Only the Dead
Authors: Vidar Sundstøl
Only the Dead
Minnesota Trilogy
The Land of Dreams
Only the Dead
The Ravens
Only the Dead
Vidar Sundstøl
Translated by
Tiina Nunnally
Minnesota Trilogy 2
University of Minnesota Press
Minneapolis
This translation has been published with the financial support of NORLA (Norwegian Literature Abroad, Fiction and Nonfiction).
Copyright 2009 by Tiden Norsk Forlag, Oslo, an imprint of Gyldendal Norsk Forlag AS. Originally published in Norwegian as
De døde.
English translation copyright 2014 by Tiina Nunnally All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by the University of Minnesota Press
Minneapolis, MN 55401–2520
LIBRARY
OF
CONGRESS
CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION
DATA
Sundstøl, Vidar. [
De Døde
. English]
Only the dead / Vidar Sundstøl ; translated by Tiina Nunnally. (Minnesota Trilogy ; 2)
ISBN
978-1-4529-4347-3
1. Brothers—Fiction. 2. Tourists—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Minnesota—Fiction. 4. Family secrets—Fiction. I. Nunnally, Tiina, 1952– translator. II. Title.
PT
8952.29.
U
53
D
6413 2014
839.82'38—dc23
The University of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator and employer.
HIS
CELL
PHONE
began silently vibrating in his pants pocket. Lance Hansen cautiously took it out and checked the display, but the number was not one he recognized. Just as cautiously he put the phone back. Then he again gripped his rifle with both hands.
It was sprinkling a bit, making a few rippling rings on the surface of the water. His cell was still vibrating. He wondered who could be calling him. At that moment he saw a buck emerge from the woods across the lake. It paused, its body erect and alert. A drop of water was forming at the tip of Lance’s nose, but he didn’t want to risk wiping it off. The slightest movement might give him away. He concentrated on standing still, not even shifting his gaze. Through the light rain coming down over the lake, the deer looked like part of the landscape. Someone who was not observant would have had a very hard time noticing that it was standing there at all.
The deer turned its head to look back toward the woods. Quickly and silently Lance raised his rifle, took aim, and found the deer in his scope. All of a sudden it was very close. He could see how the damp was making the rough hairs of the outer coat stick together in patterns of darker stripes, and steam was rising from the animal’s warm body. But this was not a large buck, and when it again turned its head, he saw that its antlers were small and asymmetrical.
As soon as he lowered his rifle, the deer froze. Then it disappeared, bounding away with long, springy strides. The last he saw of it was the raised white tail.
His cell phone had stopped vibrating. He wiped the drop from his nose. The branches of the tall maple trees down by the mouth of the creek were bare. Here and there a solitary yellow leaf still clung to a birch twig. The puddles on the boggy ground had thick layers of rotting leaves on the bottom. Twice before he had brought down a deer at Copper Pond, as the small lake was called. Both times he had stood partially hidden behind the very same shaggy fir tree. From here he had a clear shot across the water, with no obstructing bushes or trees. It was approximately a hundred yards to the spot where the deer usually came out of the woods.
He glanced at his watch. They would have to stop soon if they were going to get back to their cars before dark. Somewhere in the woods over there, his brother, Andy, was on his way toward the lake. He was supposed to call before he showed up. That was how they made sure that the person doing the driving didn’t end up in the line of fire. As long as the driver hadn’t called, the poster was free to shoot at any deer that appeared. As soon as the driver called to say he was approaching, all shooting was banned. That was also why they couldn’t take calls from anyone else. If they did, they risked getting a busy signal when they tried to phone each other. This was the new system they’d improvised after Lance, much to his surprise, had discovered earlier in the morning that the walkie-talkies they always used were not in their usual place in the garage. There was no sign of a break-in, and it had been a long time since he’d last checked their communications equipment, so he decided he must have moved them himself and then forgotten about it. At any rate, there had been no time to get hold of new walkie-talkies.
Again he focused his attention on the edge of the woods across the lake. He studied one small patch at a time before moving his gaze to another area. The overriding grays and browns of the November landscape made it difficult to catch sight of a deer. It was a matter of keeping out extraneous thoughts and simply scanning his surroundings, on the lookout for the arch of a neck or the sway of a back among all the other organic shapes in the woods.
After a moment he glanced at his watch again, but only ten minutes had passed. Since dusk would settle in soon, he decided he’d better try calling his brother.
When the phone had rung five or six times, Lance realized that he wasn’t going to get an answer. Even so, he let it keep ringing. Presumably Andy was closing in on a deer. The driver usually walked with the wind at his back in order to scare the animals forward toward the hunter waiting on post, but today there was no wind. The light rain was falling straight down. Under these circumstances it was possible to sneak up on a deer, and his brother was an expert at doing just that. He could move so quietly that not even a deer could hear him.
After Lance had stood there for another five minutes without hearing anything from his brother, he decided to call it a day. He might as well go back to the cars and wait there. That was the usual procedure if they couldn’t find each other.
He slung the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and began heading toward the south end of the lake, where the creek ran out of it. Crossing the boggy ground took some effort. He was a heavy man, and for every step he took, he had to drag his feet up from the gurgling muck. When he reached the mouth of the creek, he sat down on a rock. He sat there in the rain, breathing hard. Above him the naked gray branches of the maple trees stretched toward the rainy sky. The drops were falling faster now, a pattering cold rain. He noticed that steam was rising off him, just as it had from the body of the deer he’d taken aim at only a short time ago.
Then he got to his feet and started walking along the creek, which passed through a culvert beneath the road, right near their parked cars. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes for him to get there. Spruce trees stood close together on either side, creating a semidarkness filled with the sound of running water. At one spot he had to descend a steep, muddy slope near a little waterfall. The ground was slippery, and he slid rather than clambered down to the pool at the base of the waterfall. There he crouched down next to the creek and rinsed off his mud-covered hands. The temperature had dropped so low that he didn’t notice any significant difference when he stuck his hands in the water. As he stood up, he saw something move in the woods, maybe twenty yards away. Only for a second, a glimpse of something dark. Automatically he reached for his rifle, which he’d leaned against a tree trunk, but then stopped himself; he thought it might have been a person, someone who had quickly retreated. Lance was still standing there, bending forward, with his arm stretched out and his hand ready to pick up the rifle. He listened intently but it was utterly quiet, except for the raindrops striking his jacket and the churning sound of the little waterfall.
His phone began vibrating again. Another number he didn’t recognize. When it stopped ringing, he checked the previous call and saw that it was the same number both times. Someone was clearly trying to get hold of him, but it wasn’t his brother.
The crackling sound of maple leaves under his boots told him the temperature must be around freezing. The rain might even turn to snow during the night. He made a few abrupt stops so he could stand still and listen. But why would anyone be following him?
He reached the gravel road. There stood his brother’s white Chevy Blazer with the red door on the right-hand side and his own black Jeep Cherokee. They had parked at the end of a long, straight stretch of road. He took the magazine out of his rifle and removed the cartridge from the chamber. Then he placed the rifle inside his Jeep, got in, and turned on the engine.
A CD of the program
Car Talk
was in the stereo. The two hosts, who were brothers, had a woman from Washington, D.C., on the line. They were discussing an ethical question that had something to do with a borrowed car and a fine. He didn’t catch all the details. Finally they said she was just going to have to pay up. Either that, or get herself a gun. When she told them she already had a gun, one of the hosts said, in that case, why was she bothering to call them?
After trying to phone his brother one more time without getting an answer, Lance pulled up his hood and stepped back out into the cold rain, going over to the Chevy. Both doors were locked, as they should be. There was a copy of
Guns & Ammo
on the passenger seat. In the back he could see work clothes, tools, oil cans, several pairs of logger boots, a hard hat, and other types of gear for work. Everything looked perfectly normal, except for the fact that his brother hadn’t arrived. And the fact that he wasn’t picking up his phone.
A twig snapped. Lance turned around, prepared to see Andy emerging from the woods, but that didn’t happen. The wall of spruce trees stood motionless before him.
“Hello?” he said.
Not a sound from the forest.
“Hello?” he ventured again, louder this time, but no one replied.
He picked up a rock and threw it at the trees, then stood still and listened, but he heard only the raindrops landing on his hood. For a few more seconds he stood there, staring into the darkness between the trees. Then he turned on his heel and went back to his Jeep. He knew what it was he’d just heard. The unmistakable sound of a dry twig snapping under the weight of a body. Could it have been something other than a person? Maybe a moose or a deer? Doubtful in such a dense part of the woods.
He was feeling a little foolish, but he didn’t want to take any chances, so he backed a good distance down the road before he parked again. Someone had been over by the creek too. A brief glimpse, a movement, as if someone had retreated so as not to be seen.
The forest was just as dense and dark here as where he’d stood before. It was raining harder now. The Chevy had become a blurry, gray patch at the end of the long flat clearing. Soon there would be no point in continuing to wait for his brother. For a moment Lance was tempted to switch off his phone and just sit there. Not try to contact anyone. Or organize a search party. Just sit there on this gravel road deep inside the forest as evening turned into night, and let somebody else take responsibility.
He jumped when he heard a knock on the passenger-side window of the Jeep. Outside he saw his brother’s face pressed close to the glass.
“DID
YOU
LOSE
YOUR
PHONE?”
he asked as soon as Andy opened the Jeep door.
“No.”
“I’ve been trying to call you.”
Andy dug his cell out of his pocket and looked at it. “Out of juice,” he said in surprise. “I must have forgotten to charge it.”
The whole car smelled of his brother. His sweat mixed with rain. His thin hair hanging straight down, cut as if a bowl had been placed on his head. His clothes. His breath. Lance had known that smell all his life.
“So, did you see any deer?”
“One,” said Lance.
“A buck?”
“Yeah.”
“Too small?”
“Yeah.”
Andy’s face looked drawn and worn out. Lance had noticed this earlier in the day too. He must not be sleeping well lately, he thought.
“Where’d you come from?” he asked his brother.
“Copper Pond, as we agreed, but you weren’t there.”
“Why didn’t you phone me?”
“My cell was dead.”
“But you didn’t notice that until now.”
“I tried . . .”
“But what?”
“My cell wasn’t working,” Andy repeated.
“Then why did you look so surprised right now?”
Something didn’t add up. There was something he needed to find out.
“Lance . . .” said Andy with a resigned sigh. He fidgeted with his rifle, which he’d placed between his legs, with the butt stock on the floor and the barrel propped against his shoulder.
“What?” said Lance, sounding impatient and annoyed.
Andy bit his lip, which was something he always did whenever he was feeling nervous.
“You know that break-in at the cabin this summer?” he said.
The change of subject was so blatant that Lance could hardly believe his ears.
“When I got there, I saw that the rock I usually keep the spare key under was lying on the ground.”
Lance thought about how he’d initially searched for the key, and then used the rock to break a window. He’d been looking for answers, fueled by a growing suspicion regarding his brother and the murder near Baraga’s Cross.
“So?” he said now. “What about it?”
“Somebody must have been looking for the key, but you told me you thought some kids had broken in. They wouldn’t know where I hid the key.”
“Right. That was me, when I discovered the break-in. I thought the key might be in the usual place.”
The only thing of interest Lance had found in the cabin was a copy of the music magazine
Darkside,
and the only one who could have possibly brought it there was Andy’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Chrissy. Since it was the latest issue, she must have been at the cabin sometime during the three weeks before the murder. She might even have been there on the night the man was killed. According to Andy’s wife, Tammy, father and daughter had returned home together on the day after the murder. Andy claimed to have gone to the cabin to do some fishing, while Chrissy had spent the night with a girlfriend in Duluth. At least that was how Tammy had described her family’s movements during that twenty-four-hour period.
“Why would you go looking for the key after you discovered someone broke in?” asked Andy.
“What exactly are you trying to say?”
“It just puzzles me. That’s all.”
Lance stared straight ahead without saying anything. He could no longer see the Chevy.
“Well, whatever.” Andy pulled up his hood. “It’s getting late.”
“Hmm,” muttered Lance.
“What about tomorrow?” Andy opened the car door.
“I suppose we should . . .”
“Yes, we should. I was thinking maybe . . . Cross River. Above the road.”
“Why there?” asked Lance.
“A big buck has been roaming around up there all summer.”
“I never heard about that.”
Andy got out of the car. “Shall we say eight o’clock in the parking lot near the bridge?” He had one hand on the door, ready to close it. In his other hand he held the rifle.
“Okay,” said Lance. “Eight o’clock at Cross River.”
His brother shut the door without saying good-bye. Lance tried to watch him as he headed for his own vehicle, but he was instantly swallowed up by the dark.
THE
WET
ASPHALT
gleamed in the light from the North Shore Market in Tofte. A few cars drove past on Highway 61. On the other side of the road was the Coho Café, closed now for the winter, and beyond it nothing but impenetrable darkness. Henry was standing behind the counter in the grocery store, wearing glasses with thick lenses and one of his usual flannel shirts. His scalp was clearly visible through the sparse strands of his straw-colored hair.
