibly pull that off, and besides, there is no reason why a little bank like that could be holding $400,000, how do you know that for sure anyway?” 

“I have ways, you just gotta trust me, it’s the easiest bank job in the world! And there is a bit of way in. I knew this guy a few years ago who used to be a security guard there and I know the place practically as well as he does. He told me that every year on April 8th, the police chief takes all the security guards out to lunch.” 

“So the bank is closed right?” 

“Wrong, it’s such a small town and it’s only a couple of hours, besides no one knows that they’re gone.” 

“This sounds really too good to be true, you must be leaving some stuff out Ol’ Russ.” 

“Have I ever been wrong about this stuff? No I haven’t, that’s for sure.” 

“Alright, fine.” 

“Okay then, come down to my place as soon as you can. And quit that fuckin’ factory job for Christsake, you won’t every have to worry about money again.” Ol’ Russ then hung up. This was perhaps too alluring a proposition for Matheson to pass up. So he left. He halted his rent payments and he stopped going to work. He drove down to Ol’ Russ’ trailer and found that the man was no decrepit and the leathery wrinkles on his face and the tiredness in his eyes showed his age and great weariness. Each day they would lay out their plans, how to get in and how to escape, it was never really that intricate but it was so precise that it allowed for no mistakes. And finally on the day, the trip was made up to the Dalles. They took the backroads where the two thieves would eventually escape. It was a picturesque countryside filled with rolling hills and fields of a dull yellow wheat, as the technicolor blue sky hung above them. They approached the Dalles from the east, the town neatly adjacent to the meandering bend in the titanic, mighty, deep blue Columbia river as rocky ridges and sharp cliffs towered on the other side. It was a most bucolic and majestic sight. This helped ease the colossal nerves Matheson felt at that time, as his pulse quickened and his legs shook ever so slightly. When they pulled up to the bank, every hair on his arms and the back of his neck shot up as if they were soldiers standing at attention. It was a fairly nondescript building and the clocks in town had just struck half past noon. A few seconds later, a group of men exited the front doors of the bank and they all waddled down the steps and down the street. Among these men were a few that looked as though they were security guards, they wore black button down shirts, had holster pistols and black slacks. And one of the men was dressed in a light blue policeman’s uniform. It was them, this was the opening. Ol’ Russ and Matheson stowed their semi-automatic weapons in their overly long beige trench coats. They also wore dark aviator sunglasses and jet black fedora hats that made them instantly stand out. Ol’ Russ and Matheson mounted the cobblestone steps and pushed open the glass doors to the bank. The inside was a hollow looking space with a few lines formed around a couple of open teller booths, and the two thieves made their move. Matheson unbuttoned his coat and unsheathed his gun, it’s muzzle pointed squarely at the teller, an elderly woman of color with large horn-rimmed glasses that stood on the tip of her nose and streaks of white in her already light grey hair. A look of shock, dismay, fear and dread stretched across her usually inexpressive face as she placed her hands up and let out a shriek. The bank’s patrons fell down on the hard linoleum floor and placed their hands on their respective heads. After Matheson had directed the woman to open the hulking safe with a circular metal door, they began to pile bundles of beautiful green currency into their four black duffle bags. Ol’ Russ and Matheson worked quickly and frantically, sweat pouring down each of their foreheads. Matheson quickly zipped up the bags after a few minutes and slung them over his shoulders, hurrying out of the confined safe and through the still crowded main area as Ol’ Russ followed him was his gun drawn and shuffling slowly outward, pointing it at the still stationary people as to not invite retaliatory movement. As they leapt down the steps and Matheson tossed the bags in the car, a deep sense of worry and guilt washed over him as he began to peel out into the street and speed away. 

“Oh my god we did it.” Matheson said with an almost euphoric relief. 

“Indeed, now we must drive as far away as possible, we must head southeast, there is one place that must be our destination.” Ol’ Russ stated this with an almost sagely certainty that was deeply calming to Matheson as he was running off adrenaline and the sheer nervous excitement of getting away. Their remaining drive was a straight southward shot. They went through the high dusty desert filled with sage and the scenic woods populated with Ponderosa pines. But it soon became such a desolate, depressing dessert that the journey became a chore and toil, a seeming death march as the landscape remained the same. A few desert hills on either side of them and a vast prairie of tumbleweeds, with the thin little highway that cut through, the sun beating down on the concrete so heavily that it was almost possible to see it boil with a searing sizzle. The both of them drove for what seemed like many days without ceasing, fearing capture. They stopped for the night, their first stop of the entire journey thus far. It was in a town called Austin in central Nevada. An utterly desolate place. More desolate than Oregon’s most arid wastes. This was a poor excuse for a haven like refuge, as it was an old western town that seemed as though it hadn’t had any major renovations or public works projects since the late 19th century, the period of rugged individualism and bombastic American freedom which it was now a shell of and quite a poor imitator. Matheson found it very charming though as it reminded him of where he had spent most of his youth, in a dead little desert town adjacent to a scenic snow capped mountainous region, barely visible in the distance. As night fell, Ol’ Russ and Matheson pulled over into a large empty field with the brilliant stars visible in the imposingly large night sky that towered above them. There Matheson threw the duffle bags onto the ground as dust scattered around them. Each of the two men took fistfulls of emerald bills and carefully tallied the amount to which they added up. The final total was an impossible $205,000, their life’s work, utter beauty. The two old friends and long time partners in crime were so elated and pleased with themselves that they trotted across the road and purchased a six pack of pabst blue ribbon, which they drank with utter delight as they sat in the back of the pickup truck and stared at the celestial bodies above with amazement and wonder as the pointed peaks outlined the borders of their expansive view of the paradisal locus. 

Morning came quickly as the sun crested over the silhouetted hills and trickled down to them, waking them as Ol’ Russ and Matheson slept in the back of the rusted old truck, parked in the middle of a wide open field where the sun reached every corner of the grass. This was quite a beautiful sight to rise to, but the still magnificence was short lived as both of the men were filled with a sense of urgency and realized that they must hurry south, perpetuating their sense of paranoia and worry. That morning they passed through ancient dried up desert towns, vast stretches of utter nothingness and dusty desert void that stretched for miles. White-capped lonely wasteland peaks shone in the distance like far off beacons of life as the two men whom life had forsaken made their way through the land which god had cast off with a similar abandon. 

“Ain’t it nice out here, ain’t it real nice and peaceful?” Matheson remembered Ol’ Russ postulating, grinning in his small little devilish way. 

“Depends on what you think is nice and what you think is peaceful. It seems to me in your eyes it doesn’t take too much to be peaceful.” Matheson responded, expressing his dissatisfaction with the area. As they meandered further south, the land became more desolate and seemingly uninhabitable. The seconds stretched on for minutes and the minutes for hours as they trudged ahead, the truck sputtering and growling at every turn and slight bump in the road. Matheson told himself during this time that a rest lay ahead. A glinting and glimmering megalopolis, a sprawling conurbation that is told and myth and legend, a place where men's dreams are made into a fantastic reality. As the two men entered the outskirts of the city, they were greeted with heavy traffic and vast housing developments that stretched on for a few miles more. When they shot down the crowded asphalt boulevard, they glimpsed the imposing, leafy palm trees that lined the edges of it, their purpose seemed to be to inform visitors that they had indeed made it, and that their expectations were to be dashed almost instantaneously. The sun was low in the sky at this time and the brilliant lights of the downtown area and the adjoining strip began to flash with an incandescent neon glow. This was a fantasy land, a dream for men of modest means such as Matheson and Ol’ Russ, and so they were left to drool over the sheer sumptuous surreality of it all. And so began the debauchery. Matheson liked to think of his time in sin city as a sort of dream, or rather walking the tightrope between the physical and the transcendent. The days turned into weeks and soon they were living there. Matheson and Ol’ Russ both swore upon leaving that they had only been there for a weekend, but they departed after three and a half weeks, what seemed like a year. When Caesar's palace was in their rear view mirror, they were broken men. Ol’ Russ and Matheson had made short work of their spoils from the robbery and stayed in the most luxurious and extravagant of suites, overlooking the neon thoroughfare. Gambling, drinking and engagement in other devious unspeakable activities abounded without a care in Las Vegas, and it was never supposed to end, until nature forced it to. To say the least, the two thieves were not accountants, not by a large margin at the very least. It was also fair to say that they didn’t even bother keeping track of any exorbitant spending or the amount of their spoils that had been used up since their arrival. 

Matheson once again glanced back at the red pickup truck that tailed him with a growing and itching suspicion that had begun to consume him at that present moment. He then swung around a wavy bend, glancing at the road ahead of him and the arid and brushy landscape that lay around him. At this time, Matheson saw a pair of state police vehicles emblazoned with the bronze insignia of the Oregon State Police and highway patrol. Matheson panicked and then registered that the automobile behind him must have some association with these men in front of him as well. This seemed to Matheson to be an nearly impossible predicament to escape from immediately. Matheson resisted shouting obscenities into the empty, expansive wilderness as he knew it would only serve to do him further harm and send him into such an inflamed state that he was unable to troubleshoot the situation. But then he recalled one of Ol’ Russ’ essential and integral doctrines to leading a successful life, and that was to always exude and project an aura of confidence. This is as if to say, even to your enemies: “I know what I’m doing, do you?” It was a strategy that always had worked for Ol’ Russ even in the most problematic and difficult of circumstances. So Matheson in the spirit of this divine earthy wisdom, pressed his foot to the gas pedal and shot down the highway, reaching such a speed that it was impossible to slow down for the police officers ahead. Lt. Jameis stood in a secure upright position and whipped out his pistol from it’s firm resting place in it’s holster attached to Jameis’ black leather belt. The state police officer then fired three shots that exploded from the barrel of the gun with a fiery crackle followed by a boom that echoed throughout the area, echoing off the solitary, flat hills. One of these flying bullets panged off the hood of the Nova as Matheson streaked down the asphalt with fury and concentration. Lt. Jameis then gave the simple hand signal for his subordinate perched on the hill to discharge his rifle in Matheson’s direction. The man cracked off one shot that flew past the Nova as it zoomed toward the group of patrolmen at an even more breakneck speed. Lt. Jameis waved to the two other men that leaned against the patrol vehicles to move into the center of the highway and shoot off their weapons. They each did so, positioning themselves in a similar stance as the lieutenant and the gunfire reached the automobile near them, striking it with a burst of sizzling sparks. Matheson pressed the aged silver button to flip open the glove compartment of the Nova, removing the old six shot revolver that Ol’ Russ had gifted to him just a few months ago. It was an ancient thing, and Matheson prayed that it would get the job done, as it was indeed loaded. Neither he nor Ol’ Russ knew when times like these would arise and it was important to be equipped with the tools needed to combat them. He stuck his arm out and aimed the gun directly and the police ahead. Matheson let out two bullets, striking one of the rocks near the bulky SUVs and nearly missing one of the officers. As Matheson reached their position, he swerved to avoid careening into them and instead took off down the highway, leaving them in his rearview mirror. 

“Don’t just stand there! We must go after him!” Lt. Jameis commanded as they slid into their separate vehicles, tearing after Matheson as fast as the limited machines could carry them. There was one endpoint, one destination that Matheson was barreling towards at a dangerously colossal speed. He knew where he needed to hide out. Ol’ Russ had once told the story of a crime spree the old man had once perpetrated and he had drawn a pursuant force from the state police that chased him up and down the wild motorways surrounded by pastoral landscapes and untamed, rugged wilderness. Once they had begun to gain on him, he took a sharp turnoff down a dirt path onto the brushy trails scattered with Ponderosas and abandoned his car, dashing across the plain and down into the jagged canyon near the river's edge and the mighty, multi-pronged white river falls that raged above him. He was lost in the state park and the police apprehended him two months later trying to purchase cocaine in Portland and he spent a year in state prison. Matheson resolved to take the same course of action. He roared down the 197 with pleasure as he knew that the patrol cars were quite far behind him. Matheson took this opportunity to enjoy the scene around him, something that he had no chance to do as he was busy navigating his complex journey, but now that he knew that he was found out and doomed to be captured, he felt at peace. Or so he assumed, as the police were now within his sight once again and appeared to be picking up speed at an alarming rate. He raced past the neatly kept green fields of crops and reached a critical junction, he saw no signs for the White River Falls State Park, so he went with his intuition and hung a left turn, his tires screeching and smoke drifting out from under the Nova as he centered himself on the new road. This was the same bland landscape as before, just masses of dead grass here and there, complemented by towering, majestic pines that were few and far between. Lt. Jameis drifted quite a bit as he rounded the left turn that he had seen Matheson make just a minute earlier, flooring the gas pedal, pushing down on it with his steel toe boot with an intensity that made his feet swell, hoping it would give the sorry vehicle an extra boost of acceleration that would hopefully give him the edge to catch Matheson, a man which eluded him due in part to the sheer ineptitude and unpreparedness of his own men, it was a fact that he had tried to change through rigorous training regiments of his own devilish design. On the straight, unending road, Matheson’s pursuers were beginning to catch up to him as their SUVs roared with the strength of a growling grizzly bear, reading to brutally maul it’s next victim. They were almost within firing range. Sweat rushed down Matheson’s contracted forehead, similar to the picturesque falls he was searching for. He looked frantically and with a great deal of panic in his mind for the turnoff. It had to be somewhere along this road, Ol’ Russ had given him vague directions upon telling the story and as Ol’ Russ had explained firmly upon first meeting Matheson: “I never lie, and I’m always right.” Ol’ Russ had apparently heard it on a comedy record of his. Matheson had never heard anything so wonderfully silly and bluntly stupid in his life, but he bought into it, his young mind thinking this old man to be wiser than he’d ever be, and that was still true in some sense. The sun was very bright still as Matheson glimpsed the holy grail, the blue emblem of the Oregon State Parks, he prayed to god, looking up at the baby blue sky above him and thought to himself for a moment, asking for protection and from a higher divine entity, knowing that he did not deserve it knowing that it was him who had chosen to lead a life such as this. But he thought his prayer would reach Ol’ Russ at least. Lt. Jameis was now covering ground at about 95 miles per hour and leaned his hand out the window, equipped with his pistol, loaded and ready to fire. He let off a few booming shots in front of him and they missed Matheson as the sleek Chevrolet swerved left, striking down the gravel path that led to the falls. Lt. Jameis was alarmed by this and screeched to a blazing halt, jolting forward gasping for air as his windpipe was crushed against the seatbelt and the steering wheel. The other two SUVs traveled at an even faster rate with a diminished ability to stop or even slow down for that matter, so they skidded, leaving dark impressions upon the road below them and drifting to the side, still traveling at an alarming speed. The bulky vehicle then battered Lt. Jameis’ car and sent it spinning about. Lt. Jameis felt the impact quite suddenly and it shattered the thick glass of his windshield and knocked his body around the front seat of the car, causing him to slam his head with a mighty crash and this caused the window to crack from the hit. Jameis ran his hand through his thick, dark, curly hair and felt the blood that trickled from it. His vision blurred as he attempted to pull himself back to consciousness, blinking several times and trying to grasp something tangible. 

The dirt path took him down to a small parking area with an adjacent field that overlooked a hill topped with a power line and dotted with sage brush. Matheson pulled onto the nearly empty blacktop, parking the car and bursting out of the vehicle and taking off in a desperate sprint. This was the kind of life or death run that the human body could only sustain in the most dire of situations. A run that pushed every molecule in Matheson’s body to it;s absolute, complete and utter limit. A cramp developed within the pit of his stomach as his throat burned and ached with every breath, but his legs pounded the ground still, climbing the hill and up a winding, ill defined path, his erratic movements resembling those of Elroy “crazylegs” Hirsch. When he reached the crest of the hill, he stood for a moment, panting like an anxious hound and placed his hands upon his thighs as he did so. Up here he saw the flat green plains perched upon table-like rock faces that stood so solidly as if they were mighty ancient cities. He could spy the fall below him and resolved to keep running, even if he was hopeless out of shape and already drenched with sweat. As he began to descend down the ragged slope, he caught the patrolmen exiting their SUVs with great speed, drawing their weapons as they did so. It appeared they had caught him as well for Lt. Jameis’ gaze reached Matheson and Jameis’ eyebrows furrowed as his dark eyes met Matheson’s and for the first time, Matheson felt fear and self doubt. He felt as if this was not a battle that he could win, and a literal hill that he could not climb. With this newfound terror within him, Matheson hurried down the far side of hill, as the canyon around him grew more rocky and unassailable as he tripped over the burnt orange rocks and fell to his knees in the dirt. Matheson swore profusely as he pushed himself to his feet and kept running along. He spied a rocky path that led up to the plain above a strikingly massive rock face that looked as though it belonged in a matte painting for a 1950s western with little to no set design budget. Matheson forded the small creek below his feet, slipping and sliding over the rocks as he did so. He reached the red dusty topsoil and scrambled up the path reaching the plain after struggling to prevent himself from losing his footing above the constantly shifting sands. Matheson leaned against the comforting rock face once again, almost unable to press on, even though he could see the patrolmen summiting the hill that he had just climbed, it was a truly sad state of affairs, but he took a long coup d'œil at the pastoral, nomadic, peripatetic natural beauty ahead of him and a crack lay in the soft green plain, the white river gushing through as if it was blood from a fresh wound. Matheson then took off again, skidding down another rocky path to reach the plain, where he hit the ground running. Lt. Jameis, flanked by the rest of his meager posse, spied Matheson scurrying across the plain and resolved to pick up their pace, their boots crunching in the soily earth, leaping off of the rock faces and down into the dusty pits as they struggled to catch up. Matheson knew he would not, or could not, as he told himself, keep up at this rate for much longer, staggering and almost fully collapsing as he skirted the edge of the plain, gazing down at the bleach white, churning waters below. 

“Stop right there motherfucker!” Lt. Jameis shouted, his voice growing hoarse as he planted his feet at the top of the dusty path, jutting his weapon out in front of him and lowering it just so it’s straight top edge pointed directly at Matheson’s head. Matheon raised his hands and placed them both on the back of his head near the brain stem in a sort of winged formation, then thought for a moment. 

“Did you have to take a test to become a cop?” Matheson asked nonsensically. 

“What the hell do you mean? Get on the ground!” Lt. Jameis responded with a great deal of confusion and annoyance, gesturing with his pistol towards the ground. 

“Because if you did, you’d be smart enough to know that you can’t possibly hit me from this distance!” Matheson yelled, pleased with himself, with a feeling of victorious delight within him. Lt. Jameis then beckoned his men down the path and onto the plain, causing Matheson to begin to dart away down the edge of the cliff once more. He sensed the end of this flat patch of grass and fell to his hands and knees as he attempted to cease his scattered movements. Matheson then knelt at the edge of the grass and looked down at the mouth of the white river as it gaped streams of rushing water, causing them to cascade over jagged bulwarks, geological masterpieces, piling finally in a still pond that flowed to a sandy jetty near the water's edge. Matheson stared at the mess of spindly trees around him, swaying in the light breeze of either side of the gulley, like gaunt figures watching over him with suspicion. He had indeed been on the road for far too long a time to even know if this was real. But he had a decision to make, he could leap from the cliff to almost certain death, praying to survive and frantically swim to safety, or accept his utter defeat. Not yet. Matheson stood up and removed his rusted six shooter from his pocket and fired two crackling bullets, a freakishly loud popping sound was heard and everything grew quiet, after this Matheson a buzz all around him then a high pitch white noise that rendered him in a dream-like state. Lt. Jameis was struck twice in the chest by the rather large lead pellets and writhed on the ground as he clutched his chest, blood seeping in between his fingers. Matheson was in too deep now. He had promised himself over and over that whatever utterly fruitless and ineffectual existence he had perpetuated, he still had some moral center, even during the robbery, as his heart hammered as if it was a marching band and perspiration beaded down every inch of his body, as he held the gun in his hands, waving it about. He felt so utterly foolish and completely stupid. The gun felt so silly to him because he knew he would never use it, he couldn’t possibly, because he knew if he did that, he would really be a drifter, an outlaw, a criminal. Because the last words of advice that Willie Sr. imparted to him on the young man’s last conversation with this very reflective man were that Willie Sr. was not a criminal, not in the truest sense, because in order to be a criminal in your soul, you have to hurt people, because a criminal hurts people. Not arbitrary constructs perpetuated by faceless hordes, real flesh and blood human beings. This was one of the few truly emotional sentiments from a man at his wit’s end who was slaving away for hours on end in harsh conditions that were unbearable for a being of his blatantly poor health. 

Lt. Jameis bled out slowly on the cold, hard ground as he reached out to life again and felt himself fading away, staring at the massive azure sky, dotted with a few wayward clouds for comfort. Matheson just stood there for a moment, shocked at what he had just done, the barrel of his pistol still smoking with a faint little trail. He could tell the other two patrolmen were ready to spring up once more and shower Matheson with gunfire, so he resolved to turn around, attempting to dash in the smattering of trees adjacent to him. As he sprinted forward, he suddenly found himself completely surrounded by the beastly stocky pines, oaks and willows as a swift wind blew through the wooded corridor, ruffling the tall grasses, allowing them to move as though they were the hair of a golden goddess, told of in a mythical setting. His boots shuffled through it, they were snakes slithering along at a breakneck pace, moving so quickly in fact that Matheson did not stop to look down for even a split second. As a result of this, Matheson’s boot was caught in a thick root that protruded from the ground and he was sent toppling over and landed with an abrupt thud. Matheson’s lip bled for a moment as he placed his hands firmly in the reed like grasses and wiped the crimson liquid on his cotton sleeve. He then sprung to his feet and continued to run, trying to disregard the nagging sensation that this most recent tumble was some sort of sign, a kind of intimation from the heavens to inform Matheson that this path was not the correct one. This suspicion was soon confirmed as Matheson skidded to the cliff’s edge once more and took a speedy glance over his shoulder and spied a somewhat disgruntled patrol officer lumbering toward him, gun in hand. Matheson then gazed over the raging loch, bordered by chiseled and rough cliffs and rocky to the road overlooking them. On this road were a few more vehicles and several persons whose figures wavered in the simmering heat shimmer. Matheson said one final futile prayer, looked to his mother, his brother, his father and Ol’ Russ for support, knowing that only one would bother reaching out from beyond the grave. Then, he propelled himself off the edge, the rocky precipice that marked near certain death. He floated downward in a moment of serene free fall, his shirt and jacket billowing behind him and his hair ballooned in a similar fashion. When the patrolman reached the precipice, his eyes shifted downward in shock as he watched with utter fascination and bewilderment as Matheson smacked against the water, creating a white cloud of water around him as he sunk below the surface. Matheson struggled to brace for impact as he plummeted, wincing with his entire body in the few seconds before he drifted down. He did not cry out with  some kind of  animalistic bay, instead he silenced himself and shut his eyes as his heart skipped a beat and his blood ran cold in a bodily rush that gave him such a jolt that it knocked him awake the moment prior to his speedy striking of the icy pool below. His figure was almost angelic as his body was sprawled out in a spindly way, his arms and legs outstretched as the darkness of  the subaqueous environs consumed him. Miniscule pockets of air surfaced as they emerged from Matheson’s worn mouth and nose, they looked pale in the water’s darkened light. Matheson squirmed as he fought for oxygen, attempting to drift towards the surface of the water before he lost consciousness, the completely bleak murk faded in. 

A tight beam of light shot down and lowered in on Matheson’s eyelids, the sheer blinding brightness of the isolated sunlight causing them to flutter and open. The hard grey plastic of the seats informed Matheson of his exact location. The set of barred windows let in the few rays of sun and Matheson could see a few officers conversing outside as one sat in the front seat of the police vehicle, acting as a sort of guard. He was a lanky man who was slumped in his seat and wore his policeman’s cap off to the side quite a bit and had it tilted down almost over his face. This barely interfered with the bulky black and gold aviator sunglasses that spread across his face as the police officer twiddled his thumbs and hummed some inane arhaic country tune with a slow chorus that was a glorified drawl and gratuitous finger picking guitar and seraphic, shining pedal steel solo. This was the last straw for Matheson it seemed, he was so drunk on the adventurous american spirit that he never knew that defeat was even possible. But he had just come careening back down to earth, civilization and reality. Matheson hated this feeling with a fiery passion. It was the feeling that the possibilities were no longer endless, his body and spirit were splintered and broken, like the soggy wooden remains of a daring pirate ship that plundered the open seas. He felt as though he needed to weep. But Matheson told himself over and over again that strength and resilience had to be maintained. If one were to just break down and collapse in on themself as if they were a poorly constructed mineshaft struggling to contain a massive ton of stones and dirt. 

“What the hell happened to you boy?” The cop near the front of the car spat errantly as his gaze drifted down to the waterfall. This elicited no response from Matheson who rested motionless in the backseat, looking like a sagging burlap sack that had been roughed up by a gang of thugs recently. And if Matheson was truly honest with himself, he didn’t know, he drew a blank. This was perhaps due to his neoteric head trauma but Matheson could sense that it was perhaps something more than just the current scenario. And then Matheson took the few moments he had left to think, to just think for a moment. Matheson underestimated what an incredibly hard thing it was to do. After months, years, possibly even a lifetime of simply acting, simply setting every single moment of his life in motion spontaneously. He felt so incredibly alone, so devoid of meaning and happiness, a feeling that bore a hole inside Matheson that he struggled to dig himself out of. He could not stop thinking that this was it, this was what the entirety of this adventure and knowing Ol’ Russ had led up to. Matheson’s reaction to even a twinge of self-doubt or hopelessness was to run, and run far, to bound away as if that would do anything to help him. Ol’ Russ also masked all of those feelings, with him the days were always purposeful yet meandering and Ol’ Russ’ untimely passing marked an abrupt transition in Matheson’s life. A tragic peeling back of the curtain to reveal the always festering dread within him. Matheson stared intently at the floor of the police car, waiting patiently, not making a fuss, not uttering a word. Oh god, this was the end. 

Matheson spent 6 years in the Oregon State Penitentiary, he was released for good behavior in the spring of his fiftieth year. He considered it to be a wholly unpleasant experience but the loneliness and despair he was afflicted with upon arriving had dissipated by the time he departed from the old, dilapidated and draconian facility. Matheson found himself among men after his own heart, wayward souls that felt liberated by this sense of community. He was happy to finally be freed. But he could not help but shake the one thought that remained within his mind his entire stay in the state penitentiary. This was the one final note that Ol’ Russ had bequeathed to him near the end of his life. He had taken a solemn vow to find the address and somehow, by a strange stroke of luck, locate Grace and James Hammond. On the blessed day of freedom, the autumn leaves drifted down in their brilliant burnt oranges, faded reds and beautifully vibrant yellows, what a display it was. What a way to welcome Matheson back into the world of the free, to usher in a new era in his life. 

So Matheson rented a car from one of the soulless dealerships on Lancaster drive in Salem and ventured north. He passed through the throngs of standstill traffic in Portland, over the glistening blue-green waters of the Willamette and up to the scenic Columbia River Gorge. He finally found the Dalles a rather exhausting day of driving later and wound down the dirty back roads of the fringes and outskirts of the small town. There he pulled over on the side of Morton street. It was a place amidst a few rolling, grassy hills, a wild and scenic landscape for seemingly tame residential environs. 147 was a ramshackle two story house with partially chipped bright blue coloring and a half collapsed wraparound front porch that housed a couple of wooden rocking chairs. The house had a fairly standard slanted roof with most of the tiles missing and a few large dusted and scratched windows facing out towards the street. Matheson climbed the wooden stairs, hearing them creak under his weight as he did so. The door looked somewhat modern but it’s perhaps once shining steel exterior could not mask it’s obvious decay. Matheson pounded his fist twice on the front, eliciting a loud banging noise that seemed to echo throughout the modest home. Following a long wait and a few more pounds on the steel surface, Matheson found that the door was not only unlocked, but it nearly came off of it’s hinges upon opening. He immediately found himself ankle deep in a sea of unopened letters and bills. Matheson was surprised at the rather nice interior, fully furnished with dusty neo-victorian armchairs that seemed as old and a mantelpiece decorated with a few black and white framed photos and a fireplace below that had fallen into disrepair. On the floor lay ornate rugs and the staircase and railing adjacent to it were made both of polished hardwood. Matheson stared intently at one of the larger framed pictures on the walls that were adorned with a white wallpaper decorated with red rose artwork. It was peeling quite severely. The photograph depicted a nice enough looking couple, a young woman in a light colored dress and white satin gloves with a dark beehive hairdo and darker sunglasses. To her left was a grinning man with a buzz cut, chiseled features and who wore white shirt with a black tie and dark slacks. Both people placed a hand on the shoulders of a young boy with a portly frame who sat on top of the hood of what looked to be a 1957 Chevrolet Bel air. Something at that moment snapped in Matheson’s head. Of course. How could it be anything other than this. Ol’ Russ had instructed Matheson with the note to visit this ancestral homestead. Matheson strode across the large living room area and shoved open the rusty and torn screen door, finding himself in the grassy backyard, the fences around which had been eroded with age and lay partially toppled. Squarely in the middle of this area lay two weather, cracked and curved headstones. These bore two names. 

JAMES HAMMOND 1925-1982, GRACE HAMMOND 1928-1995. Such a poetic scene it was, only confirming what Matheson thought, Ol’ Russ was a better man than he could ever be, this was a man whose last will was to make sure the spirit and memory of his parents were honored. Matheson then carely sliced a few brilliant red, soft pink and angelic white roses off of the pleasant bush in the yard with his trusty pocket knife, placing them beside the headstones and lowering his head for a moment. For whatever sinful, despicable and unavailing life he had lived, he knew he had accomplished something, perpetrated a deed not befitting of a prison sentence, it was time to restore this place to it’s supposed former glory and beauty. Matheson flipped up the sherpa collar of his jacket as he felt the chilly autumn breeze on the back of his neck, sitting back on the dilapidated back steps and lighting a cigarette from his pocket, turning his gaze skyward for a second and appreciating the moment, for he knew that his life had certainty.  

 

Over the next few months, Matheson went to work on the ramshackle place. To him this was a passion project, a way of honoring Ol’ Russ and perhaps more honestly giving him some hovel to squat in as he had no living arrangements prepared upon his release, as it had only now fully hit Matheson that he didn’t really know anyone anymore, he was even a stranger to himself. Over the course of the past year he had haphazardly tossed a molotov cocktail onto the few bridges he had left and did not bat an eye as they burst into flames behind him. But he had finally paid his debt to society, it was what he owed to himself that he surmised would prove a greater challenge, although he was thankful he had not mortally wounded the patrol officer as he would still be serving a much longer sentence. He remembered the feeling of shock that came over him when he saw Lt. Jameis step through the large polished oak doors and into the cold, sterile courtroom. Matheson raised himself from the back steps and pulled  out a creased and discolored paperback novel from his back pocket and flipped through the musty yellowed pages, emboldened with a rich, inky typeface that stuck out from the page. He traipsed through the grass without hurry and rested on a flat boulder overlooking the skinny creek that wound through the property, and the trees quaked ever so slightly in the breeze. Then came the abrupt bang, it was more like deafening pop as Matheson did not hear the end of the sound. The shadowy figures seeped in from every direction firing a couple more concentrated shots, causing Matheson’s limp figure to roll over into the grass near the creekbed. Matheson’s face was fixed in an expression of contentment, his glassy eyes half open still. 

END