Lance knew that Thormod had died the way he had lived, as a poor fisherman, but he didn’t say anything.
“One night ten years before that picture was taken, young Thormod fell through the ice,” his mother began.
Lance had no idea how many times he’d heard this story.
“There was a full moon, so he continued his trek through the night,” she went on. “He walked across the ice from one bay to the next. You know how cold March nights can be. But Thormod kept on going and managed to make it all the way to Great-Grandfather’s house. Just imagine the strength of will it must have required to manage such a feat.”
Lance was pleased to see how interested she seemed in the topic.
“We can thank all of them for everything we do from the time we wake up in the morning until we fall asleep at night,” she said. “Those pioneers, all of those forgotten men and women.”
“Uh-huh,” said Lance absentmindedly. “You’re certainly right about that.” He noticed that the Aerial Bridge had started to rise. “The bridge is going up again,” he said.
They sat in silence as they watched the old ritual that they’d seen so many times before. The body of the bridge rose all the way up to the crosspiece, the ship glided through the gateway of steel, and then the body of the bridge was lowered once again.
Lance looked at the picture of Chrissy, the angel from Two Harbors. Then at the picture of the folks from Tofte posing on the deck of the America in October 1902. A crowd of black-clad, somber-looking Norwegians in the New World.
And ten years earlier Thormod Olson had fallen through the ice. In 1892, to be precise.
“Did you say it happened on a March night?” he asked.
His mother gave him a puzzled look.
“Did you say that it was on a March night that Thormod fell through the ice?”
“That’s what I’ve always heard, at any rate.”
“A March night in 1892?”
“Yes.”
“Near the mouth of the Cross River, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And there was a full moon?”
“There must have been, since he was able to keep walking at night.”
“Sure,” said Lance. “Of course . . . ”
He sat there staring out at the city where he’d grown up as he nodded a bit at his own thoughts. If his mother was right about Thormod walking across the ice under a full moon in March 1892, it meant that it happened at the same time as the disappearance of the Indian, Swamper Caribou. He remembered clearly the words of the article published in the Grand Marais Pioneer: “Swamper Caribou disappeared from his hunting cabin near the mouth of the Cross River at the time of the last full moon, meaning in the early morning hours of March 16.”
7
EIRIK NYLAND LOOKED AT THE BAGS AND SUITCASES slowly revolving in the glare of the terminal lights. It was sixteen hours since he’d climbed into his car to drive to the airport. He’d crossed seven time zones, and it actually should have been early the next morning, but here it was still evening. And not more than half past eight. He felt like he’d been partially erased, as if important files on his hard drive had been deleted. Inside his temples a headache was brewing, and soon it would begin to swell and explode against the inside of his skull if he didn’t do something to stop it.
The passengers who had arrived on the forty-five-minute flight from Minneapolis stood around the luggage carousel on which suitcases, bags, and backpacks were circling. He heard people mentioning names, times, and appointments, but he had no idea what any of them were referring to. He studied their body language and clothing, their glasses, watches, and wedding rings—all indications of personal lives beyond this building where these people happened to be gathered. Outside the big windows he saw the typical airport landscape. A few low buildings. The passenger plane in which they had just arrived. Farther away a fighter jet was coming in for a landing. A forklift was moving slowly across the runway.
In spite of the typical and anonymous scene that characterizes every airport, he had a distinct awareness that he was in the United States. Even in this small airport in Minnesota, he had the feeling of a smooth, carefully structured surface concealing a violent energy underneath.
Finally his suitcase emerged from the chute. He waited until it was right in front of him and then reached out to lift it off the belt. Then he headed for the exit along with several other passengers.
In the arrivals hall a small crowd was waiting. Someone was supposed to pick him up, but he couldn’t see anyone who looked like a representative from the FBI. He was prepared to call the number he’d been given in case there was a problem, but suddenly he caught sight of someone holding up a piece of cardboard on which was written “NYLAND.”
He stopped and set down his suitcase.
The two men looked at each other.
The American held out his hand. “Welcome to Minnesota,” he said. “I’m Lance Hansen, and I’m here to drive you to your hotel in Tofte.”
“Eirik Nyland,” said the Norwegian.
BELOW THEM LAY DULUTH. The evening light still shone on the top of the tallest buildings down there. The rest were shrouded in the encroaching dusk. They drove down the steep streets, through neighborhoods with Victorian houses that had undoubtedly once looked quite presentable but were now in a state of disrepair. People were sitting on the steps and porches, watching the traffic. Several little girls were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.
Nyland actually hadn’t had the slightest desire to assist the Americans with their investigation of the murder of Georg Lofthus. He was supposed to be spending next week at the cabin near Lillesand with his wife and daughters, but that probably wasn’t going to happen. In spite of this, along with the jet lag and the incipient headache, he felt a boyish glee about being in a new place. He’d been to the States many times, but never to Minnesota.
“Is it okay if I open the window?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Lance.
The air was filled with the smells of deep-fried food and gasoline, asphalt beginning to cool after a hot summer day, a faint whiff of coal from the big coal depots in the harbor area, malt from Fitger’s Brewery, exhaust fumes, and freshly made coffee, as well as a deeply entrenched underlying smell of freshwater coming from the lake itself. For Eirik Nyland it was all just one, undifferentiated odor, but he liked it, and he could easily tell that it had a distinctive quality that set it apart from the smell of other cities he’d visited.
“A fine-looking town,” he said.
They had now left the steep hill behind and were stopped at a traffic light.
“I grew up here,” said Lance.
The light changed from red to green. They drove through the intersection and turned in to a gas station.
“Best city in the world, if you ask me.”
At the gas station Eirik Nyland bought some Excedrin for his headache, a bottle of Chippewa mineral water, and the latest issue of the Duluth News Tribune. Lance bought a bag of Old Dutch potato chips, a Diet Coke, and several little heart-shaped Dove chocolates.
“Do you see that cloud?” asked Lance as they came out. He pointed to the north.
Nyland saw a boomerang-shaped cloud that looked like it was cast out of some sort of synthetic material. It was dark gray, and inside he thought he saw a faint greenish sheen, but he wasn’t sure.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
“Bad weather,” said Lance, and they got back in the Jeep.
As they drove out of Duluth, Nyland opened the newspaper and began leafing through it. In a moment he found what he was looking for. “Murder at Baraga’s Cross,” said the headline. “The police find no trace of a third person present at the crime scene where a Norwegian canoeist was murdered,” he read. He skimmed the article, which strongly implied that Bjørn Hauglie must have killed his friend.
“What
is this Baraga’s Cross?” Nyland asked when he was done reading.
“It’s a cross put up near the lake just south of Tofte,” said Lance. “Why is it called Baraga’s Cross?”
“Frederic Baraga was a priest who risked his life to help the Indians in the area when they were stricken by the plague. He tried to cross the lake in a small boat, but midway across he was caught by a sudden storm. He almost didn’t make it. He ended up near the mouth of the Cross River, which of course wasn’t the name of the river back then. It got its name after Baraga put up the cross to show his gratitude at having survived the storm. Apparently it was just a small wooden cross. Later it was replaced by a big stone cross, which stands at exactly the same place.”
“And it was near this cross that the dead man was found?”
“No. That was where I found the man who survived. He was sitting there, naked and bloody. Afterward I found the dead man a few hundred yards away, near their tent.”
It occurred to Eirik Nyland that he hadn’t bothered to find out who exactly this Lance Hansen was.
“So you were the one who found the body?” he asked in surprise. “Yup.”
“But I thought you worked for the FBI.”
Lance snorted with laughter. “Yeah, well, that was sort of the intention,” he said.
“So you’re actually from the local police force?”
“I’m what is often referred to as a forest cop. Which means an ordinary police officer with a slightly unusual jurisdiction. In my case, the Superior National Forest.”
“What exactly is that? I saw it mentioned in the fax that I got.”
“It’s a big forested area that comes under the auspices of the federal authorities,” said Lance. “There are lots of areas like it in this country. The U.S. Forest Service is in charge of operations and administration for these properties. They also have a separate division that handles law enforcement, and that’s where I work. We’re regular police officers with regular police training.”
“What did you do when you found the man who’d been murdered?”
“I contacted the Cook County sheriff, who then asked for assistance from the FBI, since the crime scene is located on federal land.”
They drove in silence for a while. So far Nyland had seen only a few glimpses of the lake, because this section of the road was a short distance away from the shore. It was a little disappointing, since he’d been looking forward to seeing Lake Superior.
Shortly after passing a sign that said “Two Harbors, population 3,613,” he saw to his astonishment that there was a big fiberglass figure of a rooster next to the road. It had a red comb and yellow feet. Next he saw an even bigger figure, well over ten feet tall, of some sort of frontier type with a cap on his head. He stood there leaning on a canoe paddle. The figure, which also looked like it was made of fiberglass, stood outside what appeared to be a laundromat. He couldn’t figure out what the point of the rooster and the frontiersman could be, but he noticed that Highway 61 had now become Seventh Avenue in Two Harbors. Once again he felt a boyish glee at discovering completely new places. He saw a couple of car lots with long rows of pickup trucks and SUVs, the local liquor store, a Vietnamese restaurant, several teenagers hanging out at the Dairy Queen, and a couple of big RVs parked at the curb. A woman was smoking as she stood on a porch facing the street. Lance honked and waved at her.
“That’s my sister-in-law, Tammy,” he said. “My brother and his family live in that house.”
They passed a church and yet another car lot, and then Seventh Avenue turned into Highway 61 again. They had left Two Harbors behind. Nyland had the impression of a small, run-down, and not especially thriving community.
“So where do you live?” he asked.
“A place called Lutsen, just north of Tofte.”
“What did you say it’s called?”
“Lutsen. L-u-t-s-e-n. Named after someplace in Europe where the Swedes once won a big battle long ago.”
“Founded by Swedes, I assume?”
“That’s right. By Charles Nelson in 1885. He was one of the first Scandinavian pioneers to come to the North Shore—the shoreline area that we’re driving along right now.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about the history of the area,” said Nyland.
“I’ve been interested in it since I was a teenager. Genealogy and local historical events. All four of my grandparents were Norwegian. One of them was even from Norway. My grandfather Isak Hansen.”
“And where was he from?”
“A place called Levanger.”
Nyland noticed that Lance’s pronunciation of the Norwegian name was very good.
“And you said you have three other Norwegian grandparents?”
“That’s right. Two were born here, but of Norwegian stock. One came here from Norway as an infant.”
It was now 9:10. It had grown significantly darker in a matter of only a few minutes. Now the road was running along the lake, just as Nyland had pictured. He stared at the dark water off to the right. So this was Lake Superior. On the other side of the road he saw mostly forest. There was a Norwegian flag attached to a mailbox near a side road leading into the woods.
“Have you ever been to Norway?” he asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. But one day, maybe.”
At that moment the first big raindrops struck the windshield with audible splats. Only seconds later the rain was coming down with amazing force. In fact, they could hardly see through the water cascading down the windshield. The sound of the rain hammering on the roof of the car was so loud that Nyland had to raise his voice to be heard.
“When did they come over from Norway? Your ancestors, I mean,” he practically shouted.
Lance had slowed down and was leaning forward, staring hard to see through the pelting rain.
“My paternal grandfather, Isak Hansen, came here from Norway in 1929. He was a carpenter. He married a girl who was born in Norway but came to the States at the age of one. On my mother’s side of the family . . . Now, let’s see . . . One of my great-grandparents came here back in 1888. He was the first person in my family to immigrate to America. Knut Olson from Tofte on Halsnøy. He married a Canadian woman. French Canadian, actually. Her name was Nanette. They were my mother’s paternal grandparents. Then in October 1902 a whole boatload of immigrants arrived from Halsnøy, including two young people who ended up getting married, and they became the parents of my maternal grandmother. So there you have it. That’s how they all got here.”
“And your whole family has stayed in this area ever since?”
“Yes, most of us live in what’s called the Arrowhead region.”
“And what’s that?”
“The section of Minnesota that’s squeezed in between Lake Superior and the Canadian border. On the map it looks a little like an arrowhead. Hence the name.”
The force of the rain ratcheted up another couple of notches. Nyland wasn’t normally a nervous type of person, but he thought the situation was starting to get dangerous. The beams from the headlights reached only a few yards before being drowned out by the torrents of rain. And occasionally, out of the mud-colored darkness, cars would suddenly appear only a few yards away. He felt an urge to tell Lance to pull over, but he thought that might be going a bit too far.
“Do you often have weather like this?” he asked.
“Fairly often,” replied Lance. “The whole region around the Great Lakes is like this. Sudden, violent storms. Luckily they usually don’t last long. It has to do with the topography. No mountain ranges to block the air masses, either to the north or the south. Just flat plains. Warm air from the Gulf of Mexico forces its way up here, and then meets cold air from the Canadian Arctic. And they slam together.”
“Like now?”
“This is just light entertainment.”
Nyland glanced at Lance Hansen, who was leaning as far forward as po
ssible while the wipers slapped frantically back and forth with little effect. Every time they saw another vehicle, Nyland felt a brief stab of anxiety. He told himself it was just the jet lag. It’s already tomorrow in Oslo, he thought. This was both the wrong day and the wrong continent.
Suddenly he remembered the bottle of Gammel Opland that he had in his suitcase. Some of his colleagues had given him the idea: “You can’t arrive empty-handed when you’re going to Minnesota from the old country! The Norwegian Americans are still crazy about lutefisk and aquavit,” they’d told him. “It doesn’t matter that it’s too early for Christmas.” So Nyland had bought a bottle of Gammel Opland but decided to drop the idea of bringing any lutefisk. Right now he had a strong urge to open the bottle as soon as he got to the hotel and take a good slug of the liquor himself. At the same time he felt an almost devil-may-care joy in the whole situation and this strange drive—as if he were steadily heading deeper into something that was not merely an unfamiliar landscape. But what exactly did he mean by that? Everything was so different from what he’d imagined. He’d expected to have an efficient introductory meeting with the well-oiled machinery of the FBI. Instead, he was sitting here in this old Jeep with Lance Hansen in one of the worst rainstorms he’d ever experienced.
A bluish, shimmering light filled the car, giving Lance’s hands on the steering wheel a cadaverous appearance. Then the moment was shattered by what sounded like the boom of cannons in the surrounding darkness. Another flash of light, and this time he saw the actual lightning bolt, a trembling spear of energy that pierced the rain-pelted surface of the suddenly illuminated lake.
“Would you still call this just light entertainment?” asked Nyland.
At that instant lightning struck again, and an electrically lit interlaced pattern, like the map of a complex river delta, spread out across the sky in front of them before collapsing with a deafening boom.
Nyland laughed. He heard Lance laughing too. He didn’t know why; he just couldn’t help it.
The Land of Dreams (Minnesota Trilogy) Page 6