Buried Dreams Read Online Free
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
"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
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