In Winter's Grip (27 page)

The smoke rising from the chimney led me to Jonas and Gunnar in the back workshop. Their blond heads were bent over a canoe paddle that was taking shape from a planed piece of cedar. Both looked up at me as I entered. For the first time since I'd arrived at their house, Gunnar smiled at me and said, “Hello, Aunt Maja.”

“Hello, Gunnar. What are you up to?”

“Dad and I are making a paddle for my school project,” he explained. He rubbed his hand lovingly over its smooth reddish surface with something close to reverence.

“It's a beauty,” I said, moving closer to inspect their handiwork.

Jonas put an arm around my shoulder. “So how are you today? Did you have one last tour of the town?”

“Something like that. I'm good, Jonas. How are you doing?”

“Getting there. Gunnar and I are just planning a spring canoe trip.” He ruffled Gunnar's hair. “We're thinking we'll make more trips this year and start doing some wilderness camping.”

“You make me want to move back. I miss Minnesota in the summer.”

“Well, why don't we plan a trip in August? Could you get a week off?”

“I'll see. I guess we should make time for what we want to do.”

“Not good to keep putting things off,” Jonas agreed. “Claire's up at the house fussing over a couple of ham and cheese quiches. She said she wanted to see you when you got back.”

“I'll head up then.”

“Tell her we won't be far behind.”

I found Claire bent over the stove, putting the pies into the oven. She straightened when she heard me come in. Today, her black hair was held back with a paisley scarf, and she'd applied makeup liberally to bring colour to her pale cheeks.

“There you are,” she said. “I got up early this morning to talk to you, but you'd already gone. I need to explain. . .” Greyish shadows circled like half-moons underneath her eyes.

“There's nothing to explain, Claire. I'm not your conscience, and I'm certainly not one to judge you.”

“You asked about Gunnar. The thing is, I'm not sure who Gunnar's father is. He was conceived during a period in our lives when Jonas was away during the week renovating a house in Lutsen. I was angry with Jonas over something—I can't even remember what now—and your father just started coming around. Gunnar could be your father's or Jonas's. God, I can't believe how awful that sounds.”

“Why would you think he's my father's?”

Claire moaned. “Gunnar resembles your father so much, and he acted like Gunnar was his. I fell into believing him, because Jonas and I had trouble conceiving when we tried before.”

“Does Jonas know?”

Claire bit her lip and thought over my question. “Sometimes, I think he does, but I can't be sure. Your father used to threaten to tell Jonas if I didn't let him spend time with Gunnar. He made it sound like he wanted a relationship with his grandson—or his son—but now, I'm not so sure. That sounds horrible when I say it out loud.”

“Jonas loves you, Claire. He loves Gunnar too.”

“I know. I just need some time before I tell him. I'm beginning to realize what it is I have with Jonas. I don't want him to leave me.”

“I'm not saying anything to him, Claire. This is your life, your family. I'm not even so sure bringing this out into the open would accomplish anything now that my father is dead.”

“Thank you, Maja,” Claire whispered and her eyes filled with tears. “Actually, talking about this with someone is such a relief. You don't know how angry I've been at myself and at Jonas. I believed if he'd paid more attention to me, not gotten sick all the time, I wouldn't have turned to your father. I know that sounds weak, but that's how I felt. It seems so selfish now.”

“Perhaps your anger would have been better aimed at my father.”

“I see that now. I...what we did was a pattern with him.”

I nodded and looked away, pointing to the lettuce and carrots on the counter. There was nothing more I could say to make it better. I raised my eyes and smiled at her. “Can I make the salad?”

Claire dabbed at her eyes with a tea towel and laughed self-consciously. “Yes and while you do that, I'll throw together the apple crisp. I want us to have a nice meal before you head back home to Sam.”

I nodded again, but this time, I couldn't get any words out without giving away my own sadness.

We said our goodbyes at two o'clock. It was later than I would have liked, and I would be driving into Duluth after dark. The sky had turned a sullen grey over the lunch hour, and a light snow had begun falling by the time I turned onto the road that led to my father's house. The windshield wipers beat in time to my own heart, which had started pounding faster as soon as I'd started on this journey to unearth the secret of my father's last years.

If Sam had been with me, he'd question why I cared enough to do my father's bidding in this, his last request, before he died. Sam would stare at me with his piercing stare as if he could see inside my head to see the machinations of my brain. I would raise my palms and tell him that he had not lived with a parent who'd never loved him back. I would not tell him that I was always searching for answers for what I did wrong. It didn't matter that there were no reasons, no answers. I would continue to search. I would continue to cling onto the times when my father showed me kindness, even now choosing to believe that it was love, even now when I knew better.

I slowed as I passed by the Lingstrom house. It looked empty, the blinds and curtains drawn and a front porch light on even though it was mid-day. Mrs. Lingstrom had gone with Katherine to Duluth. Once the snow stopped falling, Jonas and Gunnar would come to shovel her driveway as they had all winter. The swing set in the yard looked to be tilted at a more alarming angle. It would fall over in a good wind. I longed to run across the yard to straighten it out, but I was not able.

I continued on and turned off the highway into our long driveway, rutted and layered in thick ice and snow. It would take spring melt to wash away the bulk of it. As the car jostled up the drive, I could still make out the indentations of a crisscross of tire tracks from the police vehicles and ambulance that had come to take away Becky's body only a few days before. The house stood forlorn and brooding, all lights extinguished, as if it knew its days were numbered. Bulldozing the house and pushing a highway through our property seemed a fitting end to a place that had brought my family so much pain. I would miss the pine and spruce trees but nothing more. The good memories, and there had been very good memories, were with me always and could not be plowed into the earth like so much timber.

I left the car and circled around to the back steps. Footprints were frozen into the packed snow and up the stairs. I checked that the door was locked before turning the key to pull the door open. Silence greeted my entry. I called hello to be sure nobody was inside and felt foolish immediately afterwards. Still, I made sure the door was securely locked before I undid my coat.

I walked through the kitchen and down the hallway to the front staircase, glancing up at the light streaming through the slatted blind at the landing. It was close to golden in hue, like honey, and it warmed me even though the furnace temperature had been lowered. Then I kneeled and ran my hand across the carpet on the bottom step. This close, I could smell the carpet's factory newness. The green and brown swirling pattern hid the deep slit from one end to the other at the base of the riser. I ran the tips of my fingers along its length, feeling for a place to leverage the carpet up. The fabric held firm to the wooden step beneath. I needed something to pry under the edge of the stair. I ran into the kitchen and pulled open the cutlery drawer. I couldn't find anything strong and thin enough. I thought of my father's tools in the basement. I was scared to go back down there. I pulled open the cupboards, knowing I'd find nothing. I glanced toward the basement door.

“Oh my god,” I groaned and closed my eyes to regroup. “Get yourself down there, Maja, and don't be such a baby. Nothing 229 can hurt you in this house.”

I crossed the kitchen and turned on the basement light as I pulled open the door with my other hand. The light at the bottom of the stairs was still out, but the second light in the main room cast enough light so that I could see my way down the steep steps. I took a deep breath and started a careful descent. I began humming, a tuneless buzz that didn't resemble music. It was just a comfort to have a sound that drowned out the rush of blood in my ears.

Somebody had dragged Becky's lifeless body down these same steps. I stopped and reached out for the banister. Was that a sound on the floor above my head? I cocked my head and held a hand over my heart, trying to still its pounding inside my chest.

Nothing.

I again started down the stairs, this time moving with speed. I reached the bottom and turned on the lights before running across the short distance to the laundry room. Once inside, I glanced at the spot between the washer and dryer. An outline of Becky's body still lay chalked on the concrete. I forced myself to keep moving, past the laundry basin to the shelves at the back wall near the furnace. I knew my mother had hanged herself somewhere in this room, but I'd never asked which beam, and for that, I was thankful. I scanned the shelves, my hand reaching through a cobweb for the crowbar that rested next to the handsaw. This would do nicely. Its heavy feel in my hand gave me sudden strength. I had a weapon. I put my head down and strode for the stairs, taking them two at a time, relieved to set foot in the kitchen and slam the basement door behind me.

I returned to the staircase at the end of the hall. It took me a few tries before I got the crowbar safely anchored under the edge of the bottom step. I cranked hard on its length, putting my full body weight onto the shaft. In time, the board shifted and gave under my weight. I leaned onto the crowbar again and again until the step and the carpet ripped away. I knelt and pulled the stair upwards with both hands. My fingers seeped blood from the sharp ridges in the wood, but I wiped them on my pants and quickly forgot the pain, because I could now see what my father had hidden away.

Packets of white powder nestled in the cavity of the exposed stair. I began to lift them out of their hiding place, one by one. There had to be a small fortune in drugs lying at my feet, for I had no doubt this was heroin or cocaine or something of equal value. My hand settled on a paper that had been lying underneath the stash and I lifted it out, flattening out the page to read the words written in my father's hand. This time, when the stair creaked above my head, I didn't stop reading. It was the sound of a familiar voice echoing down the staircase that made me freeze in fear.

“Maja Larson. I knew you'd figure it out eventually. It sure took you damn long enough.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

I
kept my head down. For a moment, my brain went into automatic pilot, and my eyes focused on the words in front of me without really seeing them. When I finally lifted my eyes to look up at David Keating, he was halfway down the stairwell, his service revolver in his hand, swinging lazily at his side. He was dressed in a black duffel coat and black skull cap. Bottle green aviator sunglasses hid his eyes, and he'd shaved off his moustache, leaving a white area under his nose and around his mouth. I felt so exposed—like I had a foot caught in a trap, and I couldn't get away. My heart beat erratically inside my chest.

“David, why?” was all I could manage.

He stood two steps above me and removed the sunglasses, tucking them into his coat pocket. His face, half in shadow, was a curious mixture of guilt, resignation and determination. “Money, of course. Olive has expensive tastes, and I would have done anything to keep her happy.”

“Four kids cost a lot on a police salary.” I tried to sound sympathetic. I was afraid I sounded condescending, but David didn't seem to notice.

He shrugged. “You have no idea. Olive spends money on our kids like it grows on trees, and I have to keep pumping it out. A guy can only do so much overtime. Our second oldest has juvenile diabetes, and it costs me a fortune in medical bills. Now Olive wants a fifth kid, and I've barely started paying for the fourth.”

“I'm sorry, David.” I had to keep him talking while I thought of how to get out of this mess. My mind began its clinical assessment of his vital signs. Eyes dilated. Colour elevated. Sweat on his forehead. He was in control but definitely agitated. “You were the one who searched the house?”

“Yeah. I knew your dad had hidden the crack somewhere. He got scared there at the end when Rainy Wynona disappeared. The Motego brothers were cutting into our business, making threats.”

“What happened to Rainy?”

David shrugged again. “He's probably being eaten by the fishes at the bottom of Lake Superior. Who knows? No big loss. Anyhow, your dad and I figured one last run, and we'd call it a day. Thing is, your father started getting paranoid. He began thinking everyone was out to get him, including me. That's why he hid the drugs and told me he'd left insurance if something happened to him. Probably the letter you're reading now.”

David reached out his hand to take it from me.

“But Katherine Lingstrom killed my father.”

David laughed. “Yeah, ironic, huh? He should have been more scared of the women he'd screwed than me or the Motego brothers.”

I handed the paper over. I'd only managed to read the first two paragraphs, where my father pointed the finger at David and Rainy. My father's outrage at their betrayal was evident. Dad took the credit for the operation, as if it were some kind of accomplishment. The beginning of the letter had been a condemnation of others while he bragged about being the ringleader.

“How many bags are there?” David asked.

“Six. They're all yours. I have no interest in any of this.” I desperately wanted him to believe that I was washing my hands of my father and him. I needed him to let me go.