WE’D BEEN PARKED ON RAGGED ASS FOR THIRTY MINUTES when Ryan got the call.

Rainwater had questioned the night and day clerks, checked the register, interviewed every lodger who would talk to him. Done what he could without a warrant. He was confident Ruben was not at the Gold Range, doubted she’d ever been there.

Shortly after Ryan disconnected, the Snooks’ front door opened, and Nellie emerged. She was wearing the same gray jacket but had substituted jeans for the red skirt.

I turned to see if Ryan was on her. His aviator shades were pointed her way.

Oblivious to our presence, Nellie whistled and slapped one thigh. A small gray dog bounded through the door, leaped off the stoop, and like a tiny whirling dervish, began racing circles on the lawn.

“Yes!” I pumped one arm.

“Two out of three households in North America have a dog.”

“You made that up.”

“I’m sure the stat’s close.”

“Tank,” Nellie called, “do pee-pee.”

Tank? From where I sat, the mutt looked like a cross between a Yorkie and a gerbil.

Tank continued his mad looping.

“Tank, you do pee-pee now.”

More frenzied circuits.

“I have treats.” Nellie shook a small bag.

Tank stopped and looked at Nellie, ears up, head cocked. Satisfied that she had the goods, he sniffed several spots, then squatted and held position. For a remarkably long time.

Bladder empty, Tank trotted back to Nellie and got his reward. She then scooped the dog up and plopped him inside.

After closing and locking the door, Nellie disappeared under the awning, reappeared shortly, pulling a wheeled cart.

“Looks like she’s going shopping,” I said.

“Could be.”

“While she’s gone, we could snoop around. Maybe—”

“That approach didn’t go well for you.”

“Fine. You stay on the house and I’ll talk to her.”

“Nor did that.”

Ryan’s attitude was wearing on my nerves. As was frustration born of inactivity. And I’d had a whole lot of coffee.

“You know what? I don’t need a warrant to ask a few questions. And I don’t need your permission.”

With that, I popped from the car and hurried up the road. The sound of the cart bouncing over gravel masked my approach. Or Nellie was hard of hearing.

I spoke when I was six feet out. “Nellie.”

She turned. Her expression moved through surprise, confusion, settled on alarm.

“Please.” I raised both hands. “Can we talk?”

“You tried to break in to my house.”

“No. Really.”

“I saw you. I called my cousin. He came and found you in the yard.”

“Housebreaking wasn’t my intent.”

“Why are you stalking me?”

“I told you at the restaurant. I’m worried about Annaliese Ruben.”

“Why do you care about her?”

Zinger. Why did I? Ruben had probably killed four infants. Did I want to protect her? Or did I simply want to catch her to charge her with murder?

“I don’t like to see people hurt,” I said.

She seemed to relax a bit at that.

“Is Annaliese at your house?”

“I told you, I don’t know her.”

“Is she at the Gold Range?”

Her fingers tightened on the cart handle.

“Why did you stop at the hotel this morning?”

“My husband works there.”

“Josiah.”

Fear rekindled in her eyes. “Leave me alone.”

“Can you tell me why you went to the Gold Range?”

“If I do, will you stop bothering me?”

“Yes.”

She hesitated. Debating what to say? How best to escape? “I forgot my house key. My husband had one.”

I was skeptical. That didn’t explain her rushed departure from the Explorer. But I could think of no appropriate follow-up question.

Nellie’s mention of Horace Tyne that morning had given me a small sense of victory. I felt I’d discovered a lead. A possible link to Annaliese Ruben. In fact, aside from a name—possibly of no significance—I’d learned nothing new. And that was maddening.

So I kept my word. I asked her nothing else. “My name is Temperance Brennan.” Handing her a card. “Annaliese may be in danger. If you hear from her, please call me at the Explorer.”

Back in the Camry, Ryan shot me a questioning look through the shades. I think. I shook my head.

“Ollie’s got Rainwater coming out here.”

I nodded.

We watched in silence another five minutes. Then, “Isn’t that the boy who was walking with you earlier?” he asked.

I followed Ryan’s sight line. Binny was sitting cross-legged on a boulder at the far end of Ragged Ass. His bike lay on the grass beside him. His eyes lay on us.

I lowered my window and waved. Binny did not wave back.

“His name’s Binny.”

“Weird-looking kid.”

“I like him. He’s spunky.”

“Didn’t look so spunky tear-ass pedaling up Fiftieth.”

“Your meltdown scared the crap out of him.” I waved again.

Binny hopped on his bike and rode off.

Maybe Ryan was right. My people skills really did seem wanting.

“What did you mean, the kid could be useful?”

“When I was asking Nellie about Ruben, she let slip a name. Horace Tyne. Binny claims to know the guy.”

Ryan curled his fingers in a “go on” gesture.

“Binny told me Tyne is an environmental activist.”

“What else?”

“Nothing else. Your tantrum freaked him out.”

Ryan raised his shades to his forehead and dialed his cell. Disconnected. Dialed again. Disconnected. “OK. Let’s try the easy way.” Ryan worked some keys. A lot of keys. “Bingo.” Eyes on the tiny screen.

“You found him on Google.”

Ryan ignored me.

“Am I warm?”

“Sizzling. Horace Tyne runs an organization called Friends of the Tundra. According to the website, which is piss-poor, the organization seeks to preserve the native plants and animals of the tundra ecosystem of the Northwest Territories.”

Ryan did some more reading and scrolling.

“Looks like Tyne is trying to establish some sort of wildlife preserve.”

“Does the site provide contact information?”

“There’s an address to which contributions can be sent.”

“Here in Yellowknife?”

“Some place called Behchoko.”

As Ryan was googling directions, an RCMP cruiser pulled up behind us. Rainwater was at the wheel. He flicked a wave.

Ryan returned it, then dropped the aviators to his nose.

And we were rolling.

Behchoko was a Dene community of about two thousand souls called Rae-Enzo until 2005. Not sure why the name changed. No idea about Rae. But according to a rental company map I dug from the glove compartment, Enzo was a chief at one time.

We didn’t need GPS to find our way. The Yellowknife Highway was the only option.

Ryan won the argument on who would drive. His rental, he would captain the ship. Once again I would just sit. At least Ollie wouldn’t be firing zingers from the backseat. He was still squeezing Unka and Castain.

Our destination lay about fifty miles northwest of Yellowknife. I also learned from the map that after Behchoko, the paved road crossed Dehk’è, the Frank Channel, continued roughly forty miles, then fed into the seasonal ice roads used by commercial trucking for mine supply. I assumed that meant gold.

I shared this knowledge with Ryan. Normally, he’d have busted into a few bars of “Livin’ on the Edge.” Today no Aerosmith.

The drive took roughly an hour. We saw no other cars, just many, many trees.

Behchoko consisted of a cluster of buildings hugging a scraggy shoreline dotted with boulders that, according to the map, was the northern tip of Great Slave Lake.

As Ryan navigated the town’s main road, I noted a school with a timber-frame swing set in the yard. A windowless outhouse with an ATM sign. Frame homes featuring weathered variations of redwood, brown, gray, and blue. Dozens of power-line poles leaning at odd angles.

The vegetation consisted of patchy grass and the occasional stand of trees. There wasn’t a single paved street.

Ryan parked in front of a small log cabin displaying an RCMP sign in French and English. We both got out.

The office held a desk and chair, a few file cabinets, and little else. The desk was occupied by a corporal whose name tag said Schultz.

Schultz looked up when we entered but said nothing. He was in his late twenties, short and stocky, with chipmunk cheeks that made him look soft.

Since Schultz was locked on Ryan and ignoring me, I let the captain do the talking.

“Good afternoon, Corporal.” Removing his sunglasses.

“Good afternoon.” If Schultz was surprised to see us, he didn’t let on.

“We’re looking for Friends of the Tundra.”

Schultz tipped his head and scratched the back of his neck.

“Horace Tyne?”

“Right. Brain freeze.” Schultz pointed four fingers toward the door at our backs. “Go to the end of the main road. Turn left at the blue house with the green shed. Four doors down is a red number with a white door and a fence. That’s the one.”

“You acquainted with Tyne?’

“I see him around.”

We waited, but Schultz offered nothing further. We turned to leave.

“You up from Yellowknife?”

“Yes.”

“Family?” I recognized the “casual cop” tone.

“Nope.”

“You Greenpeacers?”

“You know anything about Tyne’s organization?”

“Not really. Guess it keeps him busy.”

“Meaning?”

“The guy’s been underemployed since the gold mines shut down.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“Early nineties. Before my time.”

“He seem pretty solid?”

Schultz shrugged one shoulder. “Doesn’t get drunk and start throwing punches.”

“What more could you ask?” Ryan slipped on his shades. “Thanks for your help.”

The corporal’s directions were good. We found the house without difficulty. It was small, with cranberry siding and a pair of metal pipes jutting from the roof. The fence was made of unfinished boards nailed vertically with two-inch gaps in between. A scraggly birch threw fingers of shadow across the dirt yard. A gray pickup sat in the drive.

“Not quite the panache of Trump Tower.” Ryan was eyeballing the property.

“Maybe all Tyne needs is a computer.”

“Keeps the overhead low.”

“Leaving more for the caribou.”

Ryan pulled open the gate. We crossed to the stoop, and he knocked on the door.

Nothing.

He knocked again. Harder.

A voice barked, then the door swung in.

I searched my memory archives.

Nope. It was a first.