The Ravens (3 page)

LANCE
GOT
BACK
IN
HIS
CAR
and drove the back roads toward Finland, but without knowing why or where he was actually heading. No matter what, he couldn’t let anyone see him. For instance, it would be unthinkable to walk into Our Place, Finland’s only bar, and have a chat with Ben Harvey, the amiable owner of the place. It was Ben who had told Lance that Andy had spent a whole evening in the bar with Georg Lofthus and his friend. That was one of the many things Andy had never mentioned, either to his brother or to the authorities. And it was one of the many things Lance had never told anyone else either. But if it had been simply an ordinary meeting of three men in a bar, then why hadn’t Andy reported it when one of the Norwegians was found murdered? He wasn’t the only person in the area to have met and spoken to those two, and other people had been more than happy to talk to the police.

When he reached Finland, Lance pulled his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose. It was light enough that he might be recognized. Slowly he drove past the Finland General Store as he tried to catch sight of Debbie Ahonen through the window. It wasn’t easy, since the Christmas decorations hadn’t been taken down yet. In the town of Finland, Santa Claus was still on his way with a sleigh full of packages. The eight reindeer were prancing along, with competing red lights blinking from the sled, from Rudolph’s nose, and from Santa himself. It was hopeless trying to see a Finnish blond through all of that.

Just outside of Finland five or six ravens rose up from the road to perch in a nearby tree and wait for the car to pass. They’d been having a real feast. The guts and stomach contents of a buck were scattered over a wide area. Maybe the wolf had been there too. As Lance drove past, some of the ravens flapped their wings to fly farther away, but two of them stayed where they were. They were so black that they didn’t look real as they sat there in all that whiteness, as if someone had placed a couple of plastic figures high in the trees. Suddenly one of them shrieked, although for Lance it was a soundless shriek since he was enveloped in the noise of the car. But he saw the bird stretch out its neck and seem to eject the raven shriek from its suddenly opened beak. He could practically
see
the sound. Then he was past, and in the rearview mirror he saw that the ravens were once again landing on the carcass.

Ravens were among the few birds that stayed through the bitter cold of an entire Minnesota winter. Even their little brothers, the crows, would take off around New Year’s, and about the same time the very last of the bald eagles followed the rest of the local birds south to the Mississippi valley. Those that remained were the nuthatches and brown creepers, chickadees, several types of woodpeckers, blue jays, gray jays, and a few owls; birds that were almost never seen except at bird feeders. And the ravens. They were the exception. Big and pitch-black, they flew through all that whiteness, enduring the cold and eating their fill on road-kill deer.

Lance turned on the radio, getting nothing but white noise, as usual. The fact that it had suddenly worked fine outside the Akkola gas station was obviously just a fluke.

WITHOUT
REALLY
INTENDING
TO,
he’d arrived in Duluth. He had no idea where he was headed, but he had no desire to drive through more forested land. Finally he parked outside the health-food store on Fourth Street and went inside. It would be very unlikely for Lance Hansen to meet anyone he knew in a health-food store. He sat down in the small café area with a serving of vegetarian lasagna that didn’t taste half bad, a bottle of mineral water, and the latest issue of the
Duluth News Tribune,
which was
available for customers to read free of charge. But he hadn’t sat there long before a headline in the paper made him go both hot and cold.

“Accused North Shore Murderer on Trial Soon.”
That was the text in big letters above a mug shot of a long-haired and scowling Lenny Diver.

Lance read the article, which first gave an account of how Georg Lofthus was found dead near Baraga’s Cross the previous summer. It then stated that the trial of the accused Lenny Diver would start on February 28 in Minneapolis. According to the article, Diver continued to maintain his innocence, sticking by his explanation that he’d spent that night with a woman in Grand Marais, although he couldn’t remember her name because he’d been extremely drunk. The article also mentioned the prosecution’s trump card: the baseball bat that had been discovered in Lenny Diver’s car. The suspect’s fingerprints had been found on the bat, along with blood from the victim. Lance knew that the initials “A.H.” were carved into the wood, and he was almost positive that the bat belonged to his brother. But he wasn’t as certain how the bat had ended up in Diver’s car and with his fingerprints on it.

He’d suddenly lost his appetite. This was the first time he’d seen the face of the man who was about to be sent to prison for life. Diver looked older than his twenty-five years. Probably because of a hard life, in general, and his methamphetamine habit, in particular. Yet in spite of how wretched he looked in the picture, there was something about him, a certain strength or energy that seemed to shine through everything else; the word “radiance” occurred to Lance.

He’d actually planned to sit here for a while, enjoying the feeling of being back in his hometown, but right now he felt miserable. The photo of the accused man had literally put a face on the injustice he had committed. The only person who could save Lenny Diver from prison was Lance, but he was not going to do it. The face in the newspaper kept on staring at him with that dark, imperious expression. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He got out his cell and tapped in a number that he, as a police officer, had in his contact list. The phone rang for a long time before anyone picked up.

“Minnesota Department of Corrections. How can I help you?” said a morose male voice.

“This is Lance Hansen. I’m an officer with the U.S. Forest Service in the Superior National Forest. I would like to visit an inmate.”

“And does this inmate have a name?” said the man sarcastically.

“Lenny Diver,” replied Lance.

He could hear the guy in Minneapolis repeating the name to himself as he presumably searched his computer.

“Lenny Diver is in the Moose Lake jail. And your name again was . . . ?”

“Lance Hansen.”

“Right. First we have to ask the prisoner if he wants to see you. We’ll get back to you in a few days.”

Lance thanked the man and ended the call.

Then he sat there, staring at the newspaper photo. What had he done? Was he really going to look the man in the eye and talk to him? That suddenly seemed impossible. It was probably best not to think about it anymore. Maybe they wouldn’t even call him back.

He gave a start as he caught sight of a familiar face. Stepping into the store was Peggy Winters, the biologist at the Tofte Ranger Station. Her cheeks were rosy, and she had on her usual fur hat. Lance turned away. He hoped she wouldn’t come into the café area! The instant she saw him, his bluff would be called. After a moment he took a chance and looked over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see her so she must have gone farther inside the store. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t come over here after she’d made her purchases.

He needed to leave right now. Peggy’s sudden appearance had given him a shock, and he felt a strong urge to find a dark place where he could sit all alone, nursing a beer. This time he went to the only place in Duluth where he could be a hundred percent sure that no one he knew would turn up.

THE
KOZY
BAR
was a notorious gathering place for criminals and prostitutes. A good number of crimes had been committed over the years in the vicinity of this establishment. Yet Lance knew that the bar was completely harmless this early in the day, especially since he had a police ID in his wallet. He made sure the bartender caught a glimpse of it when he paid for his beer. The man briefly raised one eyebrow when he saw the ID. Lance kept his expression impassive as he picked up the pint glass and went over to a corner table to sit down. The Kozy was located half a flight below street level, and the narrow windows near the ceiling had green-tinted glass, which let in very little light. Aside from Lance, the only customers were two long-haired men at the other end of the room about thirty years old who looked like they might be American Indians. A cup of coffee sat on the table in front of each of them. There was something about the way they were slouched in their chairs that told him they’d been there a long time.

But that was none of Lance Hansen’s business. He wasn’t on the clock. Officially he wasn’t even in the United States. With a certain reverence he raised his pint glass. This was no ordinary beer. During the two months he’d spent in Canada, he’d had to settle for Fort Garry Pale Ale, since that was the closest he could get to Starfire Pale Ale. But it was still a far cry from the original. This, on the other hand,
was
the original. He made sure that the bitter, reddish beer properly coated his taste buds before he
allowed it to pass down his gullet. For a moment he was filled with pure joy. Oh, how he’d missed that taste! A moan of pleasure slipped out. The bartender looked in his direction and actually smiled. He probably thought he was dealing with an alcoholic cop who had just taken his first swallow of the beer he’d been yearning for all day. Lance laughed softly to himself as he sat in the dimly lit corner. “Welcome home,” he murmured.

It occurred to him that he was, in fact,
enjoying
himself here in the Kozy, even though he figured that he wouldn’t feel as comfortable in a few hours when the regular clientele began filling the bar. But for the moment, it was perfect. Two young women came in and sat down at the table with the two Ojibwe men, if that was what they were. They began talking, but so quietly that he couldn’t make out what they said. Otherwise there was nothing going on in the place. The TV up near the ceiling was turned off, and the bartender wasn’t playing any music. Nothing happened. He almost felt like he was asleep, except that he was able to drink Starfire Pale Ale while he was sleeping.

He closed his eyes. Instantly he saw the ravens flying up from the carcass on the road. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the four other customers were leaving. They stopped at the door to exchange a few words in low voices. A couple of them had cast brief glances at Lance. He felt uneasy at the thought that those people might be talking about him. Finally the men and one of the young women left. The other woman waited until the door had closed behind them. Then she walked through the bar and came over to Lance. He took a sip of his beer as he looked at her over the rim of the glass. She was younger than he’d thought, just a teenager, with a pretty face although it was much too pale. Only when she reached his table did he recognize her.

“Lance?” she said, staring at him in disbelief.

Andy Hansen’s daughter had gleaming black hair, and she wore a black coat that reached to her knees. Her lips were a dark red outlined in black, and black liner rimmed her eyes. She had on black lace-up boots.

“Chrissy?”

“What are you doing here, Uncle Lance?”

He could tell how foolish his expression must be. Chrissy
burst out laughing. She laughed so hard that she ended up squirming like a kid who needed to pee, and every time she looked at him, she started laughing again.

“Okay, cut it out,” said Lance, annoyed.

In a halfhearted attempt to apologize, she raised her hand, as if to signal that she’d try to get hold of herself. Lance noticed that her face remained deathly pale. Had she powdered her skin white?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I must look like an idiot. But I didn’t recognize you either.”

“You did look a little weird. It was just that I didn’t . . . I mean . . . Jesus! The
Kozy?
”

She sat down at the table across from him.

“Yeah. I know,” said Lance.

“Is this where you usually hang out?”

“No, are you crazy? Do you?”

Chrissy ignored the question. “I thought you were in Norway.”

He didn’t hesitate more than a second before coming up with an answer.

“I’m working undercover,” he said.

His niece’s expression indicated all too clearly that she didn’t believe a word of it.

“But aren’t you a forest cop?” she exclaimed.

“All right. Here’s the thing,” said Lance, pretending that he’d come to a big decision. “No one was supposed to find out. That’s partly why I came in here, because nobody I know would . . . Well, regardless, I’m on an undercover assignment.”

He could hear how stupid that sounded. Chrissy ran the fingers of her left hand through her gleaming black hair as she gave her uncle a skeptical look. An exaggerated skepticism, thought Lance. As if she were acting in one of those sitcoms on TV in which everybody was young and had complicated, chaotic lives that could make you laugh yourself silly if you enjoyed that kind of thing, which Lance definitely did not. But that was how Chrissy was acting. He hadn’t noticed that sort of behavior from her before and wondered what it stemmed from. At the same time Lance sensed something unapproachable just below the surface. Was this something new?

“An undercover assignment?” she repeated. “For the U.S. Forest Service?”

“Of course not. I’m first and foremost a police officer, and I was the one who found the murdered tourist near Baraga’s Cross last summer. I’ve been involved in the investigation all along.”

Chrissy still had strands of hair twined around her fingers, but she’d stopped moving her hand. Her eyes were big and shiny. Was she on the verge of tears? There was something else about her look, something different, but maybe it was simply the fact that she was no longer a child.

“Does that mean they haven’t caught the killer, after all?” she asked in a low voice.

“All I can tell you is that . . . there are a few, what you might call,
unresolved
issues in the case.”

“Did they arrest the wrong man?”

“That’s a possibility,” said Lance.

“So is the trial going to be postponed?”

“Listen to me, Chrissy. I’m not supposed to discuss any of these things with you. Do you understand that?”

Chrissy nodded.

“The only reason I’m telling you about this is because you . . . well, you saw me. It’s absolutely essential that nobody finds out I’m here. All right?”

“Okay.”

“If anyone hears about this . . . I can’t go into detail about what might happen, but we’re talking about a murder case, a life sentence and everything, right?”

His niece nodded. She still had her fingers stuck in her dyed black hair, as if there were so many thoughts swirling through her brain that it had completely forgotten about her hand. Her other hand was lying passively on the table. Lance reached across to grab her hand as he stared into her eyes.

“You can’t tell anybody,”
he said urgently, keeping his voice low. “But if you do, keep in mind that you’d be breaking the law and you could end up in court. Do you hear me?”

He added the latter comment on impulse, based on the simple fact that Chrissy was here, in the Kozy Bar, where most of the regulars wanted nothing to do with the police.

“Jesus! Let go. I won’t say anything,” she replied, pulling her hand away.

There was something in the tone of her voice—partly indignant, partly resigned—that gave Lance a feeling that she was used to such things. Used to being grabbed and spoken to in such a harsh manner.

“By the way, what are you doing here?” he asked.

“Just came in to talk to a few people.”

“Do you realize what kind of place this is?”

She gave him a withering look, as if what he’d just said was too lame to warrant a comment. Another example of the overacting that she’d displayed before, as if she had a repertoire of set facial expressions for every emotion: resignation, astonishment, despair, surprise, and so on.

“Don’t you have school tomorrow?” asked Lance.

“Sure.”

“But how are you going to get back to Two Harbors?”

“Drive, of course.”

“You borrowed a car?”

“Yeah. The Freestar.”

“Do your parents know you’re here?”

“No. And they don’t know that you’re here, either,” she said defiantly.

“You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”

“What the hell, Uncle Lance? Why don’t you just chill! Besides, I’ve got to go. They’re waiting for me.”

“So you’re not going home?”

Chrissy took her cell out of her pocket and glanced at the display.

“It’s five forty-five,” she said. “Don’t you think I can stay up a little later?”

“As long as you make it to school in the morning, I guess.”

“Man, what’s wrong with you?”

Abruptly she stood up, ready to leave.

“Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be talking to you like that.”

She gave him a conciliatory smile. Lance noticed again that there was something odd about the look in her eyes, something that hadn’t been there before. But he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.