“You’re not up to anything criminal?”
“Not really.”
“Not doing anything I wouldn’t do?”
“No. Pretty sure you’d approve of everything I’m doing.”
“A certain colleague of mine thinks Nygren’s planning a big job.”
“Not true.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you call, then?”
“I want you guys to leave us alone.”
“Hey, I’m just a plain lieutenant—I don’t have that kind of sway. Besides, the lieutenant who’s after Nygren is a pretty tough nut to crack. Almost impossible.”
“You can assure your colleague he’s wasting his time. We’re attending to fully legitimate matters.”
“Have you known Nygren long?”
“Yes.”
“You protecting him from someone?”
“Yes again.”
“You staying in Finland long?”
“Tough to say.”
“Is there a number I can get hold of you at…if I hear something.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Might be better to meet in person.”
“Not yet.”
“Where you at now?”
“On the road,” Raid replied in English.
“On the road,” Jansson repeated.
“Right.”
7.
Raid and Nygren were the only customers at the village general store. The shopkeeper stood behind the meat counter in a white coat, following them with a curious gaze. The little store had been forcibly converted into a crowded mini-mart and the register had been squeezed right in front of the entrance. Behind the register was a woman in her fifties, likely the shopkeeper’s wife, judging from her self-important expression. She sat ramrod straight, like a prison guard. Not a single customer would get by her without paying.
Nygren had piled a case of beer, a loaf of bread, cheese, canned pea soup, sausage links, a can of coffee and a couple of cartons of milk into the shopping cart. He lingered in the cookie aisle and picked out some chocolate cookies with strawberry filling, then veered sharply right and stopped in front of the meat counter.
“A half pound of sliced ham.”
The shopkeeper took careful aim with his metal tongs and lifted a pile of ham onto some wax paper. The scale showed nine ounces.
“That’s fine,” said Nygren.
His generosity won the shopkeeper’s approval.
“Might I ask if you’re the owner of the old Nurminen place?”
Nygren nodded.
“Pleased to meet you. Folks around here sometimes wonder what type of guy owns that place.”
“This type.”
The shopkeeper glanced at Nygren as conspicuously as he dared. Dressed in sunglasses, a long black Italian coat and handmade Mexican boots, Nygren was certainly not a common sight at the village store. He wasn’t a common sight anywhere.
“Not that we’re all that nosy out here in the country—it’s just nice to know…in case we bump into each other.”
“Right.”
The shopkeeper could see he wasn’t getting any more out of Nygren.
“Anything else I can get you?”
“A couple dozen cabbage rolls.”
“Garbage rolls…as they’re called around these parts.”
The shopkeeper’s regional Savo humor got no rise out of Nygren. He remained taciturn.
The cashier studied Nygren’s bills as though certain they were forgeries. Nygren glanced at Raid. His background was evidently well known to the townspeople.
“Thank you,” said Nygren, looking the cashier directly in the eyes. The woman covered her neck with her hands, seemingly fearful that Nygren might pull a stiletto and part her throat from ear to ear.
The Mercedes climbed a long hill, curving steadily to the right before abruptly reaching the turnoff to Nygren’s estate. On the left was a steep bluff and just before the turnoff was a dense birch forest. There were no road signs or mailboxes at the intersection, nor anything else to indicate what lay ahead.
Raid feathered the brakes just enough to make the turn without stopping at the intersection.
The road was pitted and flanked by birches. A slippery layer of leaves had already fallen onto the road.
They passed a barn with corn-crib siding that was listing to one side. At one end of the barn were some farm machines unfamiliar to Raid. On the right, they passed a small yellow wooden house. A woman’s bicycle was parked in front of the stairs and smoke rose from the chimney.
“That old lady’s almost eighty and still gets by on her own,” Nygren said without turning his head. “Some claim she takes the tractor and plows the road by herself.”
They approached a turnoff up ahead where a smaller road broke off to the left. Nygren pointed left with his thumb. A sign at the turnoff read: Nurminen.
This side road of a side road went on for a couple of hundred yards and terminated in front of a house on a hill. Thinly scattered birch whips were growing in the driveway, and the apple trees were sprawling and dilapidated. The supports that held up the branches had rotted and snapped, but despite their neglect, the trees were brimming with apples.
The lawn had grown into a tall meadow that was now yellowing and dying.
At the foot of the trees was a garden swing, and beyond that, about ten berry bushes and an overgrown potato field.
Further still was a fallow field that sloped gently toward a lake about two hundred yards away. A few summer cottages were visible on the opposite shore.
The one-and-a-half-story house was large and straight, but just as neglected as its surroundings. The granite foundation was level and solid. White paint was flaking off the walls, revealing the gray surface of the wood. The moldings around the windows were crazed with cracks, but the small window panes were intact.
Behind the house was a large barn with a stone foundation and a shed, which housed what appeared to be a sauna on the opposite end. Next to the wall, an old wood-burning stove with a pile of crumbling sauna rocks had been left out to rust.
If the outbuildings had ever had paint, there was no evidence of it. Still, they stood straight and square.
Nygren looked around with a lordly expression.
“It looks better than I expected. It’s been three years since I was here last. I figured the local hooligans would’ve at least busted the windows for lack of anything better to do.”
He fished an old-fashioned key out of a gap in the porch and unlocked the door.
The stench of an abandoned cabin wafted outside. It was one part oblivion, a second part memories, and a third part damp wood and rugs—with a pinch of the scent of cardboard, the same smell you get after opening a cardboard box that has sat in the cellar for years.
Nygren took in the lush aromas.
“We’ll have to air it out and put on the heat.”
Mice had stormed the cupboard. The counter was strewn with fallen flour and sugar from the chewed up sacks. Little feet had spread flour all over the table as well. Black droppings the size of rice grains were everywhere.
“And clean up a little.”
The cabin was somewhat devoid of furniture. In the kitchen were a small dining table, two spindle-back chairs, wood and electric stoves and a refrigerator. The floral-patterned shades, once yellow and green, were now dusty and sun-bleached.
In the living room were a 1960s hide-a-bed and a bookshelf of the same vintage. There were no books, only a stack of magazines and a few china cups. In addition, there was a rocking chair, a shabby faux-leather recliner and a black-and-white television.
On the window sill were a couple of flowers, now dried to an unrecognizable state. A living room door opened into the bedroom, where a cot lay next to a small nightstand and an electric heater, nothing else. A staircase painted the color of dried blood ascended from the entry to the upstairs.
“A little run-down, but it’ll do,” said Nygren.
“Pretty old.”
“Turn of the century. Timber framed and well built. Not a single spot of rot. An old farm couple used to live here. The husband was a stubborn old mule…looked after the place till he was nearly eighty. The kids moved to Sweden to look for work, and when the folks died, they let the place go downhill. First they sold the fields, then the forests, then the house. It’s still got ten acres, though.”
Raid looked at the thin sprinkling of furniture.
“You did the interior decorating?”
“I was here for a summer and bought everything I needed at the flea market. The upstairs is empty.”
“You got a story for this place too?”
“A few. I’ll tell you sometime.”
They heard the rumble of an approaching tractor and Raid glanced out the window. Nygren came to look too.
“Neighbor. Probably saw the car.”
“You guys on good terms?”
“Nothing to worry about.”
Nygren stepped outside and Raid followed. The tractor plowed through the grove of saplings that had overgrown the drive and stopped just in front of the steps. A man in his sixties swung out of the cab. He was dressed in a sweatsuit that was far too tight and a cap with a plastic bill. On his feet was a pair of rubber boots with leather uppers. Stylistically, the ensemble would be admirably true to form if he was a farmer in the ’60s.
The man walked up, his hand stretched out toward Nygren. They shook.
Nygren introduced Raid.
“My boy saw the Benz in town, so I figured my old neighbor had come to visit.”
The man nodded toward the house.
“I’ve been dropping by every now and again to make sure everything’s holding up.”
“Thanks.”
“You figuring to stay a while?”
Nygren shook his head.
“We’ll be on our way the day after tomorrow at the latest. We’re headed north. This just happened to be on the way.”
“So we won’t have a new neighbor after all.”
“You have time for a drink?”
“We’re not so busy out in the country that we don’t have time for a little hooch.”
He followed Nygren inside.
“You managed to clean up already.”
“The mouse shit was everywhere.”
“Not sure where they come from, but every time you turn your back…” said the man.
“Whiskey or Cognac?”
“Well, since you’re buying… Cognac.”
Nygren poured a stiff shot into a water glass.
“Regular glass alright with you?”
“Or straight from the bottle.”
Nygren sat down at the table and his neighbor sat across from him.
“I reckon I should mention the couple of snoops I saw here a week ago.”
“What kind of snoops?”
“I was coming back from fishing along the lower road one evening… There was a blue van in the road a ways up. Something seemed a bit fishy so I went in closer to have a look. Couple guys peeked in the windows and walked around the house. Pretty sure they looked through the barn, too. I tried to make a lot of noise when I come up, and when they seen me they scurried off to the van and hightailed it.”
“How many?” asked Raid.
“Two. I didn’t get a close look, but one of ’em was skinny and the other kind of stocky. They seemed to take an interest in everything… Could just be tramps, but still…I thought you oughta know.”
“Did you get a look at the plates or what kind of van it was?” asked Raid.
“Some sort of Japanese make... Not real new, but not too old either. Didn’t catch the plates. I wasn’t really on the ball enough to even think of it. They were in a real hurry to go once they seen me. Probably felt guilty.”
“Thanks. Let’s have another…” Nygren splashed some more Cognac into the man’s glass.
When only a sliver remained in the bottle, the neighbor left. He lurched clumsily into the tractor’s cab, gave a rakish wave and weaved off. Nygren stood on the steps and watched him go.
“It pays to be on good terms with the neighbors.”
“Sariola and Lehto,” said Raid.
“Yep.”
“Did they know about this place?”
Nygren took a swig of Cognac.
“My fault. We stopped here briefly before our last gig.”
“So they’ve been dogging you for a while.”
“It would seem so.”
“Then they’ll come here after us.”
Nygren had a faraway look. Without a word, he walked to the garden swing, sat down and kicked forcefully until the swing ground into motion.
“A man gets to thinking he’s pretty clever. A completely different caliber than the other assholes who take shitty gigs and bounce in and out of the pen. But he drags all these idiots along. Why? Because he has no choice. There’s a shortage of qualified staff, and what few there are run their own gigs. In the end, the idiots fuck up and the gig falls flat. That’s the way it is and the way it’ll always be.”
Nygren wasn’t angry. Though his words were cross, he sounded almost bored.
“Fortunately, that life is in the past. I don’t have to deal with the idiots anymore. We’ll leave tomorrow.”
“I suggest you take care of your business now, though. Might have to leave in a hurry.”
“There’s an old shotgun and some ammunition in the attic.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Follow me,” said Nygren.
Raid followed him into the barn, a ramshackle structure about thirty feet long and twenty feet wide. The door was bolted with a sturdy lock made by the village blacksmith.
Inside, it smelled of earth and rotting wood. Part of the floor was dirt and the rest cast concrete. A urine gutter was set into the cement, and a large manure hatch was on the wall. Along the far end was a milk house with a large pot-belly stove. Nygren opened the hatch beneath the furnace and bent down. He thrust his hand inside and pulled out a large parcel wrapped in cloth.
After lifting the bundle onto the lid of the stove, he opened it. Inside was a green metal box, which was locked, but Nygren opened it with a key. It was full of money. The stacks of bills were wrapped in plastic film and packed as tightly as possible. Raid could see that the bills were all either one-hundred- or two-hundred-euro denominations.
“Rainy day fund. Storms in the forecast.”
“And what if someone had lit the stove?” said Raid.
“The flue is closed. It wouldn’t have lit and the fabric is fireproof. How much would you guess this is?”
“Hard to say.”
“Over half a million.”
Nygren’s voice was matter of fact. Still, he would have expected more of a reaction from Raid. Over ten years of hard work, fear and risk, but the spoils measured up.
“I did four years in the clink because of this. Your job is to make sure it wasn’t in vain. The money has to go to the right people.”
“Right.”
Nygren carried the bundle inside and hid it beneath the clothes in his bag.
Raid climbed into the attic to look for the shotgun. An old side-by-side double-barreled Simson was wrapped in construction paper and stashed among some old furniture.
Wrapped up with the weapon was also a box of cartridges. The exterior surface of the barrels was slightly rusty, but oil had protected them on the inside. Raid cocked the shotgun and pulled the trigger twice. The safety didn’t work, but otherwise, the weapon was in good shape.
Raid went to the back of the barn to pick a willow switch. He wrapped a piece of fabric around the end and cleaned the oil out of the barrels. Afterwards, he went into the barn and loaded two cartridges. He carried an old metal tub to the end of the barn and fired both barrels one after the other into its side. The cartridges worked flawlessly.
He cleaned the powder and lead residue from the barrels, loaded the gun again and took it with h
im as he left to warm up the sauna and carry the wash water from the well. Nygren stayed to clean the downstairs of the house.
Raid was an expert at warming saunas. He began with a small flame so the flue, long left unused, could get acclimated. While he waited for that, he sat on the lower bench whittling birch shavings.
Just outside the window, a tall birch was leafing out, and beyond that was the open water of the lake.
Night was beginning to fall.
His father had been fanatical about his saunas, and warming the sauna had always been Raid’s job. Sometimes he warmed it five times a week, and always roasting hot. Once, Raid had lost himself in play and it had gotten too late to warm the sauna. He spared himself a beating only by running off into the woods. They searched and called, trying to entice him back, but he lay hidden beneath the low, thick boughs of a spruce, unwilling to budge.
Only after hearing his mother’s sobs did he creep carefully toward home. His father had calmed down and his mother was serving fresh pulla rolls with cold milk.
When he aced the sauna heating, his dad rewarded him with a bottle of lemonade.
A shadow flitted past the window and Raid swung the shotgun up in one swift motion. Nygren peeked inside.
“Don’t shoot.”
He came inside and took a deep breath.
“The smell of smoke on a Saturday night. Only a Finn could know what that means. I’ll bet you twenty euros you were thinking the same thing.”
“I don’t gamble.”
Nygren sat down next to him.
“I don’t suppose you do much besides work… I didn’t have time for much, being in prison and all, but I guess you fared better in that department. You should think about what you’d like to do with your
life while you still can. That way you won’t have regrets.”
Nygren peeked inside the stove and added some wood.
“Strange. When I was your age, I couldn’t bear to listen to people’s moralizing or the rousing sermons of a bunch of reformed criminals. Now that I think of it, maybe they weren’t so fake after all.”
Nygren uncapped two bottles of beer and offered one to Raid.
“Maybe most of ’em actually wanted to turn us poor reprobates toward the strait gate and the narrow way.”
Raid and the Blackest Sheep Page 7