“But why is it in the ice chest?” the sheriff persisted.
“I was planning to give it to Lance and ask him to present it to you at the sheriff’s office.”
The two men looked at him, uncomprehending.
“Okay,” said Lance. “Sure, why not do it the hard way?”
Eggum laughed. With a solemn expression, Lance handed him the Viking ship.
“Is it from Norway?” asked the sheriff.
“Well, I bought it here, but . . . ”
“Where’d you get it?” asked Lance.
“In the souvenir shop in Grand Marais.”
Lance and the sheriff burst out laughing.
“But it is from Norway,” said Nyland. “I’m quite certain about that. I can tell, just by looking at the design.”
Eggum turned the glass figurine upside down and peered at the bottom.
“Made in China,” he read aloud.
That was the first time Nyland saw Lance Hansen laugh wholeheartedly. He completely surrendered to the laughter. Eggum clearly thought it was funny too, while Nyland felt crushed. Why on earth had he wanted to give Lance a present in the first place? Was there something special that he wanted to thank him for?
“But what difference does it make whether it came from Norway or China?” said Eggum. “A Viking ship is a Viking ship. Right?”
“A Chinese Viking ship, presented by a Norwegian police officer,” said Lance. “Given to the sheriff of Cook County.”
He poured a shot of Gammel Opland into the two plastic glasses, then into the cap from the bottle, which he handed to Eggum.
“I’d like to make a toast,” said the sheriff. “Not to the United States, or to Norway, for that matter. And definitely not to China. But to meetings between nations . . . meetings like this one.”
“Absolutely,” said Nyland.
“Hear, hear!” said Lance.
Then they all drank to the toast.
“In six weeks it’ll all be over,” said Eggum.
“What’ll be over?” asked Lance.
“That’s when I retire.”
Eirik Nyland looked at the short, fat man wearing the Minnesota Twins cap. He thought about that early morning, with the professional truckers and retirees laughing in the next room. He and Eggum were having coffee together, and the sheriff had told him how the Swedish family had gotten the name of Seagren.
“Are you okay with that?” asked Lance.
“I’m counting the days!”
Nyland thought about the waitress, Martha Fitzpatrick. She’d been married to an Irishman from Chicago. But her maiden name was Norwegian. What was it again? No, he couldn’t remember. He thought about the friendly mood she spread about her as she moved through the café. What a job, he thought. At the same time, he liked the idea of her continuing to work there. So in the future, whenever he thought about Cook County and Grand Marais, he could be reasonably certain that at least something was still the way he remembered it.
The other two men had started talking about fishing. He heard them mention words like “steelhead” and “walleye.” He assumed these were types of fish.
“Did you know that?” said Eggum.
“What?” Nyland hadn’t been paying attention.
The sheriff nodded toward the lake stretching out before them. “That we’ve got sturgeon out here.”
Sturgeon? Wasn’t that where caviar came from? “But those fish are huge,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Lance. “The biggest one ever caught in Lake Superior was well over six feet long. They can get up to two hundred and twenty pounds in weight. They used to be much more common, but the stock was heavily overfished by the Scandinavians who settled here.”
“Big as a full-grown man. That would really be something to catch on your fishing line,” said Eggum, making motions to get up. “Well, I guess I’d better be heading home. Crystal is probably wondering what’s happened to me.”
All three got to their feet.
“Yeah, it’s almost dark,” said Lance. “I suppose it’s time to be getting back.”
“I think I’ll stay here for a while longer,” said Nyland. “I want to enjoy the view of the lake one last time.”
“What time do you leave tomorrow?” asked Lance.
“Early.”
They stood there, hesitating, not quite sure what more to say. Eirik Nyland knew he’d never see either of them again. Cook County wasn’t the sort of place the Nyland family would visit on vacation. Rome was more their style. Or maybe Barcelona. There were so many places to choose from. But Cook County would not be high on the list.
“Well, well,” Nyland said.
“You can say that again,” said the sheriff. He straightened the cap he was wearing.
“Are you sure you’ve arrested the right man?” asked Lance.
“Yes,” said Nyland. “His fingerprints were all over that baseball bat. If they also find traces from Lofthus on it, they’ll have an airtight case.”
There was nothing else he could say. Yet he thought for a moment about the uncertainty that both he and Bob Lecuyer had felt with regard to Lance Hansen. He still couldn’t rid himself of that feeling. It might never go away.
“But didn’t he claim that he’d never seen that bat before?” said Eggum.
“Yes, and there were actually somebody else’s initials carved into the shaft. But that doesn’t mean much since the fingerprints show that he’d had it in his hands.”
“What was his name again?” asked Lance.
“Lenny Diver,” said Nyland.
“And what about the initials?”
“A. H.,” said Nyland.
“Sure, as if it’s big news that a man like Lenny Diver would have in his possession something that didn’t necessarily belong to him,” said Eggum with a grin.
Nyland noticed that Lance had turned away slightly. He was gazing out at the lake.
“Well, have a good trip back to the old country,” said the sheriff.
“Thanks. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Eggum.”
“Same here. And just so you know: I would have liked to see Bob Lecuyer sitting here having a drink with Lance and me!”
“He really missed out.”
They shook hands to say good-bye.
“Don’t forget the Viking ship,” Nyland reminded him.
Eggum leaned down and picked up the glass figurine. “I’m going to put it in a place of honor in my office,” he said. “And when I retire, I’m taking it home with me. Crystal loves this kind of thing.”
Lance Hansen turned to face Nyland. “It was nice meeting you,” he said, holding out his hand.
Nyland shook his hand firmly. “Nice meeting you too,” he said. There was more he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the right words.
“Okay, so we’re off,” said Eggum.
Lance touched his finger to the visor of his Minnesota Vikings cap. Then the two men headed over the rocks toward the woods.
NYLAND WAS HOLDING A GLASS OF AQUAVIT IN HIS HAND. In front of him the Cross River flowed into the lake. The river water was visible a good ways out, making a faintly brown-colored fan shape. So this was where a miracle had supposedly occurred. But he knew better. He was one of the people who knew no sandbank had existed here in 1846. How strange that story would sound back home in Norway! He tried to picture himself recounting the tale at the dinner table one evening when he and Vibeke had guests. But in that setting it would be a story totally lacking in context. Here, on the other hand, it had a home. A place where it belonged.
It would soon lose all meaning, he thought. The minute he got home, all of this would seem as far away as a dream. Lance Hansen too. He tried to imagine Lance among their circle of friends. Tried to imagine his voice taking part in one of the numerous discussions around various dinner tables. But neither Lance Hansen nor the story
about Baraga’s Cross had any place in Eirik Nyland’s world. They would lose all luster and weight. Both belonged here, in Cook County.
He held up the plastic glass toward the evening sun and admired the glow in the small shot of aquavit. Then he drank it down in one gulp. For everything created by God is good, he thought as he felt warmth spread through his body. Georg Lofthus’s Bible. In spite of everything else, he was the one this case was about. A twenty-year-old Norwegian man who had been killed in Minnesota. That was how it all began. Nyland thought about how many things Georg must have had to keep secret over the course of his short life. All the lies. Mostly about himself, probably. And he thought about the Bible. He was going to make sure that it got sent back to the family. “For everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected, if it is received with thanksgiving.” A sort of family motto—wasn’t that what Hauglie had said? If so, it was simply a meaningless convention. No matter what, “Grandma and Grandpa” couldn’t possibly have meant that their grandson should receive with thanksgiving the love that he and Bjørn Hauglie had felt for each other.
That was the word Hauglie had said when Lance Hansen found him sitting here, leaning against the cross. “Kjærlighet,” he’d said in Norwegian. “Love.” Nyland thought it was appropriate to end his visit to Baraga’s Cross by thinking about the love between those two young men. Let’s hope they also found happiness together, he thought. That it was more than just secrecy and shame. And it must have been. Wouldn’t they have given it up long ago otherwise? He remembered Hauglie’s response to the question of why God would punish Georg: “So you think I’ve escaped punishment?” Instead of giving up the relationship, they had come to Minnesota, spending time here as lovers. And yet Lofthus was about to get married. Nyland could only imagine what they must have endured because of the deep love they felt for each other. And if their love was so deep, then it must have included moments of great happiness.
That thought gave Eirik Nyland some consolation.
25
LANCE ALTERNATED between relief and uneasiness in the days following Nyland’s departure for Norway. On the one hand, a man had been arrested and his fingerprints were found on the baseball bat that presumably had bashed in the head of the young Norwegian. On the other hand, Andy Hansen’s initials had been found on that bat. Lance remembered quite clearly that Andy’s initials had been carved into the bat he’d had ever since they were kids. The same bat Lance had picked up from the ground of the schoolyard after the ambulance had driven off with Clayton Miller. Clayton, the boy everyone thought was a homosexual, just like Georg Lofthus. But how could his brother have managed to get the baseball bat to Grand Portage, and with Lenny Diver’s fingerprints on it? It didn’t seem very plausible. And Andy couldn’t be the only one in the world with the initials A. H. Besides, at the crime scene they’d found biological evidence that could only have come from an Indian. And this Lenny Diver had also lied about his alibi the first time the police had interviewed him. Andy couldn’t possibly be the one who killed the Norwegian. Lance had no doubt whatsoever that his brother had been up to something that wouldn’t bear the light of day. Otherwise he wouldn’t have lied so blatantly when everyone was listening, the way he’d done at the ranger station. But he didn’t murder that Norwegian canoeist. And the way the case had turned out, that was the only thing Lance cared about.
ON FRIDAY EVENING he drove to Grand Portage to pick up his son. He was afraid Mary might say something about the fact that he’d gone to see her father. She probably hadn’t appreciated the way he’d shown up, unannounced and treading within the boundaries of her daily life. But nothing out of the ordinary happened. Mary kissed Jimmy when she said good-bye, gave her ex-husband a reserved smile, and then went back inside the house.
At eight o’clock father and son were having a late dinner. From their places at the table, they had a view of the lake and the weekend traffic on Highway 61. Just below the house was Isak Hansen’s hardware store. That’s where our story starts, thought Lance. But he immediately corrected himself. Because there was a whole series of different stories that had led up to them sitting here and eating pizza on this evening. There were stories that started in a land where no one had ever seen a white man before. The land of the Ojibwe. And stories that started in Norway long ago. Lance liked to think about all of this. The complex interweaving of stories surrounding them gave him an even stronger sense of connection with his son.
He looked at the boy, who was chewing on a mouthful of pizza. His cheeks were bulging. Hovering in the air between the table and his mouth was the glass of Sprite he was holding in his hand, ready to take a sip as soon as he swallowed enough pizza to make room for some soda. Lance had to laugh. Jimmy looked at him with big eyes. Then he noticed what he was doing, his cheeks bulging, the glass hovering, as if waiting impatiently for its turn. Lance saw the boy’s cheeks get even bigger, as if they might burst. Then Jimmy couldn’t stop himself. Out of his mouth sprayed chunks of pizza crust, pepperoni, peppers, and dissolved cheese. Some of the food landed on Lance’s plate. That made Jimmy laugh even harder.
Lance looked down at his plate. “I think I’ve had plenty,” he said. “How about you?”
“I’ll have some more.” Jimmy reached out his hand for the last piece of pizza. He was still laughing.
Lance shook his head, amazed at the boy’s appetite.
While Jimmy finished eating, Lance began clearing the table. Out in the kitchen, he rinsed his plate in the sink, thinking for a moment about how things had been just a few years earlier, when all three of them had lived here. He wondered how much Jimmy recalled from those days. He was only four when his parents had separated and he and Mary had moved to Grand Portage. Did he even remember that they’d all lived here together? Lance would have liked to know, but he wouldn’t ask. Things were fine the way they were.
When he turned around, he saw Jimmy standing in the doorway, looking at him. He was holding an empty plate in his hands. Lance had the feeling that he’d been standing there several minutes.
“Can I watch TV now?” he asked.
Lance took his plate and put it in the sink. “I don’t think there’s anything on for you to watch. It’s almost eight thirty.”
“Sure there is,” said Jimmy. “Just for a little while. Please.”
“Okay, let’s see if we can find something suitable,” said Lance.
They went back in the living room and sat down on the sofa. Lance zapped through the channels without finding anything for children. The closest he could get was the broadcast of a car race, and Jimmy seemed perfectly happy with that.
They sat there for a while without talking. Jimmy laughed loudly when a car slid off the racetrack. Finally Lance decided they’d seen enough. It was almost nine o’clock. The boy would have to go to bed soon.
But then the phone rang. He carried the phone into his office before taking the call. It was Sheriff Eggum. He said he’d just talked to Bob Lecuyer on the phone. They’d found biological material from Georg Lofthus on the baseball bat. There was no longer any doubt that the bat was the murder weapon. Plus, it had turned out to be impossible to find the woman whom Diver claimed to have been with on the night of the murder. And of course he couldn’t remember her name. Or what she looked like. He said he’d been too drunk to remember anything. And none of the employees at the motel could recall having seen him there. “The case is all sewed up,” said Eggum. “Lenny Diver is guilty and he’s going to pay for what he did.”
When Lance was done with the phone call, Jimmy came into the office. He looked bored. “Who was that?” he asked.
“The sheriff.”
“Why was the sheriff calling you?”
“Just something to do with work.”
“Was it about the murder?”
“Yeah.”
Jimmy came over to Lance and leaned against the desk. “Do you think they’re going to hang him?” he as
ked.
“Hang him?”
“Uh-huh . . . the murderer.”
“No. He’s going to be in prison for a very long time.”
“How long?”
“Probably for the rest of his life.”
“Were you scared he might kill me?”
“Sure I was,” said Lance, pulling the boy onto his lap. “Of course I was scared of that.”
Jimmy pulled out of his father’s arms. “Who’s that?” he said, pointing at the photograph of Joe Caribou that was still lying on the desk.
“That’s a picture that belonged to your great-grandfather,” said Lance. “Your grandfather’s father.”
“Is that him?”
“No, it’s not. That’s a man named Joe Caribou. He died a long time ago.”
“Why did he die?”
“I don’t know. I guess he just got old. When people get old, they die.”
“Grandpa too,” said Jimmy in a knowing voice that clearly indicated this was something his mother had discussed with him.
“Yes, Grandpa too,” said Lance.
“But who’s that?” Now Jimmy was pointing at the picture of the four young men who had posed in a photographer’s studio.
“Oh, that’s just . . . some other people.”
“But who are they?”
Lance held up the picture so his son could see it better as he pointed to each man. “His name is Helge Tofte,” he said. “And sitting here is his brother, Andrew Tofte. That’s Thormod Olson. And the one on the right is named Sam Bortvedt.”
“Are they all dead too?” asked Jimmy.
“Yes, they are.”
Jimmy looked up at the photograph hanging on the wall over the desk, the picture in which the folks from Tofte had gathered on the desk of the steamship America in Duluth in October 1902.
“Those people too?” he asked.
“All of them.”
“Do you only have pictures of dead people?”
Lance laughed. “Maybe in here, but otherwise . . . I do have tons of pictures of you, for instance.”
The Land of Dreams (Minnesota Trilogy) Page 28