The Ravens (5 page)

“No, I mean, I do.”

“So she hasn’t been seeing much of you lately?”

“She doesn’t even know I’m interested,” said Lance.

“Oh, come on, Lance! Have you considered getting one of her friends to ask her about you? You’re not a schoolboy anymore.”

“No. But I didn’t even realize it myself . . . not until . . . but now I see that I’ve known for a while, without really knowing it.”

“Right,” said Willy, shaking his head with resignation. “And we’re not talking about my daughter, are we?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Well, I mean . . .”

“You wouldn’t want to be my father-in-law again. Is that it?”

“I’ve always thought that you’re a good man, Lance, but the
fact that you made up this whole story about Norway, no matter what your reason for doing so . . . And sending phony postcards to your son . . . I think Mary might be better off alone.”

“I think she is. And I am too,” said Lance.

“So what about this other woman?”

“We were together a long time ago, long before I met Mary. But only for a few months.”

“Ah. An old flame.” Willy chuckled.

“She dumped me.”

“But you want to try again?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have to, Lance. This is much more important than fasting and dreaming. Don’t you know anything, man?”

17
MARCH.
The boy arrived this morning. What a bitter cold he has endured! His face was like cold meat to the touch. His dreams are terrifying. He screams as we go about our daily chores. The children race anxiously past his bed every time they have to pass. My husband feels such great sorrow that it has not been possible for any of us to have peace in our hearts during this day. Thanks to God’s mercy he is still among the living, but just barely. His thoughts merge with his dreams, and he speaks in delirium. Thank God that the children do not understand what he shouts in his dreams and feverish fantasies! Apparently he knows no English or French, but only the Norwegian language, which in my opinion can be learned only by a child who hears it sung at the cradle. A great and difficult task is now demanded of us. I promised Father François at the mission school that no lie would ever cross my lips. But when we removed all of his clothes, as we were forced to do, we saw two deep wounds in his right arm. I think that it is because of these wounds that he has lost most of his strength. My husband tried to ask him questions, but he would not tell us anything of what had happened to him.

LANCE
SAT
ON
THE
EDGE
OF
THE
BED
and read the text typed on a couple of sheets of paper as he ran his fingertips over the old, leather-bound book lying on his lap. He had always thought
of himself as a white American of Norwegian ancestry, but in between these worn pages he had discovered a different truth. When he received the translation of several pages from his great-grandmother’s diary, the police had just arrested the young Ojibwe Lenny Diver for the murder of Georg Lofthus. And Lance had started to think that Andy might not be guilty after all. The most important evidence found at the scene of the crime was in the blood, which had to have come from an Indian, although not necessarily a full-blooded Indian. And that meant that Andy couldn’t be the killer. Lance had felt that he’d been saved by the bell, because everything else had pointed directly to his brother.

But then there was the diary, the French Diary as it was called in his family. None of them had ever read it, for the simple reason that nobody in the Hansen family could read a word of French. The official story was that the diary had been written by Inga’s paternal grandmother, Nanette, who was French Canadian. But when Lance got back several pages that he’d sent to a translation agency, he immediately realized the truth: they were part Ojibwe. So there was nothing in the police evidence to exclude Andy as the possible murderer.

Lance continued reading from the excerpts of the book that had been translated.

18
MARCH.
My husband does not think that his sister’s son will survive unless we can bring a doctor here or take the boy to a doctor. But every time he mentions this, the boy is seized with a terror that seems worse than his fear of dying. He still refuses to say anything about what happened to him, but it seems clear to us that he was in the cold water and nearly froze to death. But it is easy to see that someone stabbed him with a knife to give him those wounds. He refuses to talk about that, and we think that is the reason he does not want to be treated by a doctor. Because the doctor would ask how he had acquired those two wounds, and if he did not answer, the doctor might mention it to the authorities. It is clear to us that this is what he fears. But I have given this a lot of thought on my own, both last night and during the course of this day, and I am struggling to decide whether to
tell my husband of my thoughts, because according to our beliefs, this is the work of the devil. What Nokomis taught me was not about the good, even though she was the most beloved, both then and forever. She lived in the darkness in which so many old people lived. But if I am now going to bring the boy back to health and save him from death, I will have to do as Nokomis taught me before I went to the mission school.

IT
ALL
BEGAN
on the day when Lance found the body of the Norwegian canoeist Georg Lofthus. Everything started that day. After the corpse had been removed, Lance and several other police officers had talked as they stood in the parking lot near Baraga’s Cross. One of them wondered whether this might be the very first murder in Cook County. No one knew for sure, but when Lance got home, he’d done a search of the archives. A newspaper article from 1892 reminded him of an old missing-persons case that he’d actually heard about before, although it had taken the form of a legend. It had to do with Swamper Caribou, the local Ojibwe medicine man, who had disappeared without a trace, as if he’d been the subject of his own magic and had spirited himself away. Yet it was clear from the newspaper article that this was a real case of someone who had gone missing. The medicine man’s brother, Joe Caribou, was also quoted as asking for help from the public. According to the paper, Swamper had disappeared from his hunting cabin near the mouth of the Cross River, meaning close to Baraga’s Cross,
“at the time of the last full moon, meaning in the early morning hours of March 16.”

21
MARCH
.
Thanks be to God that we have managed to keep him on this side of death. He is past the worst of it now. I made him a decoction to drink, as I remember Nokomis doing, and something to spread on his wounds. I have also committed the sin of making an asabikeshiinh for a person’s dreams, because he screamed and flailed so much that none of us could get any sleep, not even the children, but now he is calm. May God have mercy on me, for I knew not what else to do.

HE
HAD
IMAGINED
that Swamper Caribou could have been murdered, although it was impossible to say with certainty what had happened to the medicine man. But that was before the other puzzle piece in the story had fallen into place. That happened one day as he sat in his mother’s room at the Lakeview Nursing Home in Duluth, and they were talking about their ancestors, as they so often did. Inga had told him about Thormod Olson from Halsnøy, the nephew of Knut Olson and his wife, Nanette. The boy was just fifteen when he arrived at the North Shore under dramatic circumstances in March 1892. While attempting to cross the frozen bay, he had fallen through the ice into the water. This was in the middle of the night, and he was walking in the light of the full moon. It was so cold that it really shouldn’t have been possible to survive a night in the woods in wet clothes, but early the next morning he had knocked on the door of the house where Knut and Nanette lived. When they opened the door, Thormod fell into the room, his body as stiff as a board and enclosed in an icy armor that shattered as he hit the floor. Ever since then, he had been the family hero.

“That’s the stuff we’re made of.” Lance remembered his father saying that, and yet Oscar was not related to Thormod Olson by blood. The story was the family’s primordial myth, and Lance had heard it told countless times before. Yet there was something about what his mother had said on that day in her room at Lakeview that had jolted him out of his habit of listening halfheartedly to the story. He already knew that Thormod was supposed to have fallen through the ice “somewhere close to the mouth of the Cross River,” but suddenly he also knew when this happened. Because the boy had been able to keep walking at night,
in the light of the full moon.
And that was in March 1892. Near the mouth of the Cross River. Which meant that the disappearance of Swamper Caribou and Thormod Olson’s accident had taken place more or less at the same time and in the same place.

Even though it could be just a coincidence, Lance had begun to wonder whether his ancestor might have killed the medicine man. Yet he didn’t know for sure. That was when he’d thought about Nanette’s diary; somewhere in those pages there had to be a mention of Thormod’s arrival.

24
MARCH
.
Today he sat at the table and ate with us! When we changed the bandages on his wounds, we saw that they were clean and without pus, just as the wounds of Old Shingibis were after Nokomis treated him when he was attacked by a bear when I was a little girl. I clearly remember when they arrived with Shingibis in the canoe. But even though this is a good sign, and my husband is now lighter of heart than I have seen him before, nothing can ever rectify what I have done. For that reason my heart is as heavy as stone. My husband says that we must never speak of this, just say that the boy fell through the ice and almost died from frostbite, but that we saved him with porridge and coffee. That is how we will speak of it in the future, also when we talk to the boy. We will never try to find out what happened to him. And here I have promised Father François that no lie shall ever issue from my lips.

IT
OCCURRED
TO
LANCE
that these old diary entries conveyed an atmosphere of secrecy and deception that was similar to what he’d been experiencing the past few months. Deciding not to say anything was always the preferred solution to every problem; that was how it had been for as long as he could remember. This reaction was as natural for him as the air he breathed. Yet to see exactly the same pattern of response played out more than a hundred years ago made him feel incredibly sad. That in itself was nothing new. He often felt sad. But this was a sorrow that seemed to span generations.

CHRISSY
HANSEN
came walking through the school gate with another girl who was also clad in black from head to toe. Lance rolled down the car window and called her name. When she caught sight of her uncle, her first impulse seemed to be to run away. But then she said something to her friend, who continued along the snow-covered sidewalk alone as Chrissy went over to the black Jeep.

“Get in,” said Lance.

His niece did as he said, although reluctantly. Once she was seated in the car, she stared straight ahead without saying a word.

“I thought we could have a little chat,” said Lance.

No reaction. Her school backpack, which she’d set on the floor, offered a childish contrast to her mute figure, swathed in black.

“Is it okay if I drive somewhere else?” he asked. “I don’t want anyone to recognize me.”

A slight movement at the corner of Chrissy’s mouth could be interpreted to mean anything at all. Lance chose to take it as a sign of agreement.

He drove north, away from the lake, and parked at a turnout a couple of miles outside Two Harbors. Neither of them spoke during the short drive. Now Lance opened his mouth to say something, but Chrissy beat him to it.

“I haven’t told anyone,” she said.

“Good.”

“But if you say anything about me to Mom or Dad, I’ll tell them that you’re not in Norway. It’s no skin off my nose.”

“And if you mention that I’m not in Norway, I’ll tell Andy that you hang out at the Kozy. That’s no skin off my nose, either.”

“Okay, but—”

Chrissy was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. She dug it out from under her long coat.

“Hello?”

“. . .”

“Yeah. I know that.”

“. . .”

“But I’m with . . . fuck that!”

“. . .”

“Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

“. . .”

“I said, I’m coming!”

“. . .”

“See you.”

Lance gave her an inquiring look.

“That was Mom,” she said. “I promised to help her with something. You’ll have to drive me home.”

“Sure. But I want to talk to you some more later.”

“Fine with me. Because there’s something we need to talk about,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I know something about the murder.”

Lance grabbed her by the arm.

“What do you know?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you later.”

He tightened his grip.

“No. Tell me now,” he said.

“Let go of me!” Chrissy shouted.

Lance instantly let her go.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Just don’t touch me,” she told him.

“Okay,” he said. “I promise.”

“So drive me home. You can let me out at the gas station, and I’ll walk from there.”

“But do you really know something about the murder?”

“I’ll tell you tonight.”

“Where?”

“When you drive me to Duluth.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?”

“Of course I do.”

“In that case, you can drive me to Duluth tonight.”

“So you can go back to the Kozy?”

By now he had started driving back toward Two Harbors. Chrissy gave him a look loaded with scorn.

“Believe it or not, that’s not where I’m going,” she said. “It might actually do you some good to come with me. If it’s not too late, that is.”

“Too late for what?”

Chrissy laughed, but it sounded artificial.

AT
SIX
THIRTY
he picked her up at the gas station, as they’d agreed. The minute she got in, he smelled the cigarette smoke on her clothes.

“What’d you tell Andy and Tammy?”

“That I was catching a ride with a girlfriend.”

“To go where?”

“To a poetry reading.”

Lance couldn’t help laughing.

“You actually said that?”

“Yeah.”

“So where are you really going?”

“To a poetry reading. What do you think?!”

She was clearly in a better mood than a few hours earlier. Lance gave her a skeptical look.

“You’re not serious, are you?”

Chrissy laughed merrily.

“Sure. And you’re coming with me,” she said.

“Now wait a minute, I—”

“Otherwise I won’t tell you what I know.”

He glanced at her again. A barely visible smile was tugging at her mouth.

“It’ll do you good,” she said. “I bet it’s been a long time since you’ve gone to a reading.”

“You’re right about that.”

They passed the big white fiberglass rooster with the bright red comb and yellow feet, and with that they left Two Harbors behind.

“Every time I see that shitty rooster, I wonder why the hell I had to be born in this place,” said Chrissy with a sigh.

Lance was about to admonish her for swearing, but he stopped himself.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” he said.

“Yeah. It is.”

He tried to recall what it had felt like to be almost eighteen. That was back when he decided to be a policeman, like his father. Maybe not the most exciting choice of profession, but he had never regretted his decision.

“So, what do you know about the murder?”

“I was out at the cabin that night. I told Mom and Dad I was going to spend the night with a girlfriend in Duluth, but we drove up to Lost Lake instead.”

“You and who else?”

“Me and two friends. We were going to meet some other kids up there and party. So that’s where we went. There were a few others that I didn’t know. And two guys who just showed up. They told a story that sounded like it was straight out of
The Twilight Zone.
Everybody thought it was cool, but at the time we didn’t know anything about what had happened that night.”

“What did the two guys say?” asked Lance.

“They said they’d seen a bloodstained man with a baseball bat.”

Lance felt his throat close up.

“Where?”

“Just outside Finland, near the river over there. That’s the Baptism River, isn’t it?”

“Right.”

“They said he looked like he was on his way down to the river to get washed off.”

The idea that someone had seen the murderer right after he’d killed Georg Lofthus had an overwhelming effect on Lance. He felt as if all the strength had drained out of him.

“Did they say what the man looked like?” he asked.

He didn’t recognize his own voice. It sounded like it was coming from an old man.

“No. Just that it wasn’t an Indian,” replied his niece.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Because first they said the car was an old junker, and then somebody said the man was probably just drunk. That was supposed to be a joke. I thought it was a stupid thing to say, but . . . Anyway, they said the man they saw definitely wasn’t an Indian. It was a middle-aged white guy. I remember that’s what one of them said.”

“But you didn’t personally see this individual?”

“No.”

“So what did all of you think had happened?”

“At that point we hadn’t heard about the murder. Those two guys said they thought he must have hit some animal and used the bat to put it out of its misery. Maybe a cat . . . And that he was on his way down to the river to wash off the blood.”

“A cat?” whispered Lance.

“Uh-huh. At any rate, we never dreamed that he might have killed somebody.”

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No.”

“Not even Tammy or Andy?”

“I never tell my parents anything.”

“Okay. But what you’ve told me is now part of an ongoing investigation, so you can’t mention it to anyone,” said Lance.

He couldn’t very well say that he didn’t know what her father would do if he heard that someone had seen him that night.

“Do you have any idea the approximate time when this happened?” he asked.

“No, but it was really late by the time those guys arrived, in the early morning hours. And it must have been fairly light
when they saw him. Light enough to see the blood on his clothes.”

“So maybe around dawn?” Lance suggested.

Chrissy nodded.

“But when you heard about the murder, didn’t you realize there might be a connection?”

“Sure. I thought a lot about it, and I was really scared. But then I read that the police had arrested an Indian, and the baseball bat that was used in the killing was found in his car in Grand Portage. So how could the other man with the bat have anything to do with it?”

“Then why are you telling me about all this now?”

“Because you said that you were still working on the case and that they might have arrested the wrong man.”

“Huh.”

They drove for a while in silence. Lance thought about all the times he had let his niece chase him through the house, from one room to the next, until she finally caught him and arrested him. Not all that many years ago either.

“I’d like to testify or something,” said Chrissy.

“Testify?”

“Help out so the right man is arrested.”

“But you said you didn’t see him yourself. Why can’t those two guys who saw the man come forward to tell their story?”

“I don’t know who they are. They were just a couple of strangers who showed up, uninvited, to the party. None of us had any idea who they were. I think they were from somewhere on the Iron Range.”

“We can try to find them through the local media, CB radios, and so on,” said Lance. “It shouldn’t be that hard.”

“But you don’t get it, Uncle Lance. These guys aren’t the type to go to the police voluntarily. Not even if it has to do with a murder.”

“Meaning what?” said Lance sternly.

“Well, they brought some . . .”

It suddenly occurred to him what she was talking about.

“Pot?” he asked.

“And meth.”

As a police officer Lance was all too aware of what meth
amphetamine could do to a person. A drug that provoked extreme aggression, and users often lost their teeth, their hair, and their minds.

“Good Lord, what kind of people have you been hanging out with?” he exclaimed in alarm.

“I told you I didn’t know them. None of us did,” said Chrissy.

“But couldn’t one of your girlfriends testify? There must have been others who heard the story. Why haven’t they come forward?”

“Maybe because they don’t have an uncle who’s an undercover cop and who tells them that the police might have arrested the wrong man.”

“Hmm . . . ,” said Lance.

He was beginning to realize how impossible this situation was. If he allowed Chrissy to give a statement, her father might end up spending the rest of his life in prison.

“Well, we’ll just have to see what happens,” he said. “At least now I know the story. If it turns out to be important, I’ll be sure to get in touch with you.”

“But you do think they’ve got the wrong man, don’t you?”

The question, which required no answer, hovered in the air between them. That they were even having this conversation was answer enough, along with the fact that Lance was secretly sneaking around the North Shore.

“So where are we actually going?” he asked as he exited Highway 61 and turned onto London Road.

“Third Avenue and Fifth Street.”

“Okay. And what’s there?”

“A whole different world,” said Chrissy.