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176 18 lance woke up in the dark. The first thing he thought about was whether he’d had any dreams. But of course he hadn’t. The alarm clock on the nightstand said it was one thirty. It was the Fourth of July, but there were many hours ahead before it was time for the parade and the fireworks. It was still night everywhere on the continent. He got up, put on his bathrobe, and went into the living room, which was faintly lit by the streetlamp down near the hardware store. The dark outline of the building was visible on the left. A short segment of the road was also illuminated. Otherwise it was completely dark outside. He thought about the lake out there in the darkness. The enormous expanse of water that went on and on, unseen by anyone, except as pictured in the minds of a few insomniacs. He wondered exactly how many people that might be. Regardless, he was one of them. One of the sleepless individuals who was thinking about the lake at this very moment. Seven years ago he’d dreamed he was standing at the deepest spot in Lake Superior. He thought he was going to freeze to death. At the same time, it was beautiful. A blue landscape he was convinced existed only in his dream. Now he stared out at the darkness enveloping the lake. Once upon a time this was a place where dreams determined a person’s path in life. The Ojibwe, before they became Christianized, were a people who interpreted dreams. No important decisions were made without considering dreams. Their THE LAND OF DREAMS 177 names often came from dreams. They made dream catchers to protect themselves from nightmares, and they wore amulets that represented particularly significant dreams they’d had. And now? Now there was a different kind of land out there. My brother is a murderer, he thought. A dark chasm was contained in that thought, and it was in that darkness that he now belonged . Not out in the bright Fourth of July celebrations that would take over in a few hours. He would end up walking around like some sort of phantom. Like a dead man who had come back to wander among the living one last time, but without being able to share their warmth or participate in their laughter and conversation. Andy had killed the Norwegian. He had done what he was in the process of doing to Clayton Miller when Lance had shown up at the schoolyard on that day so long ago. He had bashed in the man’s skull the way he had planned to bash Clayton’s skull. Those two young men, both of whom were gay. Because that has to be the reason, thought Lance. He hardly dared think about it, and yet he knew Georg Lofthus had been killed because he was a homosexual and just by chance happened to meet Andy Hansen in a bar. Ben Harvey had neglected to tell the FBI that he’d seen the two Norwegians with Andy. Instead, he had pushed that burden onto Lance’s shoulders. “And if you think it’s necessary, you can pass the information on to the FBI,” Ben had said. But he knew there was a connection between the Norwegians and Andy Hansen. And since Lance wasn’t the only one who knew about this, he could never be certain it wouldn’t all suddenly come to light. Maybe Ben would start having second thoughts, especially as time passed and no arrests were made in the case. And Andy had met the Norwegians in a public place, after all. It was true that the majority of customers at Our Place were sport fishermen and other tourists, people who were in the area for only a few days. But it was still possible that someone who knew Andy by sight had been in the bar in Finland on that evening. Our Place was a blind spot for Lance, and there was nothing he could do about it. Moving slowly, he went into his home office and turned on the light. He paused to look around. Still lying on his desk was the photograph of Joe Caribou, standing on the path that led to his mother ’s house. Lying next to it was the picture of Thormod Olson and his friends, taken in the photographer’s studio in Duluth. Lance [18.216...
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