The Land of Dreams

5

33 5 just before eleven on the following morning, Lance knocked on the door of the conference room in the Bluefin Bay Resort . He heard footsteps approaching, and then the door opened. A younger man stood there. “FBI?” Lance hesitantly asked. “Yes.” “I was asked to . . . I was the one who found the body.” “Of course. Come in.” The man closed the door behind them and then held out his hand. “Bob Lecuyer,” he said. “I’m in charge of the investigation.” “Lance Hansen.” Lecuyer went over to the long conference table in the middle of the room. A lot of documents were spread out on the table, along with several newspapers. He sat down in front of an open laptop. “Have a seat.” Lancesatdownacrossfromhim.ItlookedlikeLecuyerwasbusy reading something on the computer screen. He reminded Lance of a bank teller. Close-cropped dark hair, light-blue shirt, wristwatch, wedding ring, and at least ten years younger than himself. After a moment Lecuyer looked up. “Are you some sort of local historian?” he asked. “Not really. I have an archive, but . . .” “Exactly. So you’re the local historian. And that means you must know more about this place than most people.” “Just things about the past. That’s all I know about.” Vidar Sundstøl 34 “But that could be interesting too. We never know until we get started. I’m sure you know how it is. You’re a police officer, aren’t you?” “That’s right.” “So, shall we begin?” Lance nodded. Lecuyer leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. “Tell me everything,” he said. an hour later Lance was on his way to Sawbill Lake, where his cousin Gary Hansen had a canoe rental business. He usually dropped by to have a chat with Gary about once a week. He really should have gone out to Grouse Creek to check on a couple of teenagers who had apparently been riding their off-road four-wheelers outside the marked trails. All part of a typical workday for Lance Hansen. But his meeting with Lecuyer had made him uneasy. He’d answered the FBI man’s questions as accurately as he could, but when he was asked whether he knew of any suspicious activity occurring in the area around Baraga’s Cross, he had emphatically shaken his head and said no. And yet he knew a car had driven down Baraga Cross Road just before ten o’clock on Tuesday evening, meaning only a few hours before the murder. He also knew the driver of the car had shown up at the Tofte ranger station on the following day, claiming that he’d been at Lost Lake all night. As Lance sat there in the conference room, he pictured once again the shattered skull. The teeth. The tufts of hair. And he pictured his brother. Those two images belonged to two different worlds, which for some inexplicable reason were on the verge of colliding. But one thing he did know: it was up to him to prevent it from happening. The part of Superior National Forest that is a protected wilderness area begins at Sawbill Lake. A boundary passes through the entire forest. North of that line, no motorized vehicles are permitted, and not even the tiniest hut can be built. There isn’t a single foot of roadway, and all hunting is forbidden. In vast sections, the trees haven’t been cut in close to a hundred years. In fact, some parts have never been logged at all. The entire area would have been inaccessible if it weren’t for the water—and the canoe. That ingenious, THE LAND OF DREAMS 35 simple vessel that from time immemorial had carried human beings through these woods. Lance got out of his car in the parking lot in front of Northwoods Outfitters, run by his cousin Gary. There were plenty of other cars in the lot. He saw Gary in full swing, instructing some first-time paddlers on how to lift a canoe onto their shoulders. Lance gave him a wave and went into the shop, where it was possible to buy everything from matches to a six-man tent. He looked at some books that were for sale: Birding Minnesota, Minnesota’s Geology, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Canoeing and Kayaking, The Singing Wilderness. It looked as if there were about a dozen...