The Land of Dreams

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98 11 on monday, june , around lunchtime, Eirik Nyland and the FBI agent Jason Fries drove into the parking lot in front of the Whispering Pines Motel. Fries was in his late twenties, with dozens of tiny scars on his face, which Nyland assumed must have come from acne. He was Bob Lecuyer’s assistant. “So what’s your opinion about the tip we got?” asked Nyland. An anonymous woman had called the FBI, claiming that the motel clerk was generally a suspicious type who liked to spy on the guests. “Probably bullshit,” snorted Fries. “Do you really think the clerk would have followed those two Norwegians all the way out to Baraga ’s Cross, and then beat one of them to a pulp? Doesn’t sound very likely. Let’s hope the guy has an alibi so we can stop thinking about him. It’s probably just somebody who has a grudge against him. The same thing happened when I was out at the Indian reservation. That was on Friday, when you and Lecuyer were in Duluth to interview the Norwegian. Did you know there’s a reservation near here?” “I think Lecuyer mentioned it . . . and that you had gone out there.” “I had to go see a guy with a police record. A typical small-time crook. Some minor drug arrests. Drunk driving. He had an alibi, but he told me, ‘I’ve got bad friends, and my enemies are even worse. Plenty of people are going to cheer if I get locked up for life.’ That’s just the way things are. In small communities like this, there’s always somebody who’s got a beef against somebody else. And they’re the ones who usually call in these kinds of tips.” THE LAND OF DREAMS 99 Fries got out of the car, and Nyland followed. The motel was an L-shaped building with long rows of reddish-brown doors. A gilded room number on each door. Identical orange curtains at all the windows . The office was at the end of the short leg of the L; a big metal sign that said “Whispering Pines Motel” was screwed to the wall next to the door. The logo was two stylized pine trees. They went inside. The man behind the counter looked up from his newspaper. He had a dark, nicely trimmed beard and looked to be around fifty. He was wearing a cap with the words “Whispering Pines Motel.” “Welcome. Can I help you?” Jason Fries placed both hands on the counter, as if taking possession , and said, “Are you Garry Yuhala?” The man nodded. His name badge said Garry Yuhala. Nyland wondered whether it was a Finnish name. Right across from the motel was the road that led to the community of Finland. He remembered that Lance Hansen had mentioned that as they drove up here on Thursday. Fries held up his ID and introduced both himself and his Norwegian colleague. “We’re investigating the murder that was committed near Baraga’s Cross,” he said. “The two Norwegians stayed here before they set off on their last canoe trip. Isn’t that right?” “Yup,” said Yuhala. “How would you describe them?” “You mean what did they look like?” “No, we know what they look like,” said Fries. “What I want to know is what sort of guys would you say they were?” “What sort? Hmm . . . I don’t really know. They were just staying here. I don’t talk to the guests much.” “So you’re not interested in what the guests might be doing?” Nyland interjected. “I run a motel,” said Yuhala. “The only thing I care about is whether the guests pay the bill and don’t wreck anything.” “What about immoral activities?” asked Fries. Yuhala laughed. “It’s none of my business what grown-ups do behind closed doors.” “But to get back to the Norwegians,” said Fries, “how would you describe them?” Vidar Sundstøl 100 “I didn’t really talk to them while they were here. What do you want me to say?” “Was there any indication that they might not be getting along? Did they have any arguments?” “No, not at all. Nothing like that.” “So where were you on the night that Georg Lofthus was killed?” asked Nyland. “I was here until midnight. After that I left for home and went to bed.” “What time did...