158 17 eirik nyland had deliberately omitted telling Bob Lecuyer that he was going to visit Lance Hansen. You never know what might come up if you have a beer with a witness, he thought, and if you know something the others don’t, it’s a lot harder for them to fool you. Not that he distrusted Lecuyer. That just happened to be what he was thinking. After eating an early dinner at the restaurant in the hotel, he got into his rental car and drove the couple of miles up to Isak Hansen’s hardware store. He had considered getting a cab and bringing along a bottle of Gammel Opland, but he decided that would be overdoing things. It was only a Thursday evening, after all. He was in a good mood. The workday had ended with useful, though not exactly surprising, news confirming that the semen found in Lofthus’s stomach was from Bjørn Hauglie. Now they were just waiting for the results from the Chicago lab that was analyzing the evidence taken from the crime scene. If the results contained no trace of a third person, they would arrest Hauglie and charge him with the murder of Georg Lofthus. Either way, they would soon have to confront him with the fact that he had lied. But at the moment Nyland was parking his rented Subaru next to Hansen’s black Jeep. Then he got out. The house was painted the same shade of green used by the U.S. Forest Service. Several pieces of patio furniture and a barbecue stood on a covered deck. Farther out on the lawn was a hammock. A toy bulldozer lay toppled over on its side near the doorstep. There was a lovely view of the lake. THE LAND OF DREAMS 159 As Nyland began walking toward the house, the front door opened and Lance Hansen came out. “Hi, and welcome!” he said, holding out his hand when Nyland was still a few yards away. They greeted each other warmly. “Nice place you’ve got here,” said Nyland, casting a glance at the view. “Can’t complain.” Nyland looked around. “Does your family own the store down there?” “One of my cousins. It was started in by my grandfather, the year after he arrived from Norway.” “Was he the one from Levanger?” “Yep.” “Your father’s father?” “That’s right.” Nyland again felt the sense of rapport that he’d noticed during their drive from the airport a week ago. He didn’t know why, but he felt more at ease with Lance Hansen than with many people he’d known for years. “Do you know when your relatives emigrated?” asked Lance. “No, I haven’t got a clue.” “So what was their last name?” “I know this sounds ridiculous, but I don’t even know that.” “Hmm . . . ,” said Lance. “There’s not really much to go on then.” “No, there isn’t,” Nyland agreed. “If you want to come into my office, I can show you a few good websites, but if you don’t even have a last name . . .” “Well, maybe I’d better try to dig up some names when I get back home. Then I can e-mail them to you.” “Sure. You’re welcome to do that.” They stood there, looking down at the hardware store that Lance’s grandfather had started. “I wonder what would make a man decide to emigrate and leave everything familiar behind,” mused Nyland. “It was hard to find work in Norway in . Times were tough here too, but at least this was a much bigger country, with more opportunities. Plus, I think he must have had a certain thirst for adventure. He was young and single, after all.” [3.238.228.191] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 16:45 GMT) Vidar Sundstøl 160 “Do you think he ever had any regrets?” “Hard to say. Especially since I’ve never cut the bonds the way he did, you know.” Nyland took this as an invitation to talk about personal things, about life in general. “So do you think you could have done what he did?” he asked cautiously, trying to indicate that he didn’t mean to pry. Lance looked like he was giving the question serious consideration . Nyland noticed that an almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face for a moment and then vanished. “Not in the past, but I’m not so sure anymore,” he...