The Land of Dreams (Minnesota Trilogy)

by Vidar Sundstøl

  Soon he glimpsed the outline of large buildings and installations through the darkness on the right side of the road. He was about to ask what they were when lightning lit up the entire area. Before the light faded, more lightning struck, and then twice more—a series of four lightning bolts so close together that there was hardly any intervening darkness. During these few seconds he saw an area containing big, hangarlike buildings, cranes, conveyor belts, enormous steel structures reaching over the lake through the darkness, and an entire landscape of black pyramid shapes, which he took to be piles of coal, gleaming like wet asphalt in the rain and glare from the lightning. If was as if someone had pulled aside a curtain that had concealed another world, and then all of a sudden the curtain again fell into place. Only the afterglow from the lightning remained on his retinas.

  “Silver Bay,” said Lance. “Did you see the big black piles? That’s taconite. Millions of pellets the size of marbles. They contain a strongly magnetic type of iron. Low-grade ore is transported by rail from the mines that are many miles inland. Silver Bay is where the taconite is processed into pellets and shipped. Lightning always strikes those taconite mounds.”

  The rain was still coming down hard. Once in a while they were surprised by the sight of a car emerging from the darkness right in front of them. Lightning continued to flash over the desolate landscape. Since the sound of thunder had no mountainsides to bounce off, it crashed like it would on the open sea. Yet Nyland noticed something stirring inside him, as if a tightly wound spring had been released. He sank back in his seat, surrendering to the darkness and rain and thunder and jet lag, and to this road with the lake on one side and the forest on the other. He was tired. Maybe he’d be able to sleep tonight after all. It would be good if he could save the aquavit for another occasion. And preferably share it with some Americans. He thought, as he had so many times during the past twenty-four hours, that strangely enough he knew absolutely nothing about this region, even though he’d been to the States a dozen times and believed that he had a fairly good understanding of the country. But he drew a complete blank when it came to this state where, he’d been told, the people loved aquavit and lutefisk.

  He saw a sign that said “Finland,” and a moment later they passed through the intersection that was clearly the turnoff to that particular area.

  “That’s Finland, the small town where the two Norwegians were staying,” Lance told him. “What I mean is, I think they were staying somewhere else during the days leading up to the murder.”

  “Are you involved in the investigation?” asked Nyland.

  “No, but my cousin runs a canoe-rental company. And one of his employees told me that he’d talked to the two Norwegians when they came in to rent a canoe. He got the impression that they’d been staying for a while in Finland. But as I said, I have nothing to do with the investigation, so don’t give too much weight to what I say.”

  “Did you tell the investigators about this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The fact that the Norwegians had rented a canoe from your cousin.”

  “No, I didn’t find out about that until after they interviewed me.”

  “When was the interview?”

  “This morning. I talked to my cousin afterward.”

  “I’ll make a note of that when we get to the hotel. So you won’t have to give it another thought.”

  “Do you think it might be important?”

  “I doubt it. But we’re dealing with a murder case, and you never want to give the impression of holding anything back.”

  This brief exchange was enough to arouse Eirik Nyland’s curiosity. Here he sat with the man who had discovered the body. He had him all to himself and didn’t have to share whatever he might find out with the FBI, if he didn’t want to. It was always impossible to say how this type of collaboration might develop. So it might be useful to obtain some information that the American authorities weren’t yet aware of.

  “Do you think Bjørn Hauglie killed Georg Lofthus?” he asked. “What was your initial impression? I mean, when you found Hauglie.”

  “I thought he was dead. That was my first impression.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because of all the blood. He was completely smeared with blood. And he was also just sitting there, without moving a muscle.”

  “When did you realize that he wasn’t dead after all?”

  “When he started talking.”

  “What did he say?”

  “At first it sounded like gibberish, but then I realized that he was speaking Norwegian. I’ve heard people speak Norwegian countless times. We often have Norwegians visiting the area. They come here to see their relatives. And I know a few words of the language too. Suddenly I recognized the word kjærlighet. And then he repeated the same word in English. He looked me in the eye and said ‘love.’ In fact, he repeated it several times.”

  “Did you tell the FBI about this?”

  “Of course. I told Bob Lecuyer everything I knew.”

  “Good. But do you think Hauglie killed Georg Lofthus? What if you had to bet a large sum of money on it? Did he do it, or didn’t he?”

  “I’d probably bet that he didn’t do it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He was clearly in a state of shock. But it seemed to me the shock had been caused by an outside force, so to speak. As if he’d seen something gruesome—not that he’d done something terrible. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I agree that there’s a definite difference. But if Hauglie didn’t do it, who did?”

  Lance paused to consider the question. “Someone who can’t stand the sight of naked men?” he ventured.

  “Why do you think they were both naked?” asked Nyland. “Hmm . . . well, do you think they might have been . . . what should I say? Lovers?”

  Nyland noticed that Lance seemed embarrassed by the subject. “Georg Lofthus was going to be married in September, so I doubt he was gay,” he replied.

  “Hmm . . . ,” said Lance, and then repeated it. “Hmm.”

  “What is it?” asked Nyland.

  “I don’t know, but I was just thinking that . . . Hauglie seemed awfully young to me. Do you know how old he is?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “What about Lofthus?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Isn’t it a little unusual to get married when you’re only twenty?

  I mean, in this day and age.”

  “I suppose so,” said Nyland. “But I don’t see what that has to do with him getting killed.”

  “No, but it might say something about who he was. What sort of person gets married at the young age of twenty?”

  “Someone who’s naive,” replied Nyland.

  “Sure, but aren’t all twenty-year-olds naive?”

  “What about an extremely naive person?”

  Lance Hansen laughed. “It’s possible,” he said. “Maybe we’re talking about the murder of an extremely naive person.”

  “Did you know that they were Christians?” asked Nyland.

  “No. But is that significant?”

  “It might have a certain impact on how early a person gets married. They belonged to a Christian youth community that requires everyone to take a vow not to have sex before marriage.”

  “Is that right?”

  Lance took out one of the little heart-shaped chocolates he’d bought at the gas station in Duluth. He handed it to Nyland and then took another one out of the paper bag for himself.

  “What should I do with the wrapper?” asked Nyland.

  “Just toss it on the floor, but first read what it says on the inside.”

  Lance switched on the overhead light, held up the chocolate wrapper, and studied it intently before dropping it on the floor.

  Nyland smoothed out his own wrapper. “ ‘Savor every second of it,’ ” he read alo
ud. “Of what?” he immediately asked.

  “Of your stay on the North Shore?” suggested Lance.

  “Savor every second of yet another murder investigation,” Nyland said sarcastically.

  For a while neither of them spoke. The rain was tapering off, and the lightning flashes were no longer as frequent. There was also more time between the lightning and the following roll of thunder. Nyland thought about the strange boomerang-shaped cloud he’d seen when he was at the gas station in Duluth. That must be what they had just passed under.

  Soon they came to a turnoff on the right-hand side of the road. Lance slowed down and pointed. “That’s where it happened. Down there,” he said.

  Nyland saw the sign that said, “Baraga’s Cross.”

  “It’s probably too dark right now, or we could drive down and take a look,” said Lance.

  “Definitely too dark. Besides, I’m sure I’ll be seeing the crime scene tomorrow.”

  Lance stepped on the gas again, and they quickly left behind the turnoff to Baraga’s Cross.

  “Well, here’s the Tofte ranger station,” he said a short time later.

  Nyland saw something that looked like a military encampment in the dark to the left of the road. “So this is where you work?” he said.

  “Partly,” Lance told him. “Mostly I work out of my car. And here comes the impressive center of Tofte,” he added.

  Lights were on in the gas station and a few other buildings at the end of the long clearing.

  “Named after Tofte on Halsnøy.”

  They drove past the gas station and the church. Then Lance slowed to a crawl and turned onto a road that led down to a big, modern-looking building.

  A well-lit sign proclaimed “Bluefin Bay.”

  Lance parked the Jeep. They got out and stretched their legs. Eirik Nyland was feeling stiff and creaky after all the traveling he’d done. The rain had stopped, the air smelled fresh and good. He could hear the lapping of the waves from the lake right below the parking area. Lance opened the back, took out Nyland’s suitcase, and set it down on the rain-soaked asphalt.

  “Well, thanks for picking me up,” said Nyland. “It was a nice drive. And dramatic,” he added.

  “No problem,” said Lance. “And if there’s anything . . . if there’s anything you want to know . . . just give me a call.”

  He took his wallet from his back pocket and handed Nyland his card. The two men shook hands.

  “By the way,” said Lance, “could I ask you a small favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “Somebody else was actually supposed to pick you up at the airport tonight. Someone from the local police force. He’s on loan to the FBI, as a sort of gofer. But something came up so he couldn’t drive to Duluth, some family matter. He’s a little scared of his wife, you see. And he doesn’t really want to tell that to the FBI.”

  Eirik Nyland laughed. “Okay, if they ask me, it was this other guy who met me at the airport and drove me here. Right?”

  “We’d really appreciate it. Both of us,” said Lance. “I mean, both Redmeyer and I.”

  “Redmeyer,” said Nyland, memorizing the name. “And what’s his first name?”

  “Sparky,” said Lance.

  “All right. He was the one who picked me up at the airport.”

  8

  EIRIK NYLAND was sitting in one of the two easy chairs in Bjørn Hauglie’s hospital room. In the other sat the man he’d be working with here, FBI agent Bob Lecuyer. He looked to be in his thirties. A man not given to grand gestures, and Nyland respected that.

  Bjørn Hauglie was sitting on the bed. He was suntanned and muscular, with sun-bleached blond hair. A tape recorder was on a small table between the two police officers and the bed. It had not yet been turned on.

  “Do you think they’ll keep you here long?” asked Nyland in Norwegian.

  “In a hospital? Why would they do that?” replied Hauglie. “Well, you’ve suffered a huge shock, of course. So I thought it might be good for you to . . . get some rest for a while.”

  “No. I want to go back home as soon as possible. Can you help with that?”

  “The best thing you can do to get back to Norway is to answer our questions and provide as many details as possible.”

  Hauglie nodded.

  “So let’s get started. It would be better if we could conduct the interview in English. Most of it, at least. For the sake of my colleague from the FBI.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “All right,” said Nyland, turning to Lecuyer. “We’re going to do it in English, and then Bjørn and I will have a talk in Norwegian, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Fine.” Lecuyer leaned forward and switched on the tape recorder. Then he went through the litany of introductory facts. Time, place, who was present. His pronunciation of Bjørn Hauglie’s name was so American-sounding that Nyland had to stifle a laugh.

  “First of all, could you tell us what you and Georg Lofthus were doing in Cook County, Minnesota? It’s a long way from home for you,” said Lecuyer.

  “We were . . . canoeing.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you choose Cook County?”

  “It’s one of the best canoeing areas in the world. Famous among canoeists.”

  “Were you and Georg part of an international canoeing community?”

  “I suppose you might say that.”

  “Did you often travel abroad?”

  “No. We once went to Sweden. Otherwise this was our first trip abroad. But we meet a lot of foreign canoeists who come to the west coast of Norway. So we practically grew up with that type of community all around us.”

  “But you didn’t seek out the canoeing community here in Minnesota?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t meet anyone here that you’d met before?”

  “No one.”

  “Tell me, did the two of you come straight here, or did you go to other places in the United States first?”

  “We came straight here. We flew to Minneapolis. Then to Duluth. We rented a car and drove to . . . er . . . Finland.”

  With a glance Bob Lecuyer invited Eirik Nyland to continue the interview.

  “How long were you in Finland?” asked Nyland.

  “That depends whether . . . I mean, we spent most of our time canoeing in the wilderness, you know. Over the course of two weeks we took three different canoe trips. And we slept in a tent at night, of course. But we used Finland as a sort of base camp for those two weeks.”

  “Where did you stay when you were in Finland?” Nyland continued.

  “At the Blue Moose Motel.”

  “But when Georg was killed, you were staying at a motel on Highway 61, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. The Whispering Pines.”

  “Why did you decide to stay there?”

  “We didn’t think we could leave Minnesota without canoeing on Lake Superior, and—”

  “Tell me one thing,” Lecuyer said, interrupting. “While you were staying in Finland . . . while you were taking those three different canoe trips that you mentioned . . . meaning, before you moved to the Whispering Pines . . . what sort of people did you have contact with? You must have met plenty of people in two weeks’ time. Did anyone seem suspicious? Did you have a run-in with anyone?”

  “We spent most of our time in the canoe. Just Georg and me. And you don’t meet a lot of people like that. Occasionally we’d see other canoeists, of course, but there was nothing . . . nobody acted suspicious. Just pleasant people.”

  “Did you go into any bars or restaurants?”

  “Not very often, but once in a while.”

  “Did you meet anyone there? Anyone you remember in particular?”

  “We talked with a few people . . . especially about Norway. Folks up here seem very inte
rested in everything Norwegian.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that too,” said Nyland.

  “But you didn’t run into anybody suspicious the whole time you’ve been here in the States?” asked Lecuyer.

  Bjørn Hauglie shook his head.

  “All right. Let’s move on to when Georg was killed. Would you say that everything was going the way the two of you had planned?” said Nyland.

  “Definitely. Things were actually going better than we’d ever dared hope. The worst calamity we had was wet socks and a couple of small cuts on our fingers.”

  “What were your plans after you’d been canoeing on Lake Superior?” asked Lecuyer.

  “We were . . . we were going . . . home.” Hauglie’s voice suddenly faded. As if all energy had deserted him. He seemed to be fighting back tears.

  The two police officers studied him in silence. Finally Lecuyer said, “Do you want to take a break? We don’t have to ask all the questions in one session.”

  Hauglie shook his head. “No, that’s okay. Let’s just get it over with.”

  Lecuyer glanced at his Norwegian colleague.

  “All right,” said Nyland. “So we’ve gotten to the time when you moved to the Whispering Pines Motel so you could go canoeing on Lake Superior before you went home. But first, there’s something I’ve been wondering about. What sort of relationship did you and Georg Lofthus have?”

  “We were best friends.”

  “Were you friends for a long time?”

  “Ever since grade school.”

  “And you grew up in the same place, am I right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “A small town. I’ve done a bit of homework in advance, you see. Talked to a few people in Norway.” He noticed that Hauglie shifted position. “And from what I understand, you both moved to Bergen two years ago. Is that right?”

  “Yes. To study at the university.”

  “And you lived together?”

  “Yes, we shared a small apartment. It’s really expensive to live in Bergen.”

  “Sure. And is it true that Georg Lofthus was going to get married in September?”

  Hauglie buried his face in his hands. Nyland heard what sounded like sobs.