MY FEET WINGED OUT. I HIT THE GROUND ON MY ELBOWS AND chin.

The unseen tentacles yanked hard, dragging my body backward over mud then rock. My face plunged down.

Fetid water filled my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I couldn’t breathe or see.

Terrified, I clawed for purchase. Found the border of the koi pond. Pulled with both hands.

My torso slithered across muck filled with things I didn’t want to imagine. My head cleared the surface.

Gasping for air, still blind, I tried hauling myself onto the strip of lawn from which I’d been toppled. Felt resistance. Tightness around my ankles.

My mind was flailing for an explanation when my feet jerked skyward. My spine hyper-flexed, jamming my lumbar vertebrae and shooting arrows of pain straight into my brain.

My body lurched backward, away from the house. I lost my grip. My chin whacked the stones, then my head went underwater again. My arms followed, fingers trailing across the slime-coated plastic.

Like a fish on a line, I felt myself dragged feet-first from the pond and dumped onto the lawn.

Heart pounding, I raised up on my forearms, struggling for breath. And comprehension.

An upward wrenching of my feet flattened me again. I tried to roll over. A boot between my scapulae sent me back onto my belly. Pinned me to the cold, muddy grass.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Though high, the voice was male and decidedly unfriendly.

“Looking for someone,” I gasped.

“Who?”

“Annaliese Ruben.”

No reply.

“I thought she might be in the house.” Ragged. My pulse pounded, and my breathing was not quite under control.

Silence.

“I have important information.”

In the corner of one eye, I could see a dark silhouette blocking the sky above me.

“I need to find her.”

“That how you find folks? By spying in their windows?”

“I was trying to—”

“You a perv?”

“What?”

“Trying to ogle people bare-ass?”

“No. I was checking that I had the right address.”

“Ever think of knocking on the door?”

He had me there.

“I meant no harm.”

“How do I know you’re not aiming to clean the place out?”

“Do I look like a burglar?”

“Close enough for my liking.”

Though I couldn’t see his face, I sensed the man glaring down at me.

“You’re hurting my back.”

A beat, then the pressure eased on my spine. I heard the swish of nylon, then the silhouette disappeared from my peripheral vision.

I rolled to my bum and, with trembling fingers, dragged slime-water hair from my eyes. Then I looked up.

My captor was of medium height, muscular under jeans and a dark blue windbreaker. His skin was butternut, his eyes the color of day-old coffee. His hair was gelled to form a shiny black helmet.

I noticed that his hands were chapped and leathery. In the left one he held a rope arrangement with a loop at one end and three long strands at the other. The strands led to slant-cut hunks of bone wrapping my ankles.

“Nice kipooyaq.”

“So you speak a little Inuit. Very impressive.”

“Easy one.” Right. I’d had to dig way back to an undergrad course on circumpolar archaeology.

The coffee eyes roved my face, assessing my threat potential.

“May I?” Gesturing at my legs.

The man gave a tight nod.

With numb fingers, I began to untangle the bola.

“I asked what you’re doing here.”

“I told you. I’m looking for Annaliese Ruben. Do you know her?”

“You ever think of phoning?”

“I don’t have a number.”

The man said nothing.

“Maybe you could help me with that?”

“Try directory assistance.”

“Could be unlisted. Makes it tough to call.”

“People do that for a reason.”

“Does Annaliese live here?”

“I’m thinking if the lady wanted you to have her address, she’d have shared it.”

“Do you know Annaliese?”

“One thing I’m certain, I don’t know you.”

I loosened the final tangle and freed my feet. As I stood, the man gathered the cords around one hand in even-sized loops.

“ID.”

“What?” Shit.

“Driver’s license? Medicare card? Something with a photo.”

“I have nothing with me.”

“I get a complaint that someone’s peeping windows on Ragged Ass Road. I come out and find you nose to the glass. Now you tell me you got no ID.”

“I’m staying at the Explorer. I wasn’t planning to leave the hotel.”

“Yet here you are.”

“My name is Temperance Brennan. I’m a forensic anthropologist.” Teeth chattering. “I am in Yellowknife on official police business.”

“And that business would involve spying on unsuspecting citizens?”

Though I hadn’t a clue who this guy was, I had no choice. And I was freezing. I gave a modified version. Ollie. Ryan. The possible threat to Annaliese Ruben from Ronnie Scarborough.

The man listened, expression neutral.

“I have my mobile. We can phone Detective Ryan or Sergeant Hasty. Or Sergeant Rainwater. He’s with G Division. RCMP. Here. In Yellowknife.”

Realizing I was babbling and seeing no objection, I dug my iPhone from my pocket and pushed the power button with a trembling thumb.

Nothing.

I tried again.

And again.

No amount of tapping or shaking brought the screen to life.

Shit. Shit.

I looked up. The man’s face was still unreadable.

“It’s dead.”

No response.

“It must have gotten wet in the koi pond.”

Eyes hard on me, the man pulled a cell from his belt and hit speed dial. “Zeb Chalker. Is Rainwater there?”

Pause.

“Living the life. You know a K Division guy name of Oliver Hasty?”

Pause.

“Why’s he in town?”

Long pause.

“Hasty traveling alone?”

Pause.

“Marsí.”

Chalker reclipped the cell to his belt, crossed his arms, and regarded me a very long time. Finally, “Here’s the deal. You get yourself back to the Explorer. Going forward, you stick with your pals. Got it?”

Chalker’s attitude irritated the hell out of me. Who was he to give orders? But I wanted nothing more than to return to my room and take a very hot shower. And I was in no position to object.

I nodded.

Without another word, Chalker strode off.

“Don’t worry about me,” I muttered to his retreating back. “I’ll flag a taxi.”

By the time I reached the street, Chalker was nowhere in sight. As I jogged up Ragged Ass, I wondered about the guy. Why had he bola’ed me? Was he a vigilant neighbor? A relative of the homeowner? Some sort of cop?

Chalker knew Rainwater. Seemed to have him on speed dial. But this was Yellowknife, population under twenty thousand. Wouldn’t everyone know everyone?

Whatever. Chalker had revealed nothing.

It was definitely not my day. I was rounding the corner onto Hamilton, head down, legs pumping, when a bicycle blasted into my side.

I went flying. Wobbling wildly, the bike continued downhill.

I landed bum first, my wind knocked somewhere into tomorrow. For a moment I could focus only on taking in oxygen.

I was struggling to breathe when I heard gravel crunch, then a loud hoot. I looked over my shoulder.

Five yards downslope, the Kentucky Fried kid was straddling a clunky red Schwinn that looked like it had rolled off the line sometime in the fifties. His yellow skateboard jutted from a metal basket attached to the bike’s rear fender.

“Hoo-hooh!” Laughing, the kid pointed a skinny finger my way. “You look like my grandma when she fell in with the pigs.”

“And you look like you should have left the training wheels on.”

The kid was tall, maybe up to my chin. Under the oversize tracksuit, his body was scarecrow-thin. I guessed his weight, soaking wet, at maybe sixty pounds, his age at approximately twelve.

“Yeah? How old you think I am?”

My lungs remained too much in spasm to answer.

As I got to my feet, the kid moved closer. He had dark eyes set too far apart and dark hair curling from beneath the tuque. A scar on his upper lip suggested a surgically repaired cleft palate.

“Man, you look like shit.”

The kid had a point. My chin was raw. My hair was wet. My clothes were soaked and covered with mud.

“Smell like shit, too.”

“Won’t your kindergarten be coming up short on the head count?” Childish. But the little twerp provoked it.

“If you’re looking for the old folk’s home, could be my grandma could help.”

“Could be your grandma could coach you on manners.”

“Wouldn’t matter. You’d still be older than dirt.”

I started jogging up Hamilton. The kid pedaled along at my side.

“I saw you this morning on Fiftieth.”

“Brilliant. But I’m out of lollipops.”

“You was following Ms. Snook.”

Nellie Snook. I noted the surname.

“Whatcha doing down here in Old Town?”

“Looking for a friend.”

“How come you’re covered in pig slop?”

“I fell.”

“Probably Alzheimer’s.”

“And you’ll probably need a jock strap in ten or twelve years.”

“Just about the time you’ll be peeing your diaper.”

Slowing to a walk, I glanced over at the kid. His expression was cocky but held no hint of malice.

“My friend’s name is Annaliese Ruben.”

“Why you looking for her?”

“I have something to deliver.”

“Give it to me. I’ll get it to her.”

“You’ll get it straight to a fence.”

“Can’t fault a man for trying.” The kid grinned broadly, revealing gapped and crooked teeth.

“So you know Nellie Snook?”

“Never said that.”

“Do you know Annaliese Ruben?”

“She an old crone like you?”

“What’s your name?”

“Binny.”

“Binny what?”

“Binny Mind-Your-Own-Business.”

I was sure Binny would peel off when I turned onto Franklin. He didn’t. We’d gone a half block when a thought struck me.

“Hey, shrimp.”

“Yeah, Granny.”

“You know a guy named Horace Tyne?”

“Everyone knows Horace.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s a environmentaler.”

“Environmentalist?”

A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face.

“Lots of people are going green. Why’s Horace so special?”

“Everyone talks a big game. Horace does stuff.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning he tries to save the caribou and shit like that.”

“How’s he going to save the caribou?”

“By creating a preserve. No one can fuck with the herds if they’re on a preserve.”

“Does Grandma approve of your foul language?”

“Does anyone approve of your wrinkly old face?”

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“I’ve got chicken pox.”

Again I thought the kid would take off. Again I was wrong.

Walking along, I rewound my conversation with Nellie. Her question had implied a link between Ruben and Tyne. This kid knew Tyne.

“That KFC open when you were there this morning, shrimp?”

“No. Granny.”

“They open now?”

“Doubt it.”

“You old enough to eat pancakes?”

“You buying?”

“Can we talk about Horace Tyne?”

“Fire up your hearing aid.”