Only the Dead (15 page)

Lance went over to the wall of ice-coated birch trees. He was still shivering from the cold, and his head ached, yet he had no choice but to force his way through the tangle of branches and leaning tree trunks. As soon as he did, the forest closed behind him and everything looked exactly the same. For a moment he felt panic spreading through him. Then he regained control. He knew the lake was right behind him. Now all he had to do was to veer left in order to come out on the other side of the cliff that had blocked his path along the water. He kept on going, toiling to shove aside the big, dangling icicles, which clinked against each other. The sound of ice striking ice accompanied him as he made his way forward. After a while doubt again crept over him. He should have emerged from the woods by now. Hadn’t he kept far enough to the left? Or had he veered too much, so that he was walking in circles? He couldn’t figure out what had happened. All he could do was keep going, without really believing he would get anywhere. He was starting to think he was back in the same confusing labyrinth where he’d been only a short while ago.

Suddenly he came to a clearing. He could make out the contours of a vehicle beneath a thick layer of ice. On the other side of the clearing there seemed to be a road or a path. A sort of tunnel beneath the bowed and broken birch trees. He realized he was looking at the parking area near Baraga’s Cross. He almost didn’t recognize it. That must be Andy’s Chevy Blazer under all that ice. He took a step forward. His feet instantly slipped out from under him and he crashed to the ground, landing hard on his left elbow. He sat there, moaning with the pain. His rifle lay next to him; the ice coating had cracked when it struck the ground. Now the gun lay there as if brand new, pulled right from the mold. He picked up the rifle and inspected it. There was still a little ice here and there, but it would no longer act like a cold storage unit against his body. And the scope seemed to be intact.

He got up and cautiously made his way over to the Chevy. He couldn’t see in the windows. Maybe Andy’s sitting inside, he thought. No, why would he be doing that? But he obviously hadn’t gone home, so he must be around here somewhere. Lance thought about the branches he’d noticed moving a while ago. Maybe that was Andy. If so, he had to be nearby. But did he realize Lance was standing next to his vehicle?

Lance now reacted quickly. He crossed the mirror-smooth parking lot as fast as he dared and forced himself to go back into the woods. If he could manage to walk straight ahead, he should soon reach the Cross River right above Baraga’s Cross. Andy wouldn’t be expecting him to come from that direction.

After a few minutes he saw the river through the tree branches, and he was soon standing on the bank. Broken, icy trees hung out over the river on both sides. The rocks sticking up out of the water had strange domes of ice on top. Something moved at the very edge of his peripheral vision. He turned at once and caught sight of a man disappearing into the woods. This time he wouldn’t get away.

Lance started walking along the river, but he’d gone no more than a few yards when the man came back out of the woods a little farther down, near the cross. Lance took a step back and stood partially hidden behind a bowed birch. Then he raised his rifle, which was now released from its heavy burden of ice, and placed the buttstock against his shoulder. Through the scope he could see the man clearly.

It was Andy.

Lance stood as still as if he were stalking a deer. His brother was about twenty yards away from Baraga’s Cross, just about where the expanse of rocks began. It took an effort to stand there so long with the rifle in firing position, and Lance could feel the strain in his arms and shoulders. But many times he’d stood even longer without starting to shake. He had Andy in the crosshairs. Right between the shoulder blades. Soon it would be impossible to see him at all in the rapidly growing darkness. A triumphant feeling surged inside Lance. He tried to release the safety with his thumb, but it refused to budge. There must still be some ice in the mechanism. He tried again, but he couldn’t flick off the safety. Annoyed, he pressed on the trigger, but of course it wouldn’t move as long as the safety was on. He squeezed harder. The whole time he kept the crosshairs fixed on the same spot between his brother’s shoulders. Nothing happened. The telescopic scope was a dark tunnel, in which nothing existed except for him and Andy. Lance’s eye at one end, his brother’s back at the other. And beyond his brother stood Baraga’s Cross, on the verge of being erased by the darkness settling over the lake. He could just make out the long, rough icicles hanging from the two arms of the cross.

Andy turned around and looked straight at him. Through the powerful lenses Lance saw something click into place on his brother’s face. Then Andy set off running toward the protective wall of the ice-covered forest. The last Lance saw of him, he had pulled his rifle from his shoulder and was running with the gun in his hand, like a soldier in battle. A couple of icy branches swayed slightly at the spot where he disappeared into the woods. Then once again everything was still.

The situation had been turned on its head. Now it was Lance who stood exposed, and he felt drained of all strength. He’d lain too long on the ground, and the cold had penetrated so deeply into him that it couldn’t be driven out. It had settled on the inside of his skull. But the cold was no longer the greatest threat. Nor was the darkness, which was fast becoming impermeable among the trees. It was his brother he feared. He was somewhere very close. Lance’s rifle was unusable, but Andy didn’t know that. He had turned around and looked up along the river, and there he had seen Lance taking aim at him.

As Lance made his way through the dense, icy underbrush, it got so dark he could hardly see a thing anymore. He could barely even make out his hand when he waved it a foot or so in front of his face. And he couldn’t use the flashlight as long as Andy was searching for him. He had no idea where his brother was in relation to his own position; he heard only the rustle of his own Gore-Tex clothing and the icicles striking each other as he shoved them aside. Andy was a thin and agile man, with a unique ability to sneak up on his prey. He would have no difficulty coming upon Lance unawares in the dense woods. With all the ice covering the trees, the sound of a shot wouldn’t travel far, and besides it was unlikely anyone was around to hear it.

He felt like he was inside a cold, dark sack in which there was no longer any air to breathe. Lance was about to give up and lie down on the ground when he glimpsed something up ahead. He took a few more steps and saw that he had reached the edge of the parking area. Here a glimmer of light still remained. No more than a trace of gray in the darkness, but enough for him to discern the outline of the frost-covered vehicle. If he followed the perimeter of the parking lot to the left, he would soon reach Baraga Cross Road, which led up to Highway 61. He had no idea what good that would do, yet it felt like his only option. Maybe it was simply because the road connected all the places that were important to him in this small world of his—from Duluth to Grand Portage.

He started walking along the edge of the parking lot. Twice he slipped and fell, but finally he saw an open area under the broken trees. That had to be Baraga Cross Road. He stooped and went in. Now it was obvious he’d found the road, but he had a hard time making his way along the ice-covered asphalt, and he fell again and again. Finally he was so exhausted he couldn’t get himself to stand up anymore; he simply rolled over onto his back. His rifle lay across his chest. He gripped it with both hands, keeping his right index finger curled around the frozen trigger.

Then he clearly heard the sound of ice against ice very close by. Someone was coming, and it couldn’t be anyone but Andy. Would his brother find him in the dark? Lance’s only chance was to lie still as a mouse and then maybe Andy would walk right past. Or trip over him. There was no doubt that he was here. Lance could even hear him breathing. But all the ice was distorting the sound so much that he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It seemed to be coming from every direction at once. All he could do was lie still in the dark and wait.

He happened to think about the white cat. How it had lain there in the beam from his flashlight, unable to move. He took a tighter grip on his rifle, pressed his finger harder on the trigger. All around him in the dark he heard his brother breathing—it was a sound that had always been present, although Lance hadn’t given it much thought. In the darkness of the room they’d shared as kids, before they each had their own room. Next to him in the backseat of the car; sometimes against his shoulder, with drool seeping out of Andy’s mouth. And on a September day in the school yard, with a baseball bat in his hand and an expression that was the loneliest sight Lance had ever seen. Always that same breathing.

And now he could hear it coming from every direction in the dark all around him. He tightened his grip on the rifle. At the same time there was something restrained about it, as if his brother were doing everything he could not to be heard. He was keeping his breaths as short and subdued as Lance was doing. And yet his breathing resounded inside Lance’s head.

Andy had seen him standing there, taking aim. Now Lance was the one being hunted. A sense of lightness was growing inside him. It began to swell, and the sound of Andy’s breathing swelled with it, getting steadily louder as it spread, as if it might soon be the only thing that existed.

That was when something occurred to Lance:
Could it be my own breathing I’m hearing?
He held his breath and listened. A moment later Andy’s breathing stopped too. Or was it his own that had stopped? He released it with a slight whistle, scared his brother would hear. Then he listened. Yes, it was still there. The same breathing. Again Lance held his breath. The same thing happened. A few seconds passed, and then the other breathing stopped too. And when he allowed himself to breathe once again, he heard the other person start breathing too. If it was Andy he heard, it must mean that Andy could also hear him. Was his brother standing right next to him in the dark, hearing the very same thing he heard? Was he also surrounded by his brother’s breathing? Maybe that was why nothing happened—because Andy didn’t know where Lance was in the darkness all around them. Maybe he was standing there, waiting for Lance to give away his location.

He held his breath again. This time the other person also stopped breathing a couple of seconds later.

Suddenly Andy’s voice pierced the silence.

“Lance?” the voice whispered.

He was just about to answer, but realized at the last moment that it was a trap. If he replied, he would reveal where he was. He didn’t even dare breathe, just held his rifle in a tight grip.

“You’re a dead man, Lance,” Andy whispered.

He felt the trigger give way, but he couldn’t stop it. The bang struck his eardrums like a hammer against an anvil. The darkness exploded in yellow and orange. A brief cry sounded right near him. Then he heard the body topple over with icicles clinking all around.

Above us are two birch branches lashed together with some sort of rope. If only I can get to my feet, I can tumble him into the open strip of water. But my body refuses. I try. I can hear myself screaming and carrying on. It’s like hearing something from far away. As if I’m standing somewhere in the woods, listening to a madman screaming and carrying on near the cross. I’m standing over there behind a tree. I must have been the one who went into the forest. I got up inside the other body and left. Now I’m an Indian in the woods. No, that’s crazy! I killed him. He’s lying right here. I’m glad I remembered to hide the ax. If I hadn’t done that, they probably would have found it. Because someday someone will come here. And they would have seen that it’s a white man’s ax. But I hid it under a spruce tree. It will probably stay there for a long time before anyone finds it. But you never know, so I can’t feel completely safe. Never again completely safe. If I don’t get up soon, I’ll die. The cabin where Knut lives. It’s there in the woods, not far away, with smoke coming from the chimney. If only I can get there, no one can stop me. Then I will finally have arrived in America—someone who has killed a man in order to get there.

With a hollow shriek in a voice I don’t recognize, I get up on my knees. Out there is the treacherous ice that I tried to walk across. I can see the hole where I fell in. Beyond the ice lies the lake, black and glittering. I’m going to haul up all the big fish that live down there. Every single one. Fragile as glass, I get to my feet and stand up straight. Lean one hand on the cross. Look out at the lake. The other hand is wet with blood. My own, I think. A ripping sensation inside me when I breathe. My mouth is swollen with cuts and blood left when my lips froze to the crusted snow. They’ve been left behind somewhere in the woods, those lips that I used to talk with back home. What kind of place is this, anyway? A cross on a desolate spit of land. Maybe they had to chase the heathens away when they first came here. And that’s why they put up the cross, to frighten them. I press my forehead to the cross and think about God and Jesus. And about the pastor who confirmed me. I pray to all three, asking forgiveness for what I’ve done. Then I go over to the dead man, lean down, and with a strength I didn’t know I had, I drag him the last short distance down to the open strip of water. There I drop him, so that he’s lying at the very edge. All it will take is a small push and he’ll slide out. But is the current strong enough to carry him out into the water and under the edge of the ice? There’s only one way to find out. I set my foot on him, about to send him off, but it seems inhuman to do it like that. To just send him off, out into the dark, cold water. But I’ve already killed him, so why can’t I get rid of his body? He’s nothing more than a piece of meat. But he’s lying there with that broad, dark face of his turned toward me. His eyes half open. That big, beaked nose. Open mouth. Black hair, a little longer than mine, is sticking out from under the scarf.