21
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Stride took a left exit off the interstate and headed for the steep span of the Blatnik Bridge. The narrow crossing over Superior Bay was also known as the High Bridge, a nickname held over from the days when the second bridge between the cities of Duluth and Superior was the lowly Arrowhead Bridge. Ever since the Bong Bridge had opened in 1985, and the Arrowhead Bridge was torn down, the two bridges had provided identical clearance for ships, about 120 feet from the roadway to the cold waters of the harbor. But for locals, the Blatnik Bridge would always be the High Bridge.
Police on both sides of the bay hated the bridge. Fog, ice, and snow caused numerous accidents. Wind blew cars and trucks across the lanes. Jurisdiction was always a headache, because the state line cut right through the center of the bridge. Then there were the citizens who used the High Bridge like the Golden Gate, as a favorite spot for suicides. The Blatnik offered no pedestrian walkway, only a gravel-strewn shoulder and a three-foot concrete barrier. Leave your car at the height of the span, get out, and take a three-second journey to neverland.
Stride had seen the bridge from both sides, helping untangle wrecks on
the highway in the fog and sailing under the bridge in Coast Guard boats as they trolled for bodies. To him, the bridge meant death.
He drove fast in the left lane, crossing under the blue steel arch of the bridge and descending into the decay of northern Superior. He made his way off the highway onto Tower Avenue, driving past shuttered storefronts, where the main street was a ghost town. The two cities were known as the Twin Ports, but Superior was the poor sister, its population declining, its economy staggered by industrial decline. No one made money here. No one built houses. Everyone looked for work and staved off the wolf at the door.
Stride drove south, past the citys small retail strip into the low, empty land. He turned onto a dirt road that led across a series of railroad tracks. The home that Rikke and Finn Mathisen shared was on a two-acre lot at the end of the developed land, where the road ended in waste and fields. The grass on the square lot was long. Oak trees yawned over the three-story Victorian house. Blue paint chipped away from the siding.
He parked his Expedition across the street and got out. He was immediately adjacent to an unguarded railroad crossing, where nothing but a white
X
marked the tracks. Tilting poles of telephone wires paralleled the railway. Stride could see a train rumbling between houses a quarter mile away. Its whistle blasted through the quiet in several staccato bursts. When it stopped, he noticed the calmer noise of wind chimes tinging from the Mathisen porch.
It was nearly eight oclock on Thursday evening. On sunny summer nights, there would be more than an hour of light left, but the clouds overhead were thick and gray, making the dusk look like night. A steady breeze blew dust off the dirt roads. Hot, humid air came with it. Stride walked up the sidewalk, where green grass pushed between the squares of pavement. He noticed a driveway leading to a detached garage behind the house and saw a 1980s-era tan Impala parked in the weeds.
The wooden steps to the porch sagged under his feet. He went up to the front door and peered inside, seeing lights downstairs. When he rapped his knuckles on the door frame, he saw a tall, stocky woman emerge from the kitchen with an apron tied around her waist. She answered the door, and Stride saw an older version of the woman who had taught him math during his junior year in high school.
Can I help you? she asked, drying her hands on the flowers of the apron. Under the apron, she wore a collared white knit shirt and shorts. The windows were closed, and the air from the house was stale and warm.
Ms. Mathisen?
Yes.
My name is Lieutenant Jonathan Stride. Im with the Duluth police. You wouldnt remember me, but you were my math teacher for a year back in high school. That was longer ago than either of us would like to admit, I think.
Rikke didnt smile. Police?
Yes, I was hoping to talk to Finn.
Hes not here.
Do you know when hell be back?
No.
Well, do you mind if I come in? Id like to ask you a few questions, too.
Rikke didnt rush to invite him inside. You said youre with the Duluth police? Shouldnt you have someone from Superior with you? This isnt Minnesota, you know.
I know, but thats not actually necessary, Stride told her. This wont take long.
Rikke shrugged and opened the door. Inside, the old house was decorated with worn throw rugs woven in diamond patterns and half a dozen clay pots of drooping philodendron plants. He noticed two skinny cats wandering across the wooden floors. A fine layer of cat hair had settled over the living room furniture, and he caught a whiff of ammonia. He sat down in an uncomfortable Shaker chair. Rikke untied her apron and sat on the sofa opposite him. She picked at the fraying fabric and pulled white foam from the arm of the sofa. An orange tabby walked across her lap.
What do you want? she asked.
He tried to picture the twenty-something teacher inside her. Back then, she had been tall and fit, with wavy, flowing blond hair and Nordic good looks. She had intense blue eyes and large circular glasses propped on her high cheekbones. Full, ripe breasts swelled underneath her white sweaters and defied gravity. Her fleshy, strong thighs bulged out of her
jeans. She had a severe way about her in the classroom, like a dominatrix. They joked about it in the locker room. Teacher, Ive been bad.
Thirty years had taken a toll on Rikke. She was heavier, with cellulite dimpling her legs. Her blond hair was short and came out of a bottle. Her face was rounded and jowly. She no longer wore glasses, but her eyes were as fierce as he remembered, like two globes of azure ice. He noticed that one breast sagged like a melting snowman across her chest, and where the other breast should have been, the fabric of her shirt puckered over empty space. A pink ribbon was pinned to the pocket.
You taught algebra, didnt you? Or was it geometry?
Geometry.
But not anymore?
Not in a very long time.
I have it right, dont I? Finn lives here with you?
Yes, he does.
Hes your brother?
Thats right.
Its unusual to find a brother and sister who have stayed together so long, Stride said.
Finns had a hard life, Rikke replied. Hes seven years younger than I am, and hes always needed someone to look after him.
Why is that?
Why do you care? Do you suspect Finn of having done something wrong?
Not at all.
Then why are you here?
Finn provided some information thats pertinent to one of our investigations, Stride told her. Candidly, Im trying to assess his credibility as a witness.
What investigation?
Stride didnt reply.
Irritated, Rikke pushed the cat off her lap and pulled at her shirt. What do you want to know?
Tell me about his background. You said he had a hard life.
Finn and I grew up in North Dakota, Rikke replied. Our father was killed in a car accident when Finn was ten. Our mother died five years
later. I had just graduated with my teaching license at the time. I took Finn, and we moved here. I got a job. I bought this house with the money we got from selling the farm. I was hoping to give us a fresh start, but for Finn, the wounds went too deep. He spent years on drugs. Hes still drinking himself to death. Sometimes I think I should have kicked him out and let him stand on his own two feet, but I was the only family he had. I wasnt going to turn my back on him.
That cant have been easy.
I didnt say it was.
Do you remember a girl named Laura Starr? Stride asked.
The muscles in Rikkes face tightened. Her cheeks bloomed with pink circles. Yes, of course.
A journalist named Tish Verdure is writing a book about Laura Starrs murder, Stride said.
So I hear. I read the papers.
Finn told Tish he was in the park the night Laura was killed.
Rikke shook her head. Finn said that? No, thats not right.
You think Finn is lying?
He may be making up a story to impress this woman, but more likely, his mind is pulling together bits and pieces of things hes read about the murder over the years. Finns mental state is highly unreliable, Lieutenant. Drugs and drink have fried his brain since he was a boy. He doesnt have a solid grasp on whats real and whats not, certainly not after so much time has passed. I assure you, he wasnt there.
It was a long time ago, Stride said. How can you be so sure?
You think I ever let Finn drive back then? Rikke asked. He never had a car. The only way he got anywhere was if I drove him. That night, we were both at home watching the fireworks.
Stride leaned forward with his hands on his knees. Did Finn know Laura?
Yes, we both did.
I understand Finn was in love with her.
Finn? Puppy dog love maybe. Nothing more. Laura was one of my favorite studentsa sweet girl, very pretty, very quiet. She wanted to be a counselor for teenagers in dysfunctional families. She was passionate about it. I encouraged her to spend time with Finn, because I thought it would
help them both. To her credit, she really devoted herself to Finn. I think she made a difference with him, and Im sure he was grateful to her. To him, that was probably love.
What else can you tell me about Laura?
You should probably talk to Tish about her, Rikke said. The two of them were best friends for a while.
For a while?
Rikke cocked her head. Yes, they certainly werent friends at the end.
Oh?
God, no. They broke up very badly. Laura came to me in tears.
Did she say what happened?
She told me they had a fight.
What was the fight about?
Rikke steepled her fingers together. She spoke slowly. It was about a boy. Tish was insanely jealous. She demanded that Laura stop seeing him.
Who was it?
Laura didnt tell me his name, but I always assumed it was the boy from that rich family in Duluth. The Stanhopes. I read in the papers after her death that Laura and Peter were seeing each other.
Stride didnt like where this was going. It made him wonder again about Tishs motives in pursuing Peter Stanhope.
Did Finn talk to you about Lauras murder after it happened? Did he ever say he knew something about it?
Of course not. Like I told you, he wasnt there.
I do need to talk to Finn, Stride said, getting to his feet. How do I reach him?
Rikke waved her hand dismissively. He comes and goes when he pleases. Im not my brothers keeper. Call the delivery company, and maybe they can help you find him somewhere on his route.
Stride nodded. I appreciate your time.
Rikke didnt reply.
You know, I do remember something from your geometry class, Stride added.
Oh?
I think it was called the parallel postulate.
Rikke shrugged. If two lines cross a third and form less than two right angles, then eventually the two lines will meet if extended far enough. Why on earth do you find that so interesting?
Its something I find in most of my investigations, Stride told her. Sooner or later, the lines always intersect.
After Stride left, Rikke Mathisen stood at the living room window that looked out on the street. Holding aside the lace curtain, she watched Stride retreat into the dusky gloom and climb into his truck. His headlights burst on like two staring eyes, and then gravel scraped as he sped down the dirt road back to the highway, jolting across the railroad tracks. She watched until the red taillights disappeared and kept watching as night fell outside like a black cloud enveloping the house. Her orange tabby cat rubbed against her legs and mewed, but Rikke didnt move. In the distance, coming from the northeast, a train screamed. Even at this distance, she felt its vibration under her feet. It didnt matter how long she had lived here. She heard every train.
Rikke turned away. Hung on the foyer wall by a steel wire was a mirror, framed in heavy brass, laden with dust. She caught a glimpse of her dark reflection, and her breath clutched in her chest, because it was her mothers face staring back at her like a mean-eyed ghost brought up from the earth. Fate was cruel. Thirty years had passed, and she had become the person that she and Finn had hated for so long. You can run and run, and when you think youve escaped, you realize that all along youve been running in a circle.
She switched off the downstairs light and felt her way with her hands, like a blind person, toward the mahogany steps that led upstairs. At the top of the stairs, she stared at the closed door in front of her. Finns room. She jiggled the metal knob, but it was locked. He always kept it locked. He didnt realize that Rikke kept a key. She let herself inside and turned on the light, not caring if Finn saw the glow from his bedroom window when he drove home. The room was messy. Soiled clothes were strewn across the bed and draped over the closet door. Crushed cans of Budweiser littered the floor like silver hockey pucks. She smelled urine from his sheets. He still wet the bed.
