The Ravens (8 page)

IT
WAS
2:10
IN
THE
MORNING,
and Grand Marais, which was the administrative hub of Cook County, seemed dead in the cold. Up on Good Harbor Hill, just outside the town, a black Jeep Cherokee was parked with the engine running. It had been there quite awhile. Spread out before Lance Hansen was one of the most beautiful views in all of Minnesota. With the snow and moonlight, and with the vast expanse of the starry sky displayed above Lake Superior, which was completely white and endless, the view was even more beautiful than usual, bordering on something supernatural, as if it were on a planet that merely resembled ours.

He’d taken the one step that he never thought he’d dare take, and he’d ended up getting shot down like some young, inexperienced buck on the first day of hunting season. Now only the butchering remained. Every time he thought about it, he felt like someone was sticking a knife in him, slitting open his abdomen so his guts came pouring out, visible to all the world. What an idiot he was! To come slinking back to a woman who had dumped him more than twenty years ago, to see if it was possible to find a few crumbs that somebody else had left behind. What a loser he was.

He’d played all the cards he was holding without accomplishing anything other than to be left sitting there, empty handed. Debbie was beyond his reach, and soon everyone would know
that he wasn’t in Norway after all. He might as well show himself.

And say what? That he’d fooled everybody into thinking that he was in Norway? What a mess he’d made of things. But then he had an idea, and before he’d even thought it through, he got out his cell phone. Provided there wasn’t any postcard currently in transit between Oslo and Minnesota, he could simply tell Eirik Nyland that his assistance was no longer needed—no more postcards from Norway. Then he could make his appearance here and say that he was back from his Norway trip.

He calculated that it must be just past nine in the morning in Oslo. So he tapped in Nyland’s phone number. The criminal investigator answered on the first ring. He must have been sitting there with his phone in his hand.

“Nyland,” he said.

“This is Lance Hansen.”

“Hi.”

“Am I interrupting your work?”

“No, not at all.”

Lance thought the voices and footsteps, which he could hear in the background, were probably as close as he’d ever get to Oslo in real life.

“You know those postcards?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to send any more of them. They’ve done the trick, you might say.”

“Okay. So you’re back from . . . Where was it you went?”

“Arizona.”

“Right. How’d it go with you and the girlfriend?”

“Not bad. But the situation’s still a bit uncertain.”

“You’re still together?”

“Sure. But you don’t need to send any more postcards.”

“Okay.”

“There aren’t any on the way, are there?”

“Postcards?”

“Uh-huh.”

“No, I don’t think so. So how are things going over there? Has the trial started yet?”

“It starts on February twenty-eighth.”

“There can’t be much doubt that he’ll be convicted,” said Nyland. “What was his name again?”

“Lenny Diver.”

“Oh, right.”

“Tell me something,” said Lance. “Did you think the whole time that I might have something to do with the murder?”

There was a pause before Nyland answered.

“I have to admit that I had a feeling you were holding something back.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t come up with anything concrete.”

“So you never thought I knew who the murderer was?”

“No. Did you?”

“Of course not,” said Lance with a laugh.

A lengthy pause ensued. An uncomfortable silence.

“Is everything okay?”

“Sure,” Lance replied automatically.

“Just let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help. More postcards, more women. Whatever you need.”

UP
ON
THE
RIDGE
the house stood in darkness, closed in on itself in the winter night. It was now past 3:00 a.m., and the traffic on Highway 61 wouldn’t pick up again until people began leaving for work around six. Lance put on his snowshoes outside Isak Hansen’s hardware store, where he’d parked, and began walking up the snowy road toward the house. It was only right that he should arrive home under cover of night, heading for a cold, dark house with the starry sky overhead, wading through the powdery snow on snowshoes like a fur trapper or an Indian. It was right because he was still a fugitive. Only when he was once again inside his own house would it be over. He was now putting behind him the last few yards of his exile.

Then he was standing on the top step, where he’d stood on that night in November after having walked the whole way from Baraga Cross Road. Back then he’d had to use his rifle to break off the three-foot-long icicles that were blocking the front door.

The lock opened easily, as always. Through his glove he felt
the cold from the iron as he pressed down the latch and opened the door. Without even thinking about it, his hand sought the switch in the dark and turned on the light. There were his coats hanging on their hooks, his shoes and boots lined up on the floor. But there was an unfamiliar and subdued air about everything. Without further hesitation he opened the next door and turned on the light in there too. He found himself standing right in front of the photo of him and Andy kneeling on either side of a big buck. Each brother held a rifle in one hand while with the other they grasped the impressive antlers. He couldn’t help thinking about the last time he’d stood here, when he was about to leave for Canada after having set up the ruse about taking a vacation in Norway. Because of what happened during the deer hunt, he hadn’t dared stay here any longer. Those two brothers who had posed so proudly for the photo on the wall had ended up hunting each other instead of a deer. He had taken aim at Andy, and his brother had turned around and seen him do it. But I wouldn’t have shot him, Lance thought now. Yet how certain could he be about that? Finally he had hidden in some dense thickets while his brother came closer and closer.
“You’re a dead man, Lance,”
Andy had whispered, only a couple of yards away. The next second Lance’s rifle had gone off by accident. The last Lance heard of Andy was the sound of his body as he toppled backward through the ice-coated thicket. It later turned out that the shot hadn’t hit him. And that could only be called a miracle.

Ever since, Lance had lived in fear of his brother.

As he went from room to room, switching on the lights and turning up the heaters that had been left on the lowest possible setting the whole time, he noticed that the whole place had an unfamiliar smell, as if the house had its own smell that had grown stronger during his absence. It would take time for him to feel at home here again, if ever. Yet he continued his solitary nightly rounds through the rooms, turning on the faucets, opening the kitchen cupboards, studying the cups and glasses and stacks of plates, running his hand over the tabletop where he’d eaten so many meals both alone and with his small family.

After a while he went into the living room and sat down on the sofa, in exactly the same place where he’d sat on that long
night after the deer hunt. Now the circle was complete. But had anything really changed during the past ten weeks? As if his body were answering the question, he felt a dull pain pulsing in his right hand. That was what had happened, and that was why he was even here in the U.S. at all. He’d had enough and had slammed his fist on the table in the hotel.

“I won’t stand for this anymore,” he said in a low voice.

He looked at the photos of Jimmy hanging on the wall. What sort of father was he, lying to his son as he had? And hiding the truth about something as serious as a murder. He needed to clear things up, for the boy’s sake if nothing else.

HOW
COULD
HE
HAVE
BELIEVED
that it would be over once he was inside these rooms again? His exile had nothing to do with this house; he had been shut out from the
people.
He got out his cell phone and clicked through the list of contacts. There they were: Inga, Andy, Mary, Becky Tofte, Ranger John Zimmermann, Bill Eggum, Sparky Redmeyer, and many more. All of them were under the illusion that Lance Hansen was on vacation in the “old country,” that the inveterate local historian and genealogy researcher was at this very minute exploring his roots on the other side of the Atlantic. Not until he stood before them would his exile be over.

His gaze fell on the photograph hanging in the hallway. The one of him and Andy on a deer hunt twelve or thirteen years ago, out by Onion River. Could he keep that picture there if he sent Andy to prison? Could he stand to see it every day if that happened? Lance went into the hall and stood in front of the photo. His brother was smiling under his Minnesota Twins cap, while he seemed worn out, his face flushed. He knew that was due to problems with the camera’s timing device. He’d run back and forth several times between the buck and the camera, which he’d set on a tree stump. But could he keep this picture hanging on the wall? No, not if he turned Andy in. Then he’d never be able to look at that smiling, proud face of his again, remembering how it had felt to be out in the woods with his brother. The mere thought of an outdoorsman like Andy locked up in a prison cell
was sheer torture. Then he reminded himself that an innocent man was sitting in that cell right now. Even so, he left the photo where it was. For now, he thought.

He went back into the living room and pulled the heavy curtains aside to look out at the familiar view: Isak Hansen’s hardware store, founded by his paternal grandfather more than eighty years ago, a segment of Highway 61, and below the road an endless white plain that disappeared into the blue of the moon: Lake Superior. All this he would have to reclaim. The fact that he even stood here was the first step. Tomorrow he would make some calls to let people know he was back home. And even though he had no intention of phoning Andy, it wouldn’t take long before his brother heard the news.

AFTER
BREAKFAST
THE
NEXT
DAY
Lance sat down in his easy chair to call his mother. It took only a few seconds for her to pick up.

“This is Inga,” she said.

He felt a lump form in his throat the moment he heard her slightly quavering voice. He had to clear his throat before he could say anything.

“Lance?” she said. “Is that you?”

She’d recognized who it was from the way he cleared his throat.

“Yes, it’s me, Mom.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful to hear from you, my boy! How are you?”

“Fine.”

“And how’s Norway?”

“No, I’m back home again.”

“Oh, my dear,” she exclaimed. “When did you get back?”

“Last night.”

“You must be tired.”

“You’re right about that.”

And he actually felt a great weariness flood over him. Probably because of all the lies that he’d already told her, and all the lies he was going to have to tell her in the future. She would want to hear about his Norway trip for a long time to come. Most likely for the rest of her life, he thought. From now on, every time he
saw her she would want to talk about her son’s visit to the old country. Which meant that he would have to lie to her every time they saw each other.

“So how are you?” he asked.

“I’m fine, but it’s been awfully quiet here without you,” she told him.

“Hasn’t anyone come to visit you?”

“Awfully quiet.”

“What about Andy?”

“He’s got so much on his mind.”

“But you talk to him on the phone, don’t you?”

“Sure, but it’s been at least two weeks now. He was really interested to hear what you were doing in Norway.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Oh, looking for ancestors, that sort of thing.”

Lance thought there was something about her voice that sounded different than before. A certain flatness.

“The lake is completely frozen over,” she said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Oh. Did they hear about it over there too?”

“The Internet, you know.”

“Oh. Right.”

“So what else did Andy say? Did he say anything about me?”

“No, I don’t think so. He was just wondering why you left for Norway so suddenly.”

“Did he mention anything about the deer hunt?”

“No, but I heard that you didn’t get anything.”

“That’s right. We didn’t.”

“Did you get caught in the ice storm?”

“Partly.”

“That must have been scary.”

“No, not really. It was fine,” Lance said.

He could hardly open his mouth anymore without lying. Not because he wanted to lie, but because every lie gave rise to another, which gave rise to two more, and on and on.

“I’ve tried to call you several times, but a voice said that your phone was turned off, or something like that.”

“That’s because it’s not possible to call my phone when I’m
out of the country. I can make calls, but I can’t receive any.” Another lie.

“Oh.”

“Is he feeling okay? Andy, I mean.”

“I think so,” said Inga.

“He hasn’t been sick?”

“Sounds like you’ve missed your little brother.”

“Not really.”

“Then why are you asking about him?”

“Okay, I guess I did miss him a bit.”

“You two boys,” said his mother, sighing.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that the two of you . . .”

A lengthy pause ensued. Lanced tried to think of something important to say that was also the truth, but he couldn’t come up with a thing.

“Did you meet any of our relatives?” Inga asked at last.

“No, I didn’t.”

“But didn’t you go to Halsnøy?”

“The roads were closed.”

“The whole time?” She sounded surprised.

“Yeah.”

“But why?”

“Snow.”

“Oh.”

“So it was all kind of foolish,” said Lance.

“What did you do in Norway then?”

“I had a vacation.”

“But you were gone so long!”

“I was just there—okay?” he snapped in annoyance and instantly regretted it.

“Okay, okay. When are you going to come and visit me?”

“I don’t really know. There are a number of things that I need to take care of after being away for so long. But I’ll come as soon as I can.”

“Is everything all right?” His mother suddenly sounded worried.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s nothing wrong, is there? Nothing serious?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, never mind. Sorry. It’s just me being old and confused.”

For a moment he thought she was going to cry.

“Don’t say that,” he told her. “I’ll come and visit you soon.”

“Oh, I can’t wait!”

“Me neither. But I’ve got to hang up now. I’ve got a lot to do.”

“It’s good to have you back home.”

“It’s good to
be
home. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

“Bye,” said Lance, and ended the call.

Afterward he sat with the phone in his hand, staring straight ahead. He thought about how he always used to take it for granted that he never lied. Previously it had simply been part of what he thought of as good manners. Only now was he beginning to realize how destructive lying could be. It was like a poison that was destroying him from the inside.