The Ravens (Minnesota Trilogy)

by Vidar Sundstøl

  “I’m Sad Water. Nobody is building any bridges for me.”

  She started sobbing quietly. Lance felt dizzy, not just from hunger but also because he was probably dehydrated. Except for that one sip of beer that was still making his stomach rumble, he hadn’t taken in any fluids for several hours. And he had no idea where he was going. This road led to the Mesabi Iron Range, with the towns of Eveleth, Virginia, Hibbing, and Babbitt. Why would he and Chrissy go there? Yet at this point, the way back was longer than the way forward, and the lake was farther away than the iron mines. In his sluggish condition, Lance was incapable of making a decision. So he just continued driving through the desolate, snow-covered landscape, with his niece weeping in the passenger seat.

  IN THE REMOTE TOWN of Eveleth they stopped at a gas station because Chrissy needed to use the restroom. She was gone longer than normal, and when she came back, Lance had confirmation of what he’d suspected for some time, although he’d never actually put it into words. It wasn’t that she staggered or slurred her words. Or talked too much. No, it was more like a fire had been lit inside the body of this girl, which only a short time ago had appeared so cold and worn out. She now seemed enveloped in a sense of well-being, and Lance himself almost felt drawn to the same place, toward the warmth and light from the chemical fire burning inside her. Yet he knew how false that warmth was. As a police officer, Lance knew a great deal about drugs and their effects. Most of it he’d learned in various courses, but he’d also arrested kids who were under the influence, both at campsites in the woods and in Duluth when he was on the police force there. He guessed that Chrissy had ingested cocaine in the gas station restroom. Maybe she’d merely licked her little finger, dipped it in the white powder, and then rubbed it on her gums.

  “Could you turn on the radio?” she asked.

  Lance complied, and the car was instantly filled with a loud crackling sound. He turned the FM dial back and forth, trying to pick up a station, but the noise didn’t stop. Chrissy pressed her hands over her ears and laughed.

  “That’s all I can get,” said Lance after he turned off the radio. “But you know what? We need to call Tammy and Andy and tell them that you’re with me and everything’s fine.”

  “Do I have to?” She sighed.

  “When’s the last time you were home?”

  “Yesterday, I think.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  She seemed to think hard about the question.

  “No,” she said at last.

  Lance sighed heavily.

  “It’s not that easy,” said Chrissy.

  “What isn’t?”

  “Figuring out where I am all the time.”

  “Most people seem to manage,” said Lance.

  Chrissy didn’t reply, as if she was scared she’d said too much. Lance took his cell phone out of his pocket.

  “What’s Tammy’s cell number?”

  “Why can’t you just call our landline?”

  “I don’t want to talk to your dad,” said Lance.

  In reality he was worried that Andy would pick up the phone on the second floor to listen in on the conversation.

  “Give it to me. I’ll do it.”

  Lance handed his cell to Chrissy. She tapped in the number and handed the phone back to him. Tammy’s cell rang and rang, but nobody answered. He was just about to give up when Tammy suddenly picked up, her voice low and urgent, as if she were trying to talk in secret.

  “Hi, Lance. Have you heard anything from Chrissy?”

  “She’s sitting right here next to me.”

  “Oh, thank God for that.”

  In the background he could clearly hear the sound of cars driving past. Maybe Tammy had gone outside to take the call when she saw that he was trying to reach her. If so, there was no doubt who wasn’t supposed to hear what she said.

  “Is she okay?” she asked, sounding worried.

  “Fine. We’re on our way to Two Harbors now.”

  “Where was she?”

  “You’ll have to ask her about that. Not me.”

  “Okay. But thank you for—”

  “Not a problem,” Lance said, interrupting her. “We’re family, after all.”

  “So when do you think you’ll get here?”

  “In about an hour.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “No, she’s sleeping.”

  He didn’t want her to talk to her daughter when Chrissy was high. Not to spare Tammy, but so that Chrissy wouldn’t end up in trouble the minute she got home. The fact that she took drugs was something that had to be dealt with, but it wouldn’t help to shout and create a scene.

  “Thanks,” said Chrissy, giving Lance a radiant smile when he ended the call.

  “Nothing to thank me for. I just thought I’d let you handle things yourself.”

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m more worried about you, Uncle Lance. Why don’t we stop and get you something to eat?”

  “First of all, there’s no place to eat around here. We’re driving through a wilderness. And secondly, I can’t swallow.”

  “Why not? What’s really wrong?”

  The memory of the gun shoved down his throat was still extremely vivid.

  “When was the last time you saw Andy?” he asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “So you don’t remember, for example, whether you saw him yesterday?”

  She didn’t answer. Lance almost thought he could hear the gears of her worn-out brain creaking. And then came the tears.

  “Are you crying?” he asked.

  Her only reply was a sniffling sound.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “Could you please stop the car so I can get out for a minute?” she murmured.

  “There’s a rest area up ahead a little ways. I’ll stop there.”

  For the next few minutes they drove in silence while Chrissy quietly wept. When they reached the rest area, Lance pulled in and parked. Chrissy got out and lit a cigarette. She took a few steps away from the car and stood there with her back to him. Lance wondered whether she wanted to be alone or if he should get out and talk to her. He decided to get out of the car.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked, feeling like an idiot.

  She turned around. Dusk had begun to set in, and her cigarette glowed in the dim light.

  “Where are we?” was her only response.

  “Somewhere between the St. Louis and the Whiteface Rivers.”

  “Shit,” mumbled Chrissy, looking around. “What a wasteland.”

  “Not a lot of people, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That too. Why did our ancestors have to settle in this particular place?”

  “I have no idea. But it wasn’t easy, I can tell you that,” replied Lance. “They worked in the mines. They were loggers. And fishermen. But what our forefathers never did was give up. And you shouldn’t either.”

  “But I’m no longer one of them,” said Chrissy.

  “Yes, you are. You’ll always be one of them, no matter what.”

  “No. I’m Sad Water. An evil medicine man has cast a spell over me.”

  34

  THE WAVES OF HUNGER reminded him of the Northern Lights. The feeling had some of that same trembling, electric movement about it, like when curtains of the phosphorescent green light rippled across the winter sky. But then the feeling was replaced by nausea, and he started to retch, without bringing anything up. He sat hunched in his chair, uttering long, drawn-out grunting sounds that hardly sounded human at all.

  When he stood up, the room spun halfway around on its own axis. He took a few short steps, trying to correct his orientation, and crashed right into the wall, but he stayed on his feet. Somewhere far away he thought he heard the sound of breaking glass. He was headed to the kitchen to drink some more water. Ever since he’d returned home after dropping his niece off in Two Harbors, he’d made sure to drink water at regular intervals. He still found it impos
sible to eat any solid food, but the most important thing at the moment was not to get dehydrated.

  In the kitchen he filled a glass with water and proceeded to take small, cautious sips. He’d tried to eat an overripe banana when he came home, but even that proved too much to swallow. It’ll be better tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow it has to be better.

  He just had to make it through the night. And try to get some sleep.

  When he went back to the living room, he saw that a photograph had fallen off the wall, breaking the glass. He knelt down to have a look. It was Andy’s high school picture. His face looked splintered behind the shattered glass. That young smile—so big and dazzling white and full of feigned self-confidence—was no longer whole. And one eye had vanished behind a big crack in the glass, while the other was still staring straight at the camera. Lance felt something warm run down his cheek. A drop of blood landed on the photo and immediately dispersed into tiny beads that spread across the front of his brother’s shirt. The blood kept on falling. He watched with fascination as each drop struck the photo until Andy’s face was practically covered in blood. All that he could see of the smile now was a glimpse of a couple of white teeth amid the red.

  Lance was instantly transported back to the woods near Baraga’s Cross on that June morning last summer, when he stood staring down at the body of the Norwegian canoeist Georg Lofthus. The man was lying on his stomach, with his face pressed against the ground, and yet Lance could see his teeth. That was what had shaken him the most. A row of pearly white teeth in that repulsive mass of blood and hair, as if his smile had been slammed through his head and out the back. Lance wondered what sort of force had been required to do something like that.

  He got to his feet and began looking for his cell phone as the blood continued to run down his face. Where had he left it? He tried to focus, but he just couldn’t do it anymore. The headache was back, and every pulse exploded against his skull on the inside. Finally he realized that his cell was in his pants pocket. He sat down in the easy chair and fumbled for a while with the keys before he managed to display the right name and number. How late was it over there? He didn’t have the energy to figure it out.

  Eirik Nyland answered the phone at once.

  “Ja?” he said brusquely.

  “It’s Lance Hansen.”

  “Ah. Listen here, I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  “There’s something I have to . . .”

  Lance was having trouble formulating the words and putting them in the proper order.

  “I’m in the middle of something right now,” said Nyland. “Couldn’t I—”

  “No!” shouted Lance. “No, no, no!”

  Eirik Nyland laughed uncertainly on the other side of the Atlantic.

  “Okay,” he said. “Wait just a minute.”

  There was a thud as Nyland apparently set down the phone. Then Lance heard him speaking Norwegian in the background, and another man answered.

  “Sorry about that, Lance,” said Nyland. “I’ve got a few minutes now. What was it you wanted to talk about?”

  “The murder,” said Lance. “Georg Lofthus, the way his head was . . . I mean, the degree of . . . His head was smashed almost flat! I was wondering how much force that took. Not just anybody could have done that, right?”

  “But Lenny Diver isn’t just anybody when it comes to physical strength,” said Nyland. “From what I remember, he’s a young man who’s apparently in good physical condition.”

  “Yeah. But that’s not what’s bothering me . . . I just . . . purely theoretically. Who could have done that, and who couldn’t have?”

  “Tell me, is everything okay with you?” asked Nyland.

  “No, it’s not. I haven’t eaten in days. Some sort of flu, I guess. Fever, and so on.”

  “Sounds awful. So, you’re asking me who could have committed a murder like that? Almost anybody, I’d say. The point is, that when you hit a man in the head once with a baseball bat, he’s most likely going to fall to the ground. The rest is . . . Then it’s just a matter of continuing to pound on him. It’s the weight and length of the bat, meaning the potential force of the murder weapon itself, that’s the key. More than the strength of the killer.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “The bat exerts a tremendous force when it’s swung,” Nyland went on. “So I’d say almost anyone could have done it. Even a woman could have easily caused the injuries Lofthus sustained. And she wouldn’t have to be especially strong. As I said, it’s a matter of striking that first blow. After that, the murderer would just have to swing the bat a sufficient number of times.”

  Lance retched.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” asked Nyland, concerned.

  “No. I’m sure I’ll feel better soon.”

  “But shouldn’t you . . . ?”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Go to bed now, at least. Get some sleep. I’ll give you a call in a few days.”

  “You will?” Lance was surprised.

  “Sure. Somebody should be looking out for you,” said Nyland. “But right now I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “A murder?” asked Lance.

  “It never ends.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Good night. Or whatever the time is over there,” said Nyland.

  “Good night,” whispered Lance, totally exhausted from the brief conversation.

  WHEN HE GOT UP to go to the kitchen to drink more water, his head started pounding so hard that he could barely stay on his feet. After a moment the headache eased a bit, and he made it to the kitchen, where he drank another glass of water, cautiously taking little sips. He retched a few times but managed to keep the water down. There was something obvious that he’d overlooked until now. But no, his brain refused to function. He looked with confusion at the cell phone he was holding in his left hand. When he was done drinking the water, he tapped on the keys until he found the contact list and began scrolling through it, not sure what he was looking for. Chrissy’s name and number popped up. Sooner or later he had to have a serious talk with her, but this wasn’t exactly the appropriate time. Yet her name remained on the display, as if silently challenging him to call. He considered phoning her until his eyes fell on a name right under his niece’s. Debbie! There must be a way into that hard Finnish American heart of hers. Some way to melt it. Melt it like butter. The thought of Debbie Ahonen and melted butter brought a groan to Lance’s lips.

  Back in the living room he sat down in the easy chair, holding his cell and ready to type in the magic words. But what should he write? Just a few words. Maybe a question? Do you remember . . . ? But what was there to remember that could possibly overcome all doubt in her mind? Lance closed his eyes and thought back more than twenty years and immediately pictured Debbie sitting on the shore of Lake Superior, which was enveloped in a fine summer mist. Her blond hair fluttered faintly in the wind. She had tucked up her legs and wrapped her arms around her knees. Now she turned her head to the left, pressing it against the shoulder of the young man sitting beside her. They would end up sitting there for a long time, until the moon rose over the lake. It was one of the first times they were together as lovers, and something special had happened between them on that evening on the rocky expanse near Baraga’s Cross. An utter dearth of words that had nothing to do with a lack of anything to say, but for once words were superfluous. They had done nothing but touch each other and look at each other for long, slow moments, just Debbie and Lance, together in something that might turn out to be big.

  It could still be something big, he thought, opening his eyes. He blinked several times to clear his vision before starting to type with a trembling thumb: Do you remember that evening at Baraga’s Cross? This was his last chance. He hurried to press “send” and watched the text message disappear from the display. In a few seconds Debbie’s cell would sound. Maybe she was watching TV with Richie Akkola. Lance switched off his cell. He couldn’t deal
with this now, no matter what her response might be. Somewhere deep inside he knew that he might not get any reply at all.

  35

  FULLY DRESSED, he sat up in bed and listened. There was a sound in the room that he couldn’t place. Or was it coming from outside? A sound that made him think of rain. The floor lamp in the corner cast a sickly green glow over the bedcovers and floorboards. He went over to the window and opened the curtains. A faint gurgling of water was barely audible. That must be what had made him think of rain. Silently he glided across the vast deep. With each stroke of the paddle the darkness grew beneath him, the lake opened, and the only thing between him and the depths was the thin birchbark canoe. Far below, on the bottom of the lake, lay the man-sized sturgeons in their semiconscious, semi-alive state, primeval fish that had been here long before any humans and must not be disturbed. They lay in the mud, with their eyes turned upward as they listened. They were all aware that something was happening up above. A birchbark canoe was gliding across the lake. It was night. Lance was paddling into the dark with a feeling of being released from something. Maybe just from the mainland. He could no longer see its contours when he turned around to look. No lights were visible, only the moon casting a wide stripe on the dark surface of the water. He tried to paddle on top of the length of moonlight, but it kept breaking up a short distance ahead of the canoe. Through the dark below him raced great herds of buffalo. The thundering sound of their hooves penetrated the waters under which they were imprisoned. Down there is the buffalo’s realm of the dead, he thought. The second he had that thought, he realized that it was occurring to him in a dream. I’m dreaming, said a voice right behind him. He turned around, but there was no one else in the canoe. Below him the thundering of the buffalo herd continued. On the dark prairie down there, no one could reach them. There they were safe, though at the same time they were held captive beneath the unfathomably heavy covering of water.

  Far in the distance someone is singing. He opens his eyes, but it’s dark, and he sees only treetops silhouetted against the sky high above, and between them a star gleaming. He sits up and breathes in the cool night air. There is a faint smell of smoke; somewhere a campfire is burning. And there’s the song again, so far away that it’s impossible to distinguish any words or melody, but they are singing. People are sitting around a fire and singing. He closes his eyes and tries to figure out whether it would be dangerous to seek them out, but his mind isn’t functioning as it normally does. He is having dream-thoughts, and that’s why, in the next instant, he sees an entire armada of canoes moving forward at great speed, rhythmically paddled by men who are singing, big canoes made of hides, each holding ten to twelve men dressed in colorful attire. Some have scarves wrapped around their heads; they are wearing red shirts, blue shirts, hats with long feathers. Sitting in the middle of the paddlers in one canoe is a man wearing an old-fashioned black suit and a small bowler-type hat. He’s the only man who isn’t paddling. His knees are pressed close together, and on his lap is a leather case that seems to contain important documents from a bank in Europe. The men are paddling with a determination that leaves no doubt that they know where they’re headed and that they have important work to do there. High overhead he catches a glimpse of daylight, but it’s dark down in the depths where they’re paddling. The oars stir up swirls of air bubbles that are flung behind, past the stern of the canoes, and then they disappear into the dark. The flashes of daylight remind him that a world exists above the surface, outside the dream. He reaches out toward it and is on his way up through the light, but then he sees that the glittering ribbon of air bubbles from the oars is already far away, sloping steeply downward into the deep. When he opens his eyes again, it’s still dark, and in the distance someone is singing. A heavy rushing sound passes through the branches above him. Down here he feels the wind gently caressing his face; it smells faintly of smoke from a campfire. As he walks through the forest, heading toward the song, which keeps getting clearer, he realizes that he is moving in a dream. Yet he can’t remember where in the waking world he is having this dream, and he can’t recall who he is. Until he finds out, he won’t be able to wake up. He is caught in the dream, and he knows it. Because he is nobody, he feels utterly empty inside as he walks toward the fire. He follows a small stream. The moonlight shoots out in all directions when he treads in the water, raining streaks of light over his boots. The song has ceased, and everyone is looking at the stranger who is coming toward them, taking hesitant steps. Scattered over the ground are books and papers. A black typewriter sits on a rock, gleaming in the light from the flames. The man with the bowler hat stands up. Now he touches his index finger to his chin, feigning an inquiring pose. “You do not know who you are, hmm?” he says with a thick French accent. “Ah, it is a hard nut to crack. Who is this bold young man who has so unexpectedly wandered into the light of our campfire?” He speaks with a certain irony. “Oh yes, he is one of those people who wants to leave the old country. Am I right? You want to travel to the country that is even older. Yes?” And he points toward the darkness, though there is really nothing to see. “Go ahead,” he says. “Lac Supérieur!”