The Land of Dreams (Minnesota Trilogy)

by Vidar Sundstøl

  Usually an old woman with arthritis in both hands worked in the store. Lance always had to look away when she rang up the prices of his purchases, using her claw-like fingers. But now it looked as if she’d finally retired. He hadn’t seen this woman cashier before. He made a round of the aisles. He was clearly the only customer. It was an old-fashioned general store, selling everything from bread and beer to rubber boots and snowshoes. He wasn’t very hungry, but he knew that he should eat something.

  He was still annoyed with Zimmerman, and kept picturing his laughing face. What was it the new ranger had said? “He couldn’t have ingested it by accident, if you know what I mean.” When Lance thought about that now, he realized that Zimmerman must have had confirmed his own prejudices about the people up here when he reported on what had been found. That was why he had chuckled at the whole situation, because Lance had reacted exactly the way Zimmerman had expected. And that made Lance even more annoyed. But the ranger was entitled to his tired East Coast liberalism. It didn’t really matter. Those attitudes aren’t going to get him very far up here, thought Lance.

  Out of habit he picked up a bag of Old Dutch potato chips, and put a handful of Dove chocolates in a paper bag. Then he chose a ready-made chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke and set all of his purchases on the old-fashioned wooden counter, which was worn smooth with age.

  The cashier first picked up the bag of chocolates, but then stopped abruptly and put it back down. He looked at her. Judging by her expression, there was something that Lance had forgotten. Something completely obvious. And now she just sat there, waiting for him to do or say something about what he had so obviously forgotten. He didn’t know what to say.

  “So, how’s it going, Lance?” the cashier finally asked him.

  And that’s when he understood.

  “Debbie!” he exclaimed.

  Because there sat Debbie Ahonen, twenty years older.

  “Well, well, well,” she said. She picked up the bag of chocolates, peeked inside, and started laughing.

  For a moment he felt an inkling of something that was almost like love—a love that had been hibernating but had now burst forth somewhere deep inside him. It disappeared as soon as Debbie’s laughter turned into the ugly cough of an inveterate smoker. He could hear the phlegm working its way up from the depths of her bronchial passages until it reached her throat and she was forced to swallow it again.

  With the back of her hand she wiped away some invisible beads of sweat from her forehead.

  “Always Dove chocolates,” she said, punching in the price on the old manual cash register.

  Then she quickly tallied up the rest of his purchases without saying anything more.

  Lance remembered the day, twenty years ago, when she had beamed at him as she said those words: “Finally I’m in love too!” And again he felt the shame, almost as strongly as he had back then. The shame of having loved someone so much, or at least having adored her looks and her charm so passionately, only to find that his feelings had never been reciprocated. And even now, as she sat here looking as if she’d spent too much of her life indoors sucking on cigarettes, she was still able to make him feel ashamed.

  “So, how’s life been treating you, young Mr. Hansen?” she said then, looking up at him.

  “Can’t complain,” said Lance.

  “Are you married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Any kids?”

  “A son. Seven years old.”

  Debbie smiled at the mention of his son.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “Got divorced five years ago and moved back to Minnesota. Lived in Minneapolis for a couple of years. After that . . . well, you can see for yourself.”

  She waved her hand, as if to take in the whole dreary, outmoded, and virtually deserted store.

  The place must have looked pretty much the same when she was a girl close to forty years ago, thought Lance. The same counter and the same shelves, just not as worn, and with far more customers back then. At the time Finland was filled with families connected to the radar station. More than a quarter century had passed since those people moved away. Now Lance and Debbie were the only ones in the store.

  “How long have you lived in Finland?” he asked.

  “Nearly four months now,” said Debbie.

  “Do you have kids?”

  “Yes, one daughter. She’s nineteen and lives in Santa Barbara. In California.”

  Debbie had put his purchases in a plastic bag, which she set in front of him on the counter. It was time to pick up the bag and leave unless he wanted to enter into a longer conversation, or maybe make plans to get together for a cup of coffee someday.

  Lance picked up the plastic bag. “Well, I’d better get going,” he said.

  “Still a forest cop?” asked Debbie.

  “Yep.”

  “You’re the one who found the guy at Baraga’s Cross, aren’t you?”

  “Christ, does everybody know about that?”

  “What do you expect? This is Minnesota,” said Debbie with a smile. “Are you on duty right now?” she added.

  “Yeah. Some teenagers have been hanging out over by Seven Beaver Lake. So I had to go take a look at the place.”

  “Did you find out who they were?”

  “No, I never do,” said Lance.

  “Never?” she said in disbelief.

  “Not really. Very seldom, anyway. But I’ve got to go now,” he said.

  “Right. I guess you’ve got a lot of other cases to solve,” said Debbie.

  Lance laughed.

  He was already at the door and about to leave the store when he happened to think of something. He stopped and turned to ask her, “So what exactly brought you back to Finland?”

  “Mom,” said Debbie. “She’s eighty now. Richie has been trying to take care of her, but it wasn’t going to work out in the long run, so I needed to come back home.”

  She looked worn out. Lance tried to think of something pleasant to say but couldn’t think of anything. “So you’re staying with her?”

  “No, I’m staying with Richie.”

  “Which Richie are you talking about?”

  “Richie Akkola.”

  “You’re staying with Richie Akkola?”

  “Yes. We’re living together,” she told Lance, evading his eye. “Okay,” said Lance. “Well, tell your mom I said hi.”

  Debbie gave him a wan smile.

  He opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine flooding the front of the Finland General Store. Richie Akkola, he thought. Richie had to be close to seventy. He owned the store and the gas station, and at one time he was considered quite well-to-do. And now he was living with Debbie Ahonen? Lance couldn’t understand it. Beautiful Debbie, who had gone off with her policeman to sun-filled California twenty years ago.

  Lance decided to drive to Our Place to get a cup of strong coffee and a decent homemade sandwich instead of eating the vacuum-packed one he’d just bought from Debbie.

  OUR PLACE WAS THE ONLY BAR IN FINLAND. It was housed in a modern timbered building and was no more than ten years old. In the past there had been several bars in the community, but they had closed after the radar station was shut down. Then in the late 1990s, Ben Harvey and his wife had arrived from somewhere back east and opened a canoe rental business and the bar. It had been quite a while since Lance had last stopped by for a chat with Ben, who was such a friendly guy. As far as Lance could tell, his business was prospering. Tourism had made that possible. Canoeists, snowmobilers, sport fishermen, and hunters.

  When Lance went in, he saw Ben standing in a classic bartender pose, leaning forward with his forearms resting on the counter as he talked to a customer straddling a bar stool. Lance could see only the back of the man sitting there, but he knew immediately that he wasn’t from the area. It never took more than a brief glance for h
im to differentiate between a local and a visitor. There was just something about the way people held themselves, the way they occupied the space, from a purely physical standpoint.

  Ben straightened up when he recognized Lance.

  “Hey, long time no see!” he exclaimed. “The forest sheriff is back!”

  Lance snorted.

  The man sitting on the bar stool turned around and nodded a greeting. He looked like a typical sport fisherman, the type that spends more time fishing at the local bar than in the lake or streams. Fishing trips—the classic excuse to get away from home and do whatever you like for a few days. Lance returned the nod and then maneuvered himself onto another bar stool, taking care to leave one vacant next to the visitor. He glanced around. At the back of the room two middle-aged men were eating. Otherwise there were no other customers in the place. It was still too early in the day.

  “Coffee, please,” said Lance. “Black. Plus . . . let me see, now. What kind of sandwiches have you got?”

  “Only chicken salad at the moment. I was just about to make some more, so if you want to wait a bit . . . ”

  “No, chicken salad sounds fine to me.”

  “Anything else to drink?”

  “A Diet Coke.”

  Ben poured Lance a cup of coffee and filled a glass with Coke. Then he disappeared into the kitchen. Lance greedily slurped up the coffee. It was so hot that it almost burned his tongue, but he suddenly felt a great need for caffeine. As if he’d just woken up from his usual leaden and dreamless sleep. Am I really so exhausted from meeting Debbie? he wondered. At the same time he remembered other encounters with her, more than twenty years ago, when he’d also been exhausted afterward, but for entirely different reasons. Was it the huge gap between what she once was and what she was now that had upset him so much? Or was it the bizarre news that she was living with old Richie Akkola?

  He finished his coffee. The other man at the bar was nursing the last of his beer.

  “Feeling caffeine deprived today?” he asked.

  “Can’t deny it,” said Lance.

  “It’s this heat. All the sunshine makes you feel tired and heavy-headed.”

  “You could be right.”

  Yet he wasn’t feeling tired. When he thought about it, he realized that he felt shaken. As if someone had struck him, knocking him off his familiar path. Debbie, he thought again. Beautiful Debbie Ahonen. Maybe he could tell Ben about her. He heard about almost everything that went on in Finland, and he knew old Richie Akkola well. After all, the two men make up fifty percent of the business owners around here, Lance thought. And even though Ben had never known Debbie in her heyday, when she was so aloof and irresistible, he must have met the present-day Debbie long ago, since the Finland General Store was the only place to buy groceries. Lance wondered whether he could confide in Ben. As a bartender he must be used to hearing people’s troubles. Maybe he could explain to Lance how exactly it had come about that Debbie was now living with Richie. Was it a relationship based purely on convenience? No, Lance couldn’t bear to think about that. The whole thing was too sad, and he decided not to mention it. He felt that he owed it to Debbie to show her a certain respect. It was true that she had hurt him terribly, but they had also been very close and had shared a lot. In spite of everything, they had once been a couple. He couldn’t start discussing her miserable fate with other men.

  And Debbie Ahonen wasn’t solely to blame for this feeling he had of being somehow off balance. He’d felt this way all day. Or had he? He paused to consider that question. And the longer he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he’d felt perfectly normal when he got up in the morning. Also while he ate breakfast. At least as normal as he could expect to feel these days, given everything that had happened recently. After breakfast he’d headed for the ranger station to talk to John Zimmerman. The new ranger had told him what had been discovered about the two Norwegians. Wasn’t it after hearing what he’d said that Lance started feeling upset? Yes. He didn’t like hearing about that sort of thing. He thought it was disgusting that men could be together in that way. But worst of all was the fact that Zimmerman had laughed about it. Because he had laughed, hadn’t he? Chuckled, at least, thought Lance. And it had made him so angry that he now felt emotionally drained. Was that what had happened?

  Ben reappeared with a freshly made chicken salad sandwich. “Here you go,” he said. “Knock yourself out.”

  Lance started eating the sandwich, but even though he knew he should be hungry, he could swallow only a few bites before he’d had enough. “Could I get some more coffee?” he asked.

  Ben refilled his cup.

  Lance took a sip, but the hot coffee burned his lips.

  “Well, I better see about getting back to the RV,” said the other customer, dropping a few bills on the counter. “It’s parked down by the river,” he said, turning to Lance. “So I’ll be walking there, not driving. Just thought it’d be smart to let you know.”

  Lance gave him an indifferent but polite smile. “That’s fine,” he said. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too,” said the man and left.

  Now it was just Lance and Ben at the bar. In the back of the room the two middle-aged men were still eating. The bartender went over to their table to pour them more coffee. Lance heard him talking to them about fishing for trout in Thunderbird Lake. Ben knew all the best fishing spots, which of course made his bar especially popular among sport fishermen. Lance didn’t know Ben very well, but he’d stopped by the bar many times in the past ten years, to have coffee or eat lunch, and he often chatted with the owner. Everyone who spent any amount of time in the area would sooner or later stop by Our Place.

  So when Ben came back, Lance asked him whether he’d heard about the murder at Baraga’s Cross. It was basically a superfluous question, since everyone had heard about it. And besides, Ben Harvey was a man who undoubtedly heard about everything that went on in the region.

  “Of course,” said the bartender. “And I also heard that you were the one who found the dead guy. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I found the victim, and I arrested his companion.”

  Ben whistled, clearly impressed. “That must have been some day on the job, huh?”

  “You can say that again. But it turns out that the two men spent a lot of time up here, including at the Blue Moose Motel. Did you ever see them?”

  Ben nodded. “As it happens, I did,” he said. “They were here at least twice.”

  “Nice guys?”

  At that moment a new customer came in. Another sport fisherman apparently. He came over to the bar, near where Lance was sitting. Ben smiled and asked the man what he’d like to have.

  “A cup of coffee. And could I see the menu?” he said, sitting down on the bar stool that the other sport fisherman had vacated a few minutes ago.

  Ben served him coffee and handed him a yellowed menu.

  “Sure,” he then said, turning back to Lance. “They were pleasant folks. Very cheerful. And extremely polite. Didn’t drink any alcohol, as far as I remember. Just coffee and mineral water. Real nice guys.”

  Lance wondered for a moment whether to ask Ben if he knew that the two Norwegians were lovers, but he thought it would be stupid to mention that. Besides, Ben was from somewhere back east, just like Zimmerman, and Lance had no desire to end up having a lengthy discussion on the topic.

  The sport fisherman ordered a piece of rhubarb pie, then picked up his coffee cup and moved to a table.

  When they were again alone at the bar, Ben leaned toward Lance to ask in a low voice, “Have you talked to that brother of yours lately?”

  “Andy?” said Lance, as if he had lots of brothers.

  Ben nodded.

  “I talked to him a couple of days ago.”

  “Did the two of you discuss the murder?”

  “The subject came up, sure.” />
  Ben nodded knowingly.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “So what did he have to say about the two Norwegians?”

  “Andy?” said Lance, and he could hear how his voice had gone shrill.

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “He spent a whole evening sitting here talking to them. It must have been a couple of days before the murder. They sat over there for hours.” He pointed at a table in the corner.

  Lance felt something shut down inside himself. No picture or sound, as if a TV had suddenly turned off. As Ben went on, it sounded as if he were speaking from another room. He suddenly seemed far away.

  “Looked like they were having a good time. Andy had a few beers, while the two Norwegians drank mineral water, I think. Have no idea what they were talking about. Fishing, maybe. Or the old country. It’s none of my business, but I just thought he might have told you about it.”

  Lance still felt like he and the bartender were in two separate rooms. That he was listening to somebody on the other side of the wall.

  “I guess he must have forgotten about it,” Ben continued, but he clearly didn’t believe that. He was just throwing out a lifeline to the silent man sitting on the bar stool.

  Because Lance still hadn’t said a word, although inside him things were starting to function again. Now he realized why he had felt so upset ever since Zimmerman had reported that the Norwegians were gay. He remembered the strange look on Andy’s face two days earlier, and he now knew exactly where and when he’d seen his brother with that same expression before. He took a gulp of his Coke and then set the glass down on the counter so hard it banged.

  “Is everything okay?” asked Ben.

  “Tell me one thing,” said Lance. “I assume the police have been up here to interview you, right?”

  “Yeah. They interviewed me yesterday. An FBI agent and a Norwegian detective.”

  “Norwegian?”

  “Uh-huh. Not a Norwegian American. He’s from Norway.”

  “I know. And you told them about all this, right?”