“Fine, thanks.”
“Is there anything I could do to help?”
“I don’t know whether I mentioned it when you picked me up at the airport, but I think I have relatives here in Minnesota,” said Nyland.
“No, you didn’t tell me that. Do you know where they live?”
“Well, not in this area. Minneapolis, I think.”
Nyland speaks really good English, thought Lance. That was something he had noticed when he picked up the detective in Duluth. He had a distinct British accent, of course, but that was probably how they were taught to speak the language in Europe.
“Well, that’s pretty common,” he said now.
“I suppose so.”
“There are as many Norwegian Americans as there are Norwegians.”
“Good God . . . But I was just thinking that since I’m here in Minnesota anyway . . . well, it’s tempting to have a talk with an expert on such matters. Maybe you could give me some tips on how to locate any possible relatives.”
“I don’t know about expert,” Lance said, laughing, “but I do know how to go about a search like that. Of course I do.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Could we meet one of these days? At a café, for instance?”
Lance doubted that Nyland had learned to speak English so fluently in Norway. He wondered if the detective had studied abroad. “Wait a minute!” he suddenly exclaimed.
“What?”
“This may sound strange, but . . . Do you happen to speak French?”
Nyland hesitated. “Well . . . I don’t really speak French anymore, at least not much. But I do understand a little. Why do you ask?”
Lance used his feet to scoot his desk chair over to the shelves holding the Soderberg archives. Carefully he took down Nanette’s diary.
“I’ve got a diary here that’s written in French, and I can’t understand a word of it. Do you think you could help me out with a little translation? Just for fun. A few sentences here and there. And in return I can tell you how to go about finding your relatives in Minnesota.”
“A diary, you say?”
“Yes, it belonged to my great-grandmother. She was French Canadian.”
“But I thought all of your ancestors were Norwegian,” said Nyland.
“She’s the one exception. The rest are all Norwegian. But what do you think? Maybe we could have a beer, over here at my place. If that suits you, I mean. You probably have a lot to do.”
“No, that actually sounds very nice,” said Nyland. “Let’s see now. Today is Tuesday, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Shall we say Thursday evening? Day after tomorrow?”
“That sounds great,” said Lance. He had to restrain himself from sounding too eager.
“So where exactly do you live?”
“It’s the easiest place to find in the world. A couple of miles north of Tofte is Isak Hansen’s hardware store. A red wooden building right on the road.”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Okay, well, you take the road next to the store. The gravel road. Just follow it to the end, and that’s where you’ll find me.”
After hanging up the phone Lance remained where he was, holding the old, leather-bound book in his hands. Cautiously he opened it and looked at the convoluted handwriting covering the pages. He couldn’t read a single word. But one thing he did understand: the year on the first page was 1890, and somewhere toward the end of the book was the year 1894. He’d seen those two dates before, without giving them much thought. But while he was talking to Nyland, something had begun to dawn on him. Apparently a glimmer of an idea had already appeared while he was looking at the photographs of Thormod Olson and Joe Caribou. At last it seemed perfectly clear to him that somewhere in his great-grand-mother’s diary entries there must be a description of fifteen-year-old Thormod’s dramatic arrival.
15
IT WAS THE MORNING OF WEDNESDAY, JULY 2, exactly one week after he discovered the murder. Lance was at the ranger station in Tofte. He was standing in the lobby, waiting for District Ranger John Zimmerman to arrive with some documents that the two of them needed to look at before Lance could get in his car and head out. But Zimmerman was busy with something in one of the nearby buildings. From what Lance understood, it had something to do with the firefighting crew.
He was leaning against the information counter, drinking coffee from the usual mug that he was always given whenever he came in. The receptionist, Mary Berglund, was standing behind the counter, talking on the phone. Lance let his gaze wander around the room without really taking anything in. He’d seen it all so many times before.
“All right. Would you like more coffee?” asked Mary when she was done with her phone call.
“No thanks,” said Lance. “I’ve had too much already.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Lance said, “So, what do you think about Zimmerman?” The remark was mostly meant just to pass the time. He’d been waiting a long time for the ranger, and he was feeling bored.
“Oh, Zimmerman,” said Mary with both respect and admiration in her voice. “Now that’s a worthy district ranger, let me tell you. I think we’re extremely lucky. Especially the ladies,” she added after a pause for effect.
Lance gave an obligatory smile. “If you say so.”
“You don’t agree?” said Mary.
“About what?”
“You don’t think he’s a handsome man?”
“Why would you think I’d know anything about that?” replied Lance.
“Hmm. But what a way to start off a new job,” she remarked.
“You can say that again.”
“It’s been exactly one week today,” she went on.
Lance nodded.
“I knew right from the start that it had something to do with sex,” said Mary.
He gave her an uncomprehending look.
“The unnatural kind, that is,” she continued.
“Oh, you mean . . . But we don’t know anything about that,” said Lance. “The fact that both of them were naked could have lots of different explanations.”
“Like what?” asked Mary, wagging her head coquettishly.
“Well, for example . . . ” But he couldn’t think of anything. “Lots of different things.”
“So you don’t know about it?” said Mary.
“About what?”
“That they made an unusual discovery.”
Lance had to laugh.
“It’s nothing to laugh at,” she told him. “And don’t think I’m just spreading gossip.”
“No, of course not,” he said.
But Mary didn’t notice the sarcastic undertone, or maybe she just didn’t care.
“I have it on the highest authority,” she said.
“Oh?” Lance was suddenly interested. “Who would that be?”
“I heard it from Zimmerman.”
“Zimmerman? But he has nothing to do with the investigation.”
“He heard it from Sparky Redmeyer. Whoops, I shouldn’t have told you that,” she added.
“Okay, but what is this discovery that they’ve made?”
Mary rolled her eyes, as if hinting that Lance ought to know, but she didn’t really want to say it out loud.
“I don’t get it,” he said, confused.
Again she rolled her eyes.
“You know . . . ,” she said.
“No, I don’t,” said Lance.
Then Mary leaned across the counter and put her face close to Lance’s. He smelled chewing gum or toothpaste.
“They made a biological discovery in the dead man,” she said.
“They’ve found some sort of biological evidence?”
Mary nodded solemnly.
“On the dead man?”
“No, in the dead man,” sh
e told him. “In his stomach,” she added. And again she rolled her eyes, as if that would make Lance realize what she was talking about.
At that moment John Zimmerman arrived. “Hi, Lance,” he said. “Sorry you had to wait. But Mary has been keeping you entertained, right?”
He winked at Mary, who immediately got busy with the ever-present coffee mugs.
“Mary tells me that they’ve made a discovery in the murder nvestigation,” said Lance. “Some sort of biological evidence. What’d they find?”
“You must be talking about the semen.”
“I am?” said Lance, startled.
“Yeah. They found semen in the victim’s stomach,” said Zimmerman. “I thought everybody knew about it by now,” he added.
“Especially after I told Mary.”
He seemed completely nonchalant about discussing these matters.
“Good God,” said Lance. “Does that mean they were . . . homosexual?”
“Well, it’d be hard to explain the discovery in any other way,” said Zimmerman. “He couldn’t have ingested it by accident, if you know what I mean.”
Lance didn’t know what to say. It was all so far beyond what he was used to discussing.
“What did I tell you?” murmured Mary Berglund. It wasn’t really clear what she meant by that.
“Huh,” he said, glancing around as if looking for something or someone. “The whole thing is dang strange.”
Zimmerman chuckled. “But I wanted to see you about those documents, Lance. Why don’t you come in my office, and we’ll have a look at them.”
Lance followed the ranger down the hall to his office. Zimmerman leafed through some papers on his desk as Lance stood and waited.
“Do you know where Seven Beaver Lake is?”
“Of course,” said Lance. “It’s just north of Finland.” He found the question ludicrous. As if he, Lance Hansen, wouldn’t know where Seven Beaver Lake was.
After a moment Zimmerman found what he was looking for. “Here,” he said, handing Lance a document.
The heading on the page said: “Complaint regarding use of campgrounds at Seven Beaver Lake.” He quickly read through the text. It was a typical letter of complaint sent to the U.S. Forest Service. A man from St. Paul claimed that someone had put up “a permanent-looking structure” approximately a hundred yards east of the campgrounds. The site was covered with litter. “Empty liquor bottles, beer cans, toilet paper, and condoms,” he read.
“Do you know which campground he’s talking about?” asked Zimmerman.
“No. There are several at Seven Beaver Lake.”
“It’s campground number one-three-four.”
“That’s the one at the south end, right? Near the creek?” Zimmerman consulted the large framed map that hung on the wall behind his desk.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he said.
“Okay,” said Lance. “Then I guess I’ll drive out and pay a visit to the Finns.”
In the lobby he found Becky Tofte, who was the purchasing agent for the station, talking to Mary Berglund. Becky was married to Fred Tofte, whose great-grandparents had come over from Halsnøy in 1902 and were included in the group photograph that hung on the wall in Lance’s home office. Becky was born and raised in Lutsen. Lance and Becky had been friends since childhood because his family had spent so many weekends and summer vacations in Lutsen.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Back to the normal routines,” said Lance. “Which is just fine, if you ask me.”
Becky gave him her most dazzling smile. “Uh-huh. Routines are great, aren’t they?”
“Actually, they are.”
“That’s the way I like things, at any rate,” Becky went on. “Knowing exactly what I need to be doing. Not just today, but tomorrow and next week, and even next year, for that matter.”
Lance nodded in agreement. That was the way he liked things too.
THE STRUCTURE turned out to be far less “permanent-looking” than the man from St. Paul had claimed in his letter. It was a rickety shack with a pitched roof covered with tarpaper and sod. Inside Lance found a bunch of candy wrappers, a couple of discarded potato chip bags, an empty Lucky Strike packet, five beer cans, an empty Jack Daniels bottle, and a copy of Hustler. Lance inspected the surrounding area as well but found only more empty beer cans. As usual, the complaint letter had exaggerated the situation. For instance, the man had stated that he’d seen condoms and toilet paper, but Lance didn’t find anything like that. He figured a couple of teenagers had been out here, drinking and looking at porn.
Normal porn magazines, with pictures of naked women, he thought, and he felt his annoyance with John Zimmerman surge. He actually liked the new ranger, and he’d had a good first impression of the man, but when he thought about how he’d talked about the discovery . . . semen in the stomach. Lance didn’t want to think about that. Zimmerman, on the other hand, had joked about it. He’d teased Lance for being so sensitive. And not just Lance, but seemingly everybody who lived here. People accepted Zimmerman for who he was, but in turn he needed to accept them, including their attitudes about what was right and wrong. He didn’t have to agree with them, but there was a big difference between disagreement and scorn, thought Lance. And he’d felt the scorn in the way Zimmerman had laughed at his reaction.
Lance opened the porn magazine and took a quick look at some of the photos. He found them more surprising than exciting. What amazing inventiveness, he thought. None of it looked like it had anything to do with reality. At least not the reality Lance Hansen knew. But the fact that teenage boys enjoyed looking at these kinds of magazines seemed to him perfectly normal. Just as the rest of this place did. It was a typical teenage hideout. He couldn’t even count the number of similar places he’d seen over the years. But it was still illegal, and he took his time pulling the little shack apart. He tossed the trash, including the big sheets of tarpaper, into the back of his pickup. He stuck the porn magazine under the floor mat on the passenger side so that nobody would see it. Then he decided to stop at the nearest café and have lunch.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER he drove into Finland, passing the twenty-foot-high statue of St. Urho, which had been carved from a single tree trunk and resembled an Indian totem pole. The saint of the Finns glowered from the dark-stained wood. The sculpture had been done with a chainsaw, which was a popular way of making works of art in the Arrowhead region.
St. Urho was described as “Finland’s patron saint,” and he had apparently been involved in driving out a pestilence of grasshoppers from the old country hundreds of years ago. At least that was what many locals believed, but in reality the whole St. Urho legend was just something that a bunch of Finnish American businessmen up in the Mesabi Iron Range area had dreamed up in the 1950s. They wanted to have something of their own to compete with the Irish festivities on St. Patrick’s Day. And ever since, St. Urho’s Day has been celebrated in many places in northern Minnesota, where a large segment of the population has Finnish roots—for instance, in the towns of Virginia, Hibbing, and Embarrass. But gradually the celebration caught on beyond the state’s borders, and today the holiday is commemorated by many Americans who overtly want to honor their Finnish heritage. In the real Finland, few people have even heard of St. Urho. But in Finland, Minnesota, he is a legendary figure, and no one questions his status.
It wasn’t until the 1890s that the first Finns settled in the beautiful Baptism River Valley. Until then, the region had long been uninhabited. By that time, the Ojibwe had abandoned their old hunting grounds in the valley, where they had once hunted moose. Like other immigrants, the Finns also wrote home to report on the excellent conditions they’d found in the New World. And this brought more Finns, who soon discovered that the letters from America had not told the whole truth. In fact, many of those reports hadn’t contained a single true word. In reality, the arable land along the Baptism Ri
ver wasn’t good for growing much of anything other than potatoes. In addition, all the goods that they’d brought with them had to be carried up from the lake. During the first couple of decades, this included everything they needed to eke out whatever living they could from the poor soil. Harrows, plows, and reapers—it all had to be carried, piece by piece, up the long, steep slopes from the lake. But they didn’t give up. No matter what, they couldn’t go back to the Finland that they’d left behind. There was now only one place in the whole world for them, and that was the new Finland, near the Baptism River in Minnesota.
In 1951, as a result of the Cold War, the Finland radar station was established. It was a complex of buildings, set up for the sole purpose of detecting Soviet jets as early as possible if the Big Invasion ever occurred. The 179th Fighter Squadron of the Minnesota Air National Guard was stationed in Duluth, and there the pilots were just waiting for word from the radar station up in Finland. In its heyday, there were 130 people employed at the radar base. A whole little village was built for them, just outside the old center of Finland. Of course, this generated both jobs and revenue for the local community. But in 1980 the base was closed. By then the fear had turned from planes to intercontinental missiles, and other, more modern, facilities were better equipped to detect them.
The community of Finland never really recovered after the radar station was closed. Over the next couple of years, nearly three hundred people moved out of the area, but the descendants of the original Finnish immigrants stayed on. Every year on March 16, strategically chosen to be one day before St. Patrick’s Day, they celebrate St. Urho and the driving out of the grasshoppers from the old country. The local merchants organize a parade, people prepare Finnish food, and the children dress up like grasshoppers and leap around in the deep snowdrifts that usually still cover the Baptism River Valley in mid-March.
Lance parked in front of the Finland General Store, the area’s only grocery store. He had decided to buy a ready-made sandwich and some potato chips, and then sit in his truck to eat them. It had been a long time since he’d been inside the store. In fact, he hadn’t been out to Finland much at all in the past year. He’d driven through a few times, but that was about it.
The Land of Dreams (Minnesota Trilogy) Page 16
