The Land of Dreams (Minnesota Trilogy)

by Vidar Sundstøl

  What about the motive? Why had he killed Georg Lofthus? Maybe he did it in a drunken stupor. Diver had twice done time for meth. Or had he planned to rob the Norwegian tourists, and then something went wrong in the process? That was still an unanswered question. But Nyland was convinced that they’d arrested the right man—as convinced as he could be without having an eyewitness. Theoretically, at least, there was always a possibility that the individual in question was innocent. There were always other potential explanations than the one they had decided to go with. Not very likely, but still possible. For instance, someone might be able to come up with a plausible story for why Lenny Diver’s fingerprints and Georg Lofthus’s blood had been found on the same bat, even though the two men might never have met.

  Nyland gave a start when he heard footsteps behind him. Lance Hansen was walking across the bare rocks toward him. He raised his hand in greeting before turning around again to gaze out at the lake. He listened to the footsteps getting closer until they stopped right behind him.

  “It’s great, isn’t it?” said Lance.

  Nyland looked up at him. He was wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt and light summer trousers. A Minnesota Vikings cap. And sunglasses.

  “Yes, it’s fantastic,” said Nyland. “I’m going to miss this place. Have a seat.”

  Lance sat down on the blanket. The ice chest was between them.

  “You can come back for a vacation with your family someday,” he said. “Maybe you’ll even get to meet your relatives who live here.”

  “Who’s that?” said Nyland.

  “You wanted me to help you find them. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh, right . . . ”

  Lance looked at him. The silence lasted long enough for Nyland to realize that his ploy had been found out. Neither of them spoke.

  Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to invite Lance Hansen out here, after all. He’d told Lance that he had a surprise for him. And he did. That stupid Viking ship that he’d bought in Grand Marais. Vibeke would never have allowed something like that in their home. That much he knew. So he’d brought the ship along in the ice chest, planning to give it to Lance as a farewell gift. But now he regretted bringing it, because he was simply trying to get rid of the thing. It was almost like using Lance Hansen as some sort of trash bin.

  “So, let’s see what we’ve got in here,” Nyland said, opening the lid and making sure Lance couldn’t see inside.

  “Hmm . . . well, look at that.” He dug two bottles of Mesabi Red out of the crushed ice and held them up. Lance smiled and nodded approval.

  “But of course I forgot to bring a bottle opener,” said Nyland. He hadn’t thought about that until now.

  “I’ll open them,” said Lance.

  Nyland handed him the two bottles. Lance used a bottle opener that hung from his key ring. Then they drank a toast, taking a swallow of Lance’s favorite beer.

  Another couple of minutes passed in silence, so Eirik Nyland again opened the ice chest. But he still made sure that Lance couldn’t see inside.

  “Well, would you look at that!” he exclaimed. “Look what I found!” He held the bottle of aquavit up to the light. Beads of moisture had formed on the glass. “Norwegian snaps! Have you ever tasted it?”

  “No, but I’m not really much of a drinker,” said Lance. “To be honest, I can’t even remember the last time I had hard liquor.”

  Nyland handed him the bottle. “We’ll only have a little, since we need to get back in our cars and drive home safely afterward,” he said.

  “This is borderline illegal, you know,” Lance muttered as he studied the label.

  “But I got permission from the highest authority.”

  “Really?” Lance was still studying the bottle, trying to read what it said on the label.

  “I had a word with the sheriff. He has, in fact, granted permission for a small taste test of Norwegian aquavit.”

  “He has?” Lance slowly unscrewed the top.

  “Actually, he promised me that neither of us would be stopped by the police on our way home.”

  Lance laughed. “Good old Eggum,” he said. He had the bottle open now. He held it up to his nose and sniffed. “Hmm . . . ,” he said with interest. “And it’s made from potatoes?”

  Nyland nodded.

  “Potatoes from where?”

  “From Norway.”

  “But where in Norway?”

  “My guess is they come from the area around Mjøsa, which is Norway’s biggest lake.”

  “Perfect,” exclaimed Lance. “That’s great. And here we sit near Lake Superior, the biggest lake in the United States. Actually, in the world.”

  “From Mjøsa to Lake Superior,” said Nyland dryly.

  “Okay, then I think I do need to have a taste of these potatoes,” said Lance. “Since the sheriff gave his approval, I mean.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Nyland. “We need something to drink out of.”

  He opened the ice chest again and took out two plastic glasses he’d brought from his bathroom in the hotel. He gave one to Lance, who poured himself a small shot and then handed over the bottle. When they both had poured themselves a drink, they raised their plastic glasses for a toast.

  “To big lakes,” said Nyland.

  “Yep,” said Lance.

  And they drank. Eirik Nyland closed his eyes and thought he could smell rib roast. He tasted gravy. And a special Christmas beer. “Ah,” he sighed with reverence, and then opened his eyes.

  Lance Hansen had also ingested his Norwegian potatoes. He shuddered as the liquor went down his throat.

  “And now for some beer,” said Nyland.

  Both took a long swallow of Mesabi Red.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked a moment later.

  “I don’t think you could get potatoes any better than that,” said Lance.

  “So you liked it?”

  “Is there anybody who doesn’t?” asked Lance in surprise.

  “Not many, at any rate,” replied Nyland. “At least I don’t know of anyone. By the way, it was some of my colleagues who suggested that I bring along a bottle of aquavit. They told me, ‘You can’t show up in Minnesota from the old country without bringing aquavit.’ They also thought I should bring some lutefisk, but I thought I’d spare you that. Do you know what lutefisk is?”

  “Sure, and I happen to like it,” said Lance. “There’s a place called Sven and Ole’s in Grand Marais where you can get it,” he went on. “I’ve eaten there,” said Nyland.

  “Really? I didn’t know that. Did you have the fish cakes?”

  “No, they were out, unfortunately. We had pizza instead.”

  “Well, Sven and Ole’s serves seriously good lutefisk when it gets close to Christmastime. It’s hard to find a table, I can tell you that. A lot of people up here love lutefisk. You should take some back to Norway.”

  “But what about security at the airport?” said Nyland. “Nowadays, when even deodorant is considered a possible weapon, I don’t know what they’d say about lutefisk.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Lance, setting his plastic glass on the ice chest. It was empty. He’d understood the tradition and downed the shot in one gulp. That was the proper way to drink aquavit.

  “Want some more?”

  “Sure,” said Lance, “but I think I should wait a bit. Those potatoes really pack a punch.”

  They both fell silent again, but this time there was nothing uncomfortable about the silence. Nyland was glad he’d invited Lance to have a drink out near Baraga’s Cross. Of course there was something a bit morbid about choosing this particular location. They were very close to the crime scene, after all. But somehow it felt right. It was here that the case had begun, and now they were bringing it to an end. At least for Nyland’s part.

  “Tell me, why are there flowers over by the cross?” he said a
fter a while. “Does it have something to do with the murder?”

  He could see that Lance had been far away in his thoughts and had to make an effort to come back.

  “No, people still honor Baraga’s memory up here. Or at least some do. Occasionally church services are held out here in the open. There are almost always flowers at the cross.”

  Nyland thought the place seemed to change as Lance talked about it, taking on a new aura of meaning.

  “I remember you telling me something about Baraga on the drive up here from Duluth. Wasn’t he a priest who helped the Indians?”

  Lance took a sip of his beer, then cleared his throat. “That’s right,” he said. “Frederic Baraga ran a mission on the other side of the lake. In La Pointe, Wisconsin.” He nodded toward the horizon. There was nothing to see other than light and water and sky. “One day in 1846 he heard that the Ojibwe in Grand Portage had been stricken by the plague. And he saw it as his Christian duty to go up there to help. The problem was that it would take weeks, maybe months, to travel around the entire western part of Lake Superior. So he had to cross the lake by boat. And back then that was viewed as gambling with your life. Especially since the only vessel at his disposal was a flat-bottomed boat a local fur trapper had built. It wasn’t designed for crossing the lake, and that’s an understatement. But it was the only means available to Baraga.”

  Lance started to get up. Nyland watched the process with interest. It took some time, since Lance Hansen was a stout man. But finally he was on his feet. He stood next to Nyland, holding the beer bottle in one hand.

  “Come with me and I’ll show you something,” he said. “Bring your beer.”

  Together the two men walked over to the big gray stone cross. Nyland looked at the withered flowers and the soot-covered tealight candle holders. Right across from them the river was calmly flowing into the lake.

  “See that sandbank over there?” said Lance, pointing.

  Nyland saw a ridge of sand and gravel stretching across the mouth of the river. The water level in the river was so low that parts of the ridge stuck up above the surface. A deep pool had formed close to it.

  “The river carries all that sand and gravel here,” Lance went on. “Most of it settles in place, and it builds up year after year.” He leaned on the cross as he talked. “Baraga got hold of that fur trapper with the homemade boat, and together they set off across the lake. I assume that it was good weather or they would have waited. But you’ve seen for yourself how fast the weather can change around here.”

  Eirik Nyland nodded.

  “And you have to remember that this was in 1846, which was before there were any permanent settlements here. The area was Indian land; it belonged to the Indians. White people were not actually permitted to settle here. So imagine the kind of storm that we drove through on that evening from the airport. Plus a fierce wind. And no roads or houses. No light from a single lamp along the entire North Shore. The storm struck as Baraga and the fur trapper were about halfway between La Pointe in Wisconsin and Grand Portage, and soon they were at the mercy of the wind and waves, as the saying goes. The work was shared by the two men accordingly. The fur trapper fought for his life by bailing water from the boat. Baraga prayed to God. We might wonder why this fur trapper had allowed himself to be persuaded to go along with such a risky undertaking. Maybe it was a fear of God. I don’t know. At any rate, they finally caught sight of land. And this was what they saw. This shore, but through the wind and rain, without any people or buildings. Nothing but forest. Big waves carried the boat straight for the rocks, right here where we’re standing. It looked like the boat would be smashed to smithereens. But then a miracle occurred. An unusually big wave lifted the boat up and hurled it forward. When the two rain-soaked men gathered their wits, they realized they’d been saved. The boat had landed in the lowest, calm pool of a river, within the shelter of a sandbank that lay just below the surface of the water. The sandbank that the big wave had crashed over.” Lance pointed to the mouth of the river and the sandbank in front of them. “Cross River,” he said. “Nobody knows what it was called when Baraga and the fur trapper came here in 1846. But of course it must have had a name. An Ojibwe name that it had been called from time immemorial. Baraga believed God had intervened and rescued them. And so the next day they put up a cross on this spot before continuing on to Grand Portage. It was just a primitive wooden cross, made from two sticks. But it was still standing eight years later, in 1854, when the surveyors arrived to map the area, which in the meantime had been transferred from the Indians to the American government. They found the cross and gave the river its new name: Cross River. After that they erected a bigger cross that could better withstand the weather. It stood here for many years. The granite cross wasn’t put up until 1932.”

  The two men stood there, holding their beer bottles and looking at the mouth of the river.

  “The story is well known up here. It’s part of the North Shore heritage, so to speak,” said Lance after a moment. “And yet . . . ” Nyland looked at him. “And yet what?”

  “Well, it’s a nice story. The only thing is, it’s not true.”

  “Really?”

  “No, it can’t be true,” Lance went on. “At least not entirely. Baraga and the fur trapper did cross the lake in a flimsy boat. And they did come ashore and put up the cross. That’s all true. But the key to the whole story . . . the miracle . . . the boat being lifted up on a giant wave and hurled over the sandbank and into the calm pool of water . . . ” He pointed at the river and the sandbank as he spoke. “That couldn’t possibly have happened.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there wasn’t any sandbank here in 1846. Or a calm pool for the boat to land in after being flung over the sandbank. How do I know this? Well, because the sandbank is the result of erosion. Which in turn is a result of the big logging operation that the John Schroeder Lumber Company ran here between 1895 and 1905. They cut down all the trees along the entire Cross River. That was when the erosion started, when the virgin forest vanished during the course of only a few years. And it’s still going on today, while the sandbank keeps growing, little by little. But it wasn’t here in 1846.”

  Nyland looked at Lance in surprise. “How can you be so sure about that?”

  “A lot of people noticed the erosion that suddenly started up after all the logging was done,” said Lance. “After a few years some people also saw that a sandbank was appearing in the Cross River. It was a development that became very obvious during the period between the wars. So it’s not a question of some sort of secret information. Don’t think I’m the only one who knows where the sandbank came from or when. So that means the central part of the story must have originated at a much later date. At any rate after 1900.”

  “So what’s the significance of that?” asked Nyland.

  “It means the heart of the story about Baraga’s crossing is not true. It might even be a deliberate lie. Who knows? Anyone who bothers to think about it will realize it can’t be true. And yet nobody ever mentions that. We just keep on telling the same story. We hold church services out here and we burn candles—”

  At that moment they heard someone shout from close by. “Okay, boys. Time to break up the party!”

  Bill Eggum came walking out of the woods. Nyland shook hands with the sheriff, who was not in uniform. This was the first time he’d seen Eggum in civilian clothes.

  “So this is where you are, hanging out and drinking beer,” said the sheriff, shaking his head. “And here’s old Eggum, without a drop to drink.”

  They went back to the blanket where Nyland and Lance had been sitting. Eggum kicked at the ice chest with the toe of his shoe. “And what do we have here, I wonder? Ice cream?”

  “Have a seat, and I’ll open the treasure chest,” said Nyland. With a wave of his hand, he invited Bill Eggum to sit down on the side of the blanket where Lance had been sitting.


  “I guess I can sit on the ground,” said Hansen, settling himself in front of the sheriff.

  Eirik Nyland sat down on the unoccupied part of the blanket. “All right. I assume this is the moment of truth,” he said. “I don’t want to hear any jokes about trying to hide something from the long arm of the law.” He opened the lid of the ice chest to reveal the two unopened bottles of Mesabi Red and the bottle of Gammel Opland. “We were just going to have a little drink. But we’ve only got two glasses, so if you’d like to try some . . . ” He unscrewed the cap from the bottle of aquavit and turned it over so it became a little cup between his thumb and forefinger. Then he mimed pouring a shot of aquavit into the cap.

  “A little snort shouldn’t do any harm,” said Eggum.

  Nyland filled it with a steady hand, not spilling a single drop. He held out the cap to the sheriff, who took it with an equally steady hand. “Down the hatch!” said Lance.

  Bill Eggum raised the cap to his lips, tilted his head back, and practically threw the liquor down his throat. Nyland took a bottle of beer out of the ice chest. He handed it to Lance, who quickly removed the cap and then offered the beer to the sheriff. Eggum grabbed the bottle and took a big gulp. Beads of sweat appeared on his flushed forehead. Finally both the beer and the aquavit managed to make their way down into his capacious system.

  “Wow, that was great!” he exclaimed. “But it’s probably not a good idea to have too many of those before driving home.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Lance. “We’ve only had one each. I was thinking about having one more, but that’s all. And there’s one more bottle of beer in the ice chest.”

  “Along with a Viking ship, I see,” said Eggum, sounding surprised.

  Nyland realized that he’d left the lid of the chest open.

  Lance reached inside and took out the glass Viking ship. He held it up in the sunlight, turning it this way and that.

  “Why do you have a Viking ship in the ice chest?” asked Eggum.

  “It’s a gift . . . to the local police force,” said Nyland.