The Ravens (Minnesota Trilogy)

by Vidar Sundstøl

  HE HAD IMAGINED that Swamper Caribou could have been murdered, although it was impossible to say with certainty what had happened to the medicine man. But that was before the other puzzle piece in the story had fallen into place. That happened one day as he sat in his mother’s room at the Lakeview Nursing Home in Duluth, and they were talking about their ancestors, as they so often did. Inga had told him about Thormod Olson from Halsnøy, the nephew of Knut Olson and his wife, Nanette. The boy was just fifteen when he arrived at the North Shore under dramatic circumstances in March 1892. While attempting to cross the frozen bay, he had fallen through the ice into the water. This was in the middle of the night, and he was walking in the light of the full moon. It was so cold that it really shouldn’t have been possible to survive a night in the woods in wet clothes, but early the next morning he had knocked on the door of the house where Knut and Nanette lived. When they opened the door, Thormod fell into the room, his body as stiff as a board and enclosed in an icy armor that shattered as he hit the floor. Ever since then, he had been the family hero.

  “That’s the stuff we’re made of.” Lance remembered his father saying that, and yet Oscar was not related to Thormod Olson by blood. The story was the family’s primordial myth, and Lance had heard it told countless times before. Yet there was something about what his mother had said on that day in her room at Lakeview that had jolted him out of his habit of listening halfheartedly to the story. He already knew that Thormod was supposed to have fallen through the ice “somewhere close to the mouth of the Cross River,” but suddenly he also knew when this happened. Because the boy had been able to keep walking at night, in the light of the full moon. And that was in March 1892. Near the mouth of the Cross River. Which meant that the disappearance of Swamper Caribou and Thormod Olson’s accident had taken place more or less at the same time and in the same place.

  Even though it could be just a coincidence, Lance had begun to wonder whether his ancestor might have killed the medicine man. Yet he didn’t know for sure. That was when he’d thought about Nanette’s diary; somewhere in those pages there had to be a mention of Thormod’s arrival.

  24 MARCH. Today he sat at the table and ate with us! When we changed the bandages on his wounds, we saw that they were clean and without pus, just as the wounds of Old Shingibis were after Nokomis treated him when he was attacked by a bear when I was a little girl. I clearly remember when they arrived with Shingibis in the canoe. But even though this is a good sign, and my husband is now lighter of heart than I have seen him before, nothing can ever rectify what I have done. For that reason my heart is as heavy as stone. My husband says that we must never speak of this, just say that the boy fell through the ice and almost died from frostbite, but that we saved him with porridge and coffee. That is how we will speak of it in the future, also when we talk to the boy. We will never try to find out what happened to him. And here I have promised Father François that no lie shall ever issue from my lips.

  IT OCCURRED TO LANCE that these old diary entries conveyed an atmosphere of secrecy and deception that was similar to what he’d been experiencing the past few months. Deciding not to say anything was always the preferred solution to every problem; that was how it had been for as long as he could remember. This reaction was as natural for him as the air he breathed. Yet to see exactly the same pattern of response played out more than a hundred years ago made him feel incredibly sad. That in itself was nothing new. He often felt sad. But this was a sorrow that seemed to span generations.

  10

  CHRISSY HANSEN came walking through the school gate with another girl who was also clad in black from head to toe. Lance rolled down the car window and called her name. When she caught sight of her uncle, her first impulse seemed to be to run away. But then she said something to her friend, who continued along the snow-covered sidewalk alone as Chrissy went over to the black Jeep.

  “Get in,” said Lance.

  His niece did as he said, although reluctantly. Once she was seated in the car, she stared straight ahead without saying a word.

  “I thought we could have a little chat,” said Lance.

  No reaction. Her school backpack, which she’d set on the floor, offered a childish contrast to her mute figure, swathed in black.

  “Is it okay if I drive somewhere else?” he asked. “I don’t want anyone to recognize me.”

  A slight movement at the corner of Chrissy’s mouth could be interpreted to mean anything at all. Lance chose to take it as a sign of agreement.

  He drove north, away from the lake, and parked at a turnout a couple of miles outside Two Harbors. Neither of them spoke during the short drive. Now Lance opened his mouth to say something, but Chrissy beat him to it.

  “I haven’t told anyone,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “But if you say anything about me to Mom or Dad, I’ll tell them that you’re not in Norway. It’s no skin off my nose.”

  “And if you mention that I’m not in Norway, I’ll tell Andy that you hang out at the Kozy. That’s no skin off my nose, either.”

  “Okay, but—”

  Chrissy was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. She dug it out from under her long coat.

  “Hello?”

  “. . .”

  “Yeah. I know that.”

  “. . .”

  “But I’m with . . . fuck that!”

  “. . .”

  “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

  “. . .”

  “I said, I’m coming!”

  “. . .”

  “See you.”

  Lance gave her an inquiring look.

  “That was Mom,” she said. “I promised to help her with something. You’ll have to drive me home.”

  “Sure. But I want to talk to you some more later.”

  “Fine with me. Because there’s something we need to talk about,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I know something about the murder.”

  Lance grabbed her by the arm.

  “What do you know?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  He tightened his grip.

  “No. Tell me now,” he said.

  “Let go of me!” Chrissy shouted.

  Lance instantly let her go.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Just don’t touch me,” she told him.

  “Okay,” he said. “I promise.”

  “So drive me home. You can let me out at the gas station, and I’ll walk from there.”

  “But do you really know something about the murder?”

  “I’ll tell you tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “When you drive me to Duluth.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “In that case, you can drive me to Duluth tonight.”

  “So you can go back to the Kozy?”

  By now he had started driving back toward Two Harbors. Chrissy gave him a look loaded with scorn.

  “Believe it or not, that’s not where I’m going,” she said. “It might actually do you some good to come with me. If it’s not too late, that is.”

  “Too late for what?”

  Chrissy laughed, but it sounded artificial.

  AT SIX THIRTY he picked her up at the gas station, as they’d agreed. The minute she got in, he smelled the cigarette smoke on her clothes.

  “What’d you tell Andy and Tammy?”

  “That I was catching a ride with a girlfriend.”

  “To go where?”

  “To a poetry reading.”

  Lance couldn’t help laughing.

  “You actually said that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So where are you really going?”

  “To a poetry reading. What do you think?!”

  She was clearly in a better mood than a few hours ear
lier. Lance gave her a skeptical look.

  “You’re not serious, are you?”

  Chrissy laughed merrily.

  “Sure. And you’re coming with me,” she said.

  “Now wait a minute, I—”

  “Otherwise I won’t tell you what I know.”

  He glanced at her again. A barely visible smile was tugging at her mouth.

  “It’ll do you good,” she said. “I bet it’s been a long time since you’ve gone to a reading.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  They passed the big white fiberglass rooster with the bright red comb and yellow feet, and with that they left Two Harbors behind.

  “Every time I see that shitty rooster, I wonder why the hell I had to be born in this place,” said Chrissy with a sigh.

  Lance was about to admonish her for swearing, but he stopped himself.

  “It’s not that bad, is it?” he said.

  “Yeah. It is.”

  He tried to recall what it had felt like to be almost eighteen. That was back when he decided to be a policeman, like his father. Maybe not the most exciting choice of profession, but he had never regretted his decision.

  “So, what do you know about the murder?”

  “I was out at the cabin that night. I told Mom and Dad I was going to spend the night with a girlfriend in Duluth, but we drove up to Lost Lake instead.”

  “You and who else?”

  “Me and two friends. We were going to meet some other kids up there and party. So that’s where we went. There were a few others that I didn’t know. And two guys who just showed up. They told a story that sounded like it was straight out of The Twilight Zone. Everybody thought it was cool, but at the time we didn’t know anything about what had happened that night.”

  “What did the two guys say?” asked Lance.

  “They said they’d seen a bloodstained man with a baseball bat.”

  Lance felt his throat close up.

  “Where?”

  “Just outside Finland, near the river over there. That’s the Baptism River, isn’t it?”

  “Right.”

  “They said he looked like he was on his way down to the river to get washed off.”

  The idea that someone had seen the murderer right after he’d killed Georg Lofthus had an overwhelming effect on Lance. He felt as if all the strength had drained out of him.

  “Did they say what the man looked like?” he asked.

  He didn’t recognize his own voice. It sounded like it was coming from an old man.

  “No. Just that it wasn’t an Indian,” replied his niece.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Because first they said the car was an old junker, and then somebody said the man was probably just drunk. That was supposed to be a joke. I thought it was a stupid thing to say, but . . . Anyway, they said the man they saw definitely wasn’t an Indian. It was a middle-aged white guy. I remember that’s what one of them said.”

  “But you didn’t personally see this individual?”

  “No.”

  “So what did all of you think had happened?”

  “At that point we hadn’t heard about the murder. Those two guys said they thought he must have hit some animal and used the bat to put it out of its misery. Maybe a cat . . . And that he was on his way down to the river to wash off the blood.”

  “A cat?” whispered Lance.

  “Uh-huh. At any rate, we never dreamed that he might have killed somebody.”

  “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “No.”

  “Not even Tammy or Andy?”

  “I never tell my parents anything.”

  “Okay. But what you’ve told me is now part of an ongoing investigation, so you can’t mention it to anyone,” said Lance.

  He couldn’t very well say that he didn’t know what her father would do if he heard that someone had seen him that night.

  “Do you have any idea the approximate time when this happened?” he asked.

  “No, but it was really late by the time those guys arrived, in the early morning hours. And it must have been fairly light when they saw him. Light enough to see the blood on his clothes.”

  “So maybe around dawn?” Lance suggested.

  Chrissy nodded.

  “But when you heard about the murder, didn’t you realize there might be a connection?”

  “Sure. I thought a lot about it, and I was really scared. But then I read that the police had arrested an Indian, and the baseball bat that was used in the killing was found in his car in Grand Portage. So how could the other man with the bat have anything to do with it?”

  “Then why are you telling me about all this now?”

  “Because you said that you were still working on the case and that they might have arrested the wrong man.”

  “Huh.”

  They drove for a while in silence. Lance thought about all the times he had let his niece chase him through the house, from one room to the next, until she finally caught him and arrested him. Not all that many years ago either.

  “I’d like to testify or something,” said Chrissy.

  “Testify?”

  “Help out so the right man is arrested.”

  “But you said you didn’t see him yourself. Why can’t those two guys who saw the man come forward to tell their story?”

  “I don’t know who they are. They were just a couple of strangers who showed up, uninvited, to the party. None of us had any idea who they were. I think they were from somewhere on the Iron Range.”

  “We can try to find them through the local media, CB radios, and so on,” said Lance. “It shouldn’t be that hard.”

  “But you don’t get it, Uncle Lance. These guys aren’t the type to go to the police voluntarily. Not even if it has to do with a murder.”

  “Meaning what?” said Lance sternly.

  “Well, they brought some . . .”

  It suddenly occurred to him what she was talking about.

  “Pot?” he asked.

  “And meth.”

  As a police officer Lance was all too aware of what methamphetamine could do to a person. A drug that provoked extreme aggression, and users often lost their teeth, their hair, and their minds.

  “Good Lord, what kind of people have you been hanging out with?” he exclaimed in alarm.

  “I told you I didn’t know them. None of us did,” said Chrissy.

  “But couldn’t one of your girlfriends testify? There must have been others who heard the story. Why haven’t they come forward?”

  “Maybe because they don’t have an uncle who’s an undercover cop and who tells them that the police might have arrested the wrong man.”

  “Hmm . . . ,” said Lance.

  He was beginning to realize how impossible this situation was. If he allowed Chrissy to give a statement, her father might end up spending the rest of his life in prison.

  “Well, we’ll just have to see what happens,” he said. “At least now I know the story. If it turns out to be important, I’ll be sure to get in touch with you.”

  “But you do think they’ve got the wrong man, don’t you?”

  The question, which required no answer, hovered in the air between them. That they were even having this conversation was answer enough, along with the fact that Lance was secretly sneaking around the North Shore.

  “So where are we actually going?” he asked as he exited Highway 61 and turned onto London Road.

  “Third Avenue and Fifth Street.”

  “Okay. And what’s there?”

  “A whole different world,” said Chrissy.

  11

  IT WAS AN ORDINARY-LOOKING BAR, equipped with a simple sound system and a microphone on a stand at one end of the room. Next to the microphone was a bar stool and a tall table with a pitcher of water and a glass. Lance noticed that Chrissy didn’t seem to know anyone, or at least she didn’t greet any of the other patrons. Yet there was something about the way sh
e moved through the room that led him to believe she’d been there before.

  They found a table at the very back and hung their coats over the backs of their chairs.

  “I want something hot to drink,” said Chrissy. “Want anything?” She was speaking in a lower voice than normal.

  “A Diet Coke would be good. It’s my treat,” he said, handing her a five-dollar bill.

  Chrissy took the money without a word and went over to the bar, where she got in line behind a few other customers.

  Lance sat down, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. A quick glance around the room told him that there were about thirty people present. At the very end of the bar, seated near the microphone, he saw two men and a woman, who he assumed must be the poets. They were middle aged, the woman possibly a bit older than the men, and they were all leafing through pages of text. One of the men had a ponytail and a neatly trimmed gray beard. Lance thought he looked like an artist. The other man looked totally normal, almost like a bank teller, while the woman was thin and elegantly dressed. She didn’t look like any of the women that Lance usually associated with—women who, for the most part, were employed by the U.S. Forest Service. He was well aware that he didn’t fit in with the rest of the audience. No doubt he looked like he’d just climbed off a snowmobile, while many of the others wore clothing that looked homemade, even though it had probably been bought in a shop and for a higher price than all of the insulating, weatherproof, synthetic fibers in which he’d wrapped his body—from the underwear made of knitted polyester with a quick-dry function to the enormous thermal jacket he’d draped over the back of his chair.

  Chrissy wound her way between the tables carrying a glass of Diet Coke and a mug with steam rising from it. There was something about the way she walked that seemed so respectful, almost as if she were stooping forward a bit so as not to disturb the others. She was by far the youngest person in the bar, and Lance thought that maybe he ought to feel proud of his niece. But he noticed that several people cast an inquisitive glance in her direction as she walked past in those strange black clothes of hers, with the heavy eyeliner and the black lipstick. So when she set the tea and Coke on their table and sat down, he instead felt embarrassed. Did they think she was his daughter?