Raid and the Blackest Sheep by Harri Nykänen Page A

common sight at the village store. He wasn’t a common sight anywhere.
         “Not that we’re all that nosy out here in the country—it’s just nice to know…in case we bump into each other.”
         “Right.”
         The shopkeeper could see he wasn’t getting any more out of Nygren.
         “Anything else I can get you?”
         “A couple dozen cabbage rolls.”
         “Garbage rolls…as they’re called around these parts.”
         The shopkeeper’s regional Savo humor got no rise out of Nygren. He remained taciturn.
         The cashier studied Nygren’s bills as though certain they were forgeries. Nygren glanced at Raid. His background was evidently well known to the townspeople.
         “Thank you,” said Nygren, looking the cashier directly in the eyes. The woman covered her neck with her hands, seemingly fearful that Nygren might pull a stiletto and part her throat from ear to ear.
         The Mercedes climbed a long hill, curving steadily to the right before abruptly reaching the turnoff to Nygren’s estate. On the left was a steep bluff and just before the turnoff was a dense birch forest. There were no road signs or mailboxes at the intersection, nor anything else to indicate what lay ahead.
         Raid feathered the brakes just enough to make the turn without stopping at the intersection.
         The road was pitted and flanked by birches. A slippery layer of leaves had already fallen onto the road.
         They passed a barn with corn-crib siding that was listing to one side. At one end of the barn were some farm machines unfamiliar to Raid. On the right, they passed a small yellow wooden house. A woman’s bicycle was parked in front of the stairs and smoke rose from the chimney.
         “That old lady’s almost eighty and still gets by on her own,” Nygren said without turning his head. “Some claim she takes the tractor and plows the road by herself.”
         They approached a turnoff up ahead where a smaller road broke off to the left. Nygren pointed left with his thumb. A sign at the turnoff read: Nurminen.
         This side road of a side road went on for a couple of hundred yards and terminated in front of a house on a hill. Thinly scattered birch whips were growing in the driveway, and the apple trees were sprawling and dilapidated. The supports that held up the branches had rotted and snapped, but despite their neglect, the trees were brimming with apples.
         The lawn had grown into a tall meadow that was now yellowing and dying.
         At the foot of the trees was a garden swing, and beyond that, about ten berry bushes and an overgrown potato field.
         Further still was a fallow field that sloped gently toward a lake about two hundred yards away. A few summer cottages were visible on the opposite shore.
         The one-and-a-half-story house was large and straight, but just as neglected as its surroundings. The granite foundation was level and solid. White paint was flaking off the walls, revealing the gray surface of the wood. The moldings around the windows were crazed with cracks, but the small window panes were intact.
         Behind the house was a large barn with a stone foundation and a shed, which housed what appeared to be a sauna on the opposite end. Next to the wall, an old wood-burning stove with a pile of crumbling sauna rocks had been left out to rust.
         If the outbuildings had ever had paint, there was no evidence of it. Still, they stood straight and square.
         Nygren looked around with a lordly expression.
         “It looks better than I expected. It’s been three years since I was here last. I figured the local hooligans would’ve at least busted the windows for lack of anything better to do.”
         He fished an old-fashioned key out of a gap in the porch and unlocked the door.
         The stench of an abandoned cabin wafted outside. It was one part oblivion, a