I looked along the shelves, picking up some of the coins, rubbing the smooth metal, wondering what it must have been like to have the coins safely in one's pocket or luggage and then to fall desperately into the cold waters of the Atlantic, off the coast of Tyler, drowning within sight of safety. The coins felt old, the compasses and brasswork felt old, the whole damn room felt old. There was a smell to the room, as well, of dust and salt and things kept underwater for a very long time before being brought up to the surface. At his desk, Jon switched on a green-shaded lamp and reached behind him, to a crowded bookcase. He took an old volume out, the leather binding cracked and worn, and opened it up to what looked to be a familiar page for him.
"Come here, let me show you something," he said. I came around to his side of the desk and looked down at the book, which was opened to a woodcut illustration, showing an open field, with raised mounds, with men using teams of horses and plows to break through the mounds.
"Viking ruins? Like the ones up in Newfoundland?"
"That's what I'm thinking," he said, a thick finger tracing the old illustration. "This is a history of Wentworth County, written in 1850. There’s this drawing and a two-paragraph reference, talking about a farm in Tyler that had these odd mounds on top of it, and how they were plowed under so that the farmer could expand his fields. Thing is, the Indians in this part of the world never had any structures like these. And this illustration looks exactly like the mounds up in Newfoundland."
"And who was the farmer back then?"
He sighed. "Damned if I know. I've gone through old newspapers, journals, microfilms, books, deeds, and about anything else with a written word on it. Not one of them ever mentions a farm in Tyler and old mounds on them that were plowed under. Not a single one." He tapped the illustration with his finger. "But there it is. The problem is, where's the location? There were scores of farms in Tyler at about that time, and you know what the development around here has been like. Chances are, that old farmland is under a parking lot or an office complex or the Interstate, for all I know. Still... those mounds and that coin, Lewis, are the best evidence I have about the Viking settlement here."
I kept quiet. Jon quickly broke the silence. "I know what you're thinking. Some evidence. One illustration in an old book, and the memory of a young boy that he in fact found a Viking coin, nearly a half century ago. But that's what I have." He closed the book and then looked out to the dark corners of the office, where the table lamp didn't illuminate. "That's what I have. A brother who I can hardly stand, and an ex-wife who got tired of traveling and tired of my tales, and who's living in Oregon. And a dream I won't give up on. Not ever. Not ever."
So I joined the procession, flanking the casket as we went back down the center aisle. The organist was playing some sort of recessional tune, and the sparse congregation stood up as we made our way to the open double doors. Again I looked around to see if Jon's younger brother had snuck in during the service, though I knew the chances of that happening were quite slim indeed.
Just before going outside, the church cloth was removed from the smooth metal top of the casket, replaced by the American flag. The men from the funeral home worked in the quick, spare movements of those who deal with the dead and the grieving week after week. I grasped one of the metal handles as we lifted the casket up, the metal cart underneath pulled away and folded up. We stepped out onto the wet steps, and I looked out to the parking lot, knowing that no, I would not see Jon's younger brother out there, for now Ray Ericson was more than just a brother, he was a suspect.
For three nights ago, I had gotten an excited phone call from Jon Ericson, saying he had finally found it, the evidence that Vikings had lived in our town of Tyler, and it seemed that Soon after that, Ray had gone to Jon's house, where two shots from a 9mm pistol were fired into the back of Jon's head as he sat at his old desk in his old room.
The rain was cold on my face, as we wrestled the casket into the rear of the coach.
Chapter Two
The first and only time I met Ray Ericson I went to see Jon after borrowing a book of his about the old lifeboat stations that were sprinkled up and down this stretch of the New England coastline, one of which eventually became the building that's my home.
There was a car parked in the driveway that wasn't Jon's --- a small blue Dodge Colt with dented rear bumper --- and when I went up to the door, I could make out shouting from inside. Just as I reached the cement steps leading into the front door, the door flew open and a short man tumbled out, built like a fireplug. He made it to the lawn, standing and swaying, and then fixed a bleary gaze in my direction. His bald head was wide and built close to his shoulders, his face was covered with stubble, and he wore a short-sleeve lime-green polo shirt that exposed his arms and the elaborate tattoos on both limbs.
"What the hell are you looking at?" he demanded.
"I haven't the foggiest idea," I said.
This answer seemed to irritate him, for he reared back and tossed a punch my way. I moved quick but not quick enough, and the punch grazed my shoulder and right ear. I stepped back and swerved, and when he came at me again, I got around his punch, stuck out a foot, and pulled him past me. He fell to the front lawn with a satisfying thump. I was deciding my options when Jon was next to me, looking down at the man, who was breathing hard, face very red, as he rolled over on his back.
"Ray," Jon said in a soft voice. "That's enough. You get along, right now, or I cut you off totally."
"The hell with you," he said.
"No, the hell with you," Jon said, arms folded. "I know you want more coins, more artifacts. But I'm doing what's important for me. Whatever I find extra goes to you. But I won't make a change in the way I work."
Now Ray's mood changed, as he sat up, dirt and a couple of strands of grass stuck to his back. "Jon, c'mon, you know your stuff moves really well, and you know you've got the nose for finding good stuff, really good stuff that can set the both of us up. And what do you waste your time on? Norsemen! Here, in Tyler Beach!"
Jon said, "The discussion is over, or I stop giving you anything.
All right? Now, get up, apologize to my friend Lewis, and please leave."
Well, two out of three ain't bad. He did get up and he did leave, but not one more word was said to either of us. He got into the Colt, the back of his neck quite red, and slammed the door shut. As he backed out of the driveway, slammed the brakes, and then sped off, I said, "Nice guy."
"Nope. My brother. Definitely not a nice guy."
"Well, nice tattoos. I especially liked the flaming skull."
Jon sighed. "One of the many things he picked up in prison. Come on, let's go in."
Which is what we did.
I followed the short funeral procession from the church to the High Street Cemetery, driving behind a black Lincoln Town Car that was right behind the coach, or the hearse, if one wanted to be more traditional. The Town Car contained the workers from the Tyler Funeral Home, and I could not imagine what was being said in that dark car as we made our way to the burial ground. The rain was lightening up and my headlights were on. The little parade went up Lafayette Road, whore a police officer in an orange raincoat stood at the intersection of Lafayette and High Street, holding up traffic for a moment, and we turned right, heading to Jon's final resting place.
The night after meeting his brother, I sat with Jon in his office, as he pulled out a photocopy of an old town map of the beach. He pointed to a little square on the map and said, "Recognize it?"
"Nope."
"You should," he said. "It's where you're living."
He looked around his office and said, with a touch of dismay in his voice, "My house was built in 1953 by the Hanratty Construction Company. It was first sold to Tom Hanratty, the son of Greg Hanratty, the owner of the company. Three other families have owned it since then besides me: the Glynns, the O'Hallorans, and the Peaces. That's the history of this place. Not much, but I know who built it and I know who's lived in it. And you... you've lived in one of the most historical sites in Tyler, and you don't know squat."
"I know it was a lifeboat station," I said, a little defensiveness creeping into my voice. "And I know it was officers' quarters when Samson Point was a coastal artillery site."
"Really? Did you know that over time, that lifeboat station was responsible for saving more than two hundred lives from shipwrecks up and down the New Hampshire seacoast? Did you know that one of the officers who resided in your home as an artillery officer became a general in World War I? And did you know that for a while, your house was going to be razed for a bomb shelter, during the cold war, when Samson Point was a radar station looking for Soviet bombers?"
"No, teacher," I said, trying to keep my voice soft. "I didn't know."
He took a breath, seemed to relax. "Sorry. I do go on, I know. I get passionate about history, and its mysteries." Then his head tilted some and said, "Speaking of mysteries... When Samson Point was shut down, back in 1963, your house had been used as a record storage area. Then it was transferred to the Department of Interior, and there it sat, year after year, boarded up and dusty. Until you came along."
"Unh-hunh." Since I had been retired from the Department of Defense (officially, for medical reasons, unofficially, for being the sole
survivor of a particularly nasty and illegal training disaster), the question of how I actually got to live in this particular building occasionally came up with friends and acquaintances I've made during my time at Tyler Beach. And I have yet to have come up with a satisfactory reply for any of them. Like tonight.
"Not much of an answer," he said.
"Sorry, didn't hear a question there."
"All right," Jon said, a hesitant smile on his face. "I've always wondered how a house that belonged to the government came to be in your possession."
"Just one of those things."
"Really?"
"Yep."
Jon said, "Before you came here, you used to work at the Department of Defense. Then you left your job abruptly, and came to Tyler Beach, moving into a house with lots of history and which belonged to the government. How did that happen, Lewis?"
I waited, knowing my palms were moist. ''I'm afraid that when I left government service, Jon, I had to sign a nondisclosure form about my service and reasons for leaving. Sorry."
He went back to the map. "Must have been a hell of a thing, then."
"Yeah," I said, not wanting to remember. "It was a hell of a thing."
At the High Street Cemetery, our little procession came to a halt as the rain decided to return with a vengeance, making the tombstones look old and worn. My shoes splashed through puddles and sank into the wet grass and soil as we proceeded to an area that was marked by a light green artificial rug, a mound of dirt, and some sort of contraption with canvas webbing and metal tubing that we placed the casket on. Since there were no close relatives, the flag was folded up by the funeral home personnel, and they moved back in a little group to join the rest of us, which included a handful from the church service, including Detective Diane Woods, Paula Quinn from the
Chronicle
, and Felix Tinios, and the young couple. The woman had red hair, and her companion was bearded. I nodded in appreciation at all of them, and then turned to the casket, the rain beading up on the wood and dribbling down the sides.
As someone held an umbrella over the priest, I looked at the mound of dirt, thinking about the events that had brought me here, events I had kept secret from Jon and everyone else in Tyler Beach. Once upon' a time, as so many stories begin, I had been a research analyst at the Department of Defense, working in an obscure and secretive group that read and analyzed information. One day this little group --- which included some dear friends and a woman I was madly in love with --- went on a training mission to the high desert of Nevada, where disaster fell upon us. I was the sole survivor, and in exchange for keeping my mouth shut about what I had seen and what happened to us --- a secret biowarfare experiment gone awry ---I was pensioned off, given a job as a magazine columnist, and was also given the old house that Jon Ericson had been so interested in.
Looking at the casket, I wished I had opened my damn mouth when he had been asking so many questions.
It had been my turn for a barbecue, and when a late summer thunderstorm came racing through, we retreated to the interior of my house. We ate cheeseburgers and potato chips and carrot sticks and drank Sam Adams beer, listened to the Red Sox lose another one, and when they were finished, I asked, "How goes the Viking hunt?"
"It goes."
I got him another beer. "And where is it taking you?"
"Ah, well, that's a trade secret. But I'll pass it along to you, if you promise it won't end up in your next column."