THE BABY REACHED OUT, FINGERS SPLAYED, LITTLE LIMBS trembling, begging for help. My help.

I tried running, but my feet dug deeper and deeper into the sand.

The scene zoomed in.

The baby was sitting in the shallows on a long black beach. Behind it, over choppy waves, purple storm clouds darkened a menacing sky.

As I watched, the wispy nimbus haloing the baby’s head thickened to form a crown of blond curls. The tiny features crystallized into a familiar pattern. The irises morphed from blue to green.

Katy!

I tried calling out. Again and again.

No sound left my throat.

Desperate, I strained to get to my daughter.

My legs were lead.

The water now covered Katy’s belly.

The tide was rising!

Heart pounding, I pumped my legs harder.

The gap between us grew wider.

A figure materialized on the beach, indistinct. Face, even gender, unclear.

I struggled to call out.

The figure did not react.

I pulled with all my strength.

My efforts were futile.

The water now covered Katy’s chest.

I shouted again, tears streaming my cheeks.

The scene shimmied like a desert mirage.

The water rose to Katy’s chin.

I strained with every fiber in my body.

Screamed.

The scene popped. Evaporated like confetti in mist.

I blinked, confused.

I was sitting rigid in bed, heart pounding, skin slick with perspiration. My hands clutched the sheets in tight little balls.

The digits on the clock said 5:42. A predawn gray lit the windows I’d failed to curtain five hours earlier.

Outside, the snow shower had stopped, but the nameless oval of water looked dark and frigid. Inside, the air felt cold enough to make ice.

I relaxed my fingers, lay back, and drew the quilt to my chin.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.

Following the mantra, I tried my usual post-nightmare deconstruction. Which requires no sophisticated psychoanalytical skill. My subconscious isn’t all that creative. The old id just spits out a remix of recent events.

Baby under threat. No Freudian mindbender there.

Katy. I hadn’t talked to my daughter in a week.

The beach. My iPhone was still broadcasting soothing sea sounds.

The hazy figure. That one called for some digesting.

Annaliese Ruben for murdering her children? Ronnie Scarborough for possibly threatening Ruben? Ryan for abandoning our relationship?

My mother for potty-training me too early?

Whatever.

Tossing back the covers, I tiptoe-ran to my suitcase, pulled on jeans, a long-sleeved tee, my gray lululemon hoodie, sneakers, and socks. In June. Welcome to the subarctic. Or the tundra. Or wherever the hell we were.

Water on the face. Quick brush of the teeth. Hair up in a pony.

The clock said six. Praying the hotel had a restaurant and that it was open, I headed downstairs.

Happy day! The Trader’s Grill was serving up eggs. Or preparing to do so. A woman was positioning stainless-steel servers on a stretch of skirted tables spanning one wall. On hearing my footsteps, she turned and gestured toward a two-top at the windows. Her name tag said Nellie.

Nellie’s hair was black and braided down the center of her back. Her cotton blouse and long red skirt covered a body built along the lines of a Tonka truck.

I seated myself as directed and looked for a menu. Finding none, I settled back and scanned my surroundings.

Nellie and I weren’t the only early risers. Two men occupied a table beside a circular copper-hooded fireplace, now cold. Both wore jeans, boots, and plaid shirts and had beards that badly needed trimming.

Nellie vanished and reappeared moments later bearing a steel coffeepot and a thick china mug. After topping off Paul Bunyan and his pal, she crossed to me.

“Sorry. The buffet doesn’t open until seven.” Nellie raised the pot in question. Her broad cheeks and copper skin suggested aboriginal ancestry.

“Yes, please.”

Nellie filled and set the mug before me. “I can fix you some breakfast, long as it’s simple.”

“Eggs and toast would be great.”

“Scrambled?”

“Sure.”

Nellie chugged off.

I sipped my coffee. Which was strong enough to hold a spoon upright.

My eyes drifted to the window. Beyond the glass was a sort-of Zen scenario. Stacked boulders, scraggly plants sprouting amid haphazardly spread pebbles, rubber hoses snaking the ground. I couldn’t tell whether the project was under construction or crumbling due to neglect.

At the edge of the rock garden, two enormous black birds circled low over a stand of surrealistically tall pines. As I watched their slow lazy loops, my mind drifted back to the dream.

Why hadn’t Katy called?

I checked my iPhone for a signal. Four full bars. But no voice message or text from my daughter.

I scanned my e-mails. Twenty-four had landed since I’d left Edmonton. Most I ignored or deleted. Bill notifications. Ads for penis enhancers, pharmaceuticals, skin products, vacation villas. Offers of no-fail foreign-investment schemes.

Pete had fired off a short note stating that Birdie was well and bullying his chow, Boyd.

My sister, Harry, had written to say that she was dating a retired astronaut. His name was Orange Curtain. I hoped that was an auto-correct error.

Katy had linked me to an Evite for a friend’s bridal shower. OK, she was fine. Just busy.

Ollie had sent an empty note containing an attachment. The subject line read: Save on phone. Curious, I downloaded and opened the document.

Annaliese Ruben’s mug shot, scanned then enlarged. Though some detail had been lost, the face was still clear.

Good thinking, Sergeant Hasty. My copy of the printout had become quite tattered.

I studied the image. Dark hair. Round cheeks. Features you might see on any street in Dublin, Dresden, or Dallas.

“Hope you’re not one of those vegetarian types.” I’d been so focused on Ruben, I hadn’t heard Nellie approach. “I tossed on some bacon.”

“Bacon is good.” I set down the phone and drew in my elbows.

Nellie parked the plate in front of me. In addition to eggs and bacon, it contained toast, hash browns, and a small brown object whose provenance was unclear.

“That it?” she asked.

I nodded.

Nellie pulled a check from the waistband of her skirt. “More coffee?”

“Please.”

As she reached across the table, her gaze fell on my mobile. Ruben’s face still filled the screen.

Nellie flinched as though zapped with live current. Coffee overshot the mug and splattered the tabletop. With a sharp intake of breath, she straightened and stepped back.

I looked up.

Nellie’s lips were tight. Her eyes refused to meet mine.

Had Ruben’s picture upset her? Or was I imagining it?

“Sorry.” Mumbled. “I’ll get a rag.”

“Too much bother.” I lifted the iPhone to mop up the spill with my napkin. “You’ve no idea the abuse I heap on this thing.”

Nellie’s mouth remained clamped.

“You might find this interesting.” I glanced at the image, casual as hell. “I believe this woman was born in Yellowknife.” I raised the phone so Nellie could see the screen. She kept her eyes on her shoes. “Her name is Annaliese Ruben.”

No response.

“Do you know her?”

Nothing.

“I think she may have returned to Yellowknife recently. From Edmonton.”

“I have to get back to work.”

“It’s important that I find her.”

“I’ve got to finish setting up the buffet before I can go.”

“I may be able to help her with a problem.”

Across the room, Paul Bunyan and company rose to leave. Nellie’s eyes tracked their exit.

Seconds passed.

I was certain Nellie knew who Ruben was, perhaps where she was. I was about to give it one last shot when she asked, “What kind of problem?”

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t want to breach a confidence.”

Nellie’s eyes finally lifted to mine. I could feel her trying to read my thoughts. “This about Horace Tyne?”

“What do you know about Tyne?” Bluffing knowledge I didn’t possess.

“What do you know about Tyne?” Sensing my con.

Easy, Brennan. Don’t scare her.

“Listen, Nellie. I understand you’ve no reason to trust me. But I really am trying to help Ruben. I mean her no harm.”

“You a cop?”

“No.”

Like a window at a speakeasy, the face above me slammed shut.

Stupid. Small hotel. Big grapevine. Nellie had undoubtedly heard gossip about Ollie and Ryan.

“But I am traveling with two police officers.” I tried to make up for my blunder. “They’re unaware that I’m asking these questions.”

“Why are they here?”

“We believe Ruben may have gotten herself into some difficulty.”

“And the cops want to save her.”

“Yes.”

Without a word, Nellie spun on her heel and walked off.

While eating my eggs, now cold, I reviewed my accomplishments so far that morning. I’d spooked myself with a dream, then performed an amateur postmortem on the content. I’d tipped my hand regarding Annaliese Ruben. And I’d alienated an informant who might know her whereabouts.

But I had scored a name. Horace Tyne.

Brilliant. Ryan would probably propose my name for the detective’s exam.

I poked at the brown thing. Which, at one point in its life, may have been vegetable.

A different waitress appeared and, with a lot of rattling and clanging, resumed preparation of the breakfast spread.

I lifted my mug to drain the last of my coffee. My arm stopped in midair.

Nellie had said it was her job to organize the buffet. Only then could she leave.

So where was she?

After jotting my name, room number, and signature on the check, I bolted for the lobby.

Nellie was hurrying through the front door.

Call Ryan? Ollie?

Nellie was fast disappearing down the circle drive.

I scurried after her.