by Kathy Reichs
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.
MORNING MIST THICK AS GRAN’S FATBACK GRAVY SWIRLED IN the glow of the hotel sign. Though the sun had never totally yielded the night sky, it had yet to get organized for another dawn.
In other words, visibility sucked.
But the advantage in elevation worked in my favor. While Nellie’s torso was shrouded in a puffy gray jacket that blended with the fog, her bright red skirt was easy to spot. As I left the cover of the portico, the scarlet beacon was disappearing around the curve of the drive.
I hurried down the walk. Though I doubted Nellie would notice a tail, I kept to the inside of the arc for cover. I’d descended halfway when my quarry vanished. I kicked up the pace. At the bottom of the hill, I looked left and then right. The red skirt was swishing along Veterans Memorial Drive, which, at this hour, was largely deserted.
I made the turn, already regretting my decision to sally forth sans outerwear. Vapor puffed from my lips each time I exhaled.
Downtown
Yellowknife has the look and feel of a movie set trucked in and assembled quickly. Think Northern Exposure, but ramp up the number of bars, eateries, shops, and nondescript office and government buildings.
I followed Nellie to Fiftieth Street, moving as fast as possible to generate body heat but slowly enough to keep some distance between us. Which wasn’t hard. Despite her short legs and considerable bulk, the woman was booking.
Yellowknife is similar to Charlotte with regard to street names. Shortly, Fiftieth Street met Fiftieth Avenue. Very creative.
Nellie trundled through the intersection without waiting for a green. To avoid detection, I hung back a few moments, then crossed and ducked into a recess at the front of a souvenir shop.
A half block below Fiftieth Street, I could make out a long orange awning spanning the front of a three-story building that had seen better days. A lot of them. Lettering on the awning and the second-floor stucco identified the place as the Gold Range Hotel. Without hesitating, Nellie pulled open the front door and slipped inside.
I yanked my iPhone from my jeans and tapped Ryan’s number. My hands shook so badly from the cold I missed and had to try again.
Voice mail.
I left a message. Call me. Now.
Eyes darting between the Gold Range and my cell, I tried Ollie. Same result. I left the same message. Both text and voice.
Were the dolts still sleeping? Had they turned off their ringers? Were they already up and gone? Unlikely after less than six hours sleep.
Arm-wrapping my torso for warmth, I studied the Gold Range. With the garish awning, carved shutters, faux Tudor trim on the upper floors, and dark wood paneling at street level, the place looked like a cross between a Swiss chalet and a Super 8.
Did Nellie live at the Gold Range? Did Ruben? Might she be there now?
I considered my options. Go inside and try to locate one or the other? Wait? For how long? Screw the whole caper and head back to the Explorer?
Under my hoodie and thin cotton tee, an army of goose bumps puckered my skin. I pistoned my palms up and down my arms. Hopped from foot to foot.
Where the hell were Ryan and Ollie?
I stole a quick glance at the shop behind me. Through the plate-glass window, I could see posters, plastic polar bears, and other tourist kitsch. And something else: sweatshirts and jackets saying I Love Yellowknife.
Business hours were posted on the door. Monday through Friday, nine A.M. to eight P.M. Industrious. But useless to me. Besides, I hadn’t brought cash or a credit card with me to breakfast.
I glanced at my watch. Seven-ten.
I stared at the Gold Range. The hotel stared back, windows silent and dark in the predawn fog.
Seven-fourteen.
Shivering hard, I tried Ryan and Ollie again. Neither answered.
Decision. I’d wait until seven-thirty, then storm the hotel.
If I hadn’t died of hypothermia.
I resumed hopping and arm-rubbing.
Gradually, the refrigerated mist changed hue. Uphill, behind the Explorer, pink and yellow backlit long pewter clouds paralleling the earth’s rim.
Seven-seventeen.
All quiet at the Gold Range. In the growing light, I could see twisted fabric looping hammock-style behind one window. Nice touch.
After what seemed an hour, I checked my watch.
Seven-twenty.
A stakeout was definitely not the heart-racing excitement it was cracked up to be.
I was about to alter my plan and move on to phase two when the hotel’s front door swung outward. Head down, Nellie stepped onto the walk and chugged straight toward me.
I admit: the old cardiac muscles did a bit of high-stepping at that.
Before reaching the corner, Nellie diagonaled across Fiftieth Street and turned right onto Fiftieth Avenue.
Exhaling a cone of breathy relief, I hurried in her wake.
Yellowknife was now bustling with activity. Meaning I could see three people on the main drag.
At the A&W, two men stopped their conversation to track my movement, faces barely visible under raised parka hoods. At the Kentucky Fried, I passed a kid in a red tracksuit, black fleece vest, and orange tuque carrying a yellow skateboard under one arm. Both times I smiled and said good morning. Both times I got only unfriendly stares.
All righty, then.
Somewhere beyond Forty-fourth Street, Fiftieth Avenue became Franklin. Charlotte-style all the way. Hustling along, I memorized street names and the turns I was making.
Several blocks past School Draw Avenue, Nellie hooked a right onto Hamilton, then another onto an unpaved lane. A sign on a rock said Ragged Ass Road. That’s one you’d never see on the Queen City map.
Nellie barreled up Ragged Ass, still oblivious to my presence. I held back at the turn, fearful that my footsteps on the gravel would give me away. Flicking glances left and right, I took in my surroundings. The sun was higher now, burning off the mist. Detail was clearer.
The neighborhood was residential, with browned-out grass hugging up to the road and utility wires hanging low overhead. I smelled fishy water and bracken mud and sensed a lake nearby.
The ’hood’s architectural theme was northern hodgepodge. The newer homes looked like they’d been assembled from mail-order kits. Aluminum siding. Prefab windows. Faux-colonial shutters and doors.
The older homes resembled cottages at a hippie summer camp. Unstained frame exteriors painted with murals or images taken from nature. Metal downspouts and smokestacks. Whirligigs, plastic animals, and ceramic gnomes in the yards or topping the fences.
Every house had at least one outbuilding, a rusted tank, and a mound of firewood. And, I suspected, occupants hostile to uninvited strangers.
Dogs? I put that alarming image aside.
As roads go, Ragged Ass wasn’t much. Just two blocks long. Never casting a backward glance, Nellie beelined toward the far end, up a dirt drive, and into a structure whose owners were firmly grounded in the summer-camp school.
Oblivious or indifferent to the early-morning intruder, Ragged Ass dozed on.
Skin tingling with cold and apprehension, I crept forward.
No Rottweiler barked. No pit bull lunged.
There you go. I was surveilling.
The house Nellie had entered was little more than a shack, wood-frame, maybe nine hundred square feet of interior. Reflective numbers nailed to the street-facing wall said 7243.
A jerry-rigged plastic and wood greenhouse clung to one side of the house, and a tattered brown awning jutted from the other. Beneath the awning sat a vinyl table-and-chair set and a rusted charcoal grill.
No vehicle was parked in the short dirt drive or under the carport.
Now what?
So far, waiting had served me well. I decided to do it some more.
Using a small shed for cover, I watched from the opposite side of the road.
As on Fiftieth, time moved at the pace of a glacier.
I thumbed on my phone.
Seven-fifty. No voice mail or text.
I dialed Ryan and left an update on my whereabouts.
Thermally, the new location was a trade-off. Though sunrise had atomized the mist and kicked the temperature up a notch, a steady breeze pumped moisture off the unseen water.
I crossed my arms and tucked my hands under my pits. My breath was no longer forming cones, but it was close.
For an eon the only action on Ragged Ass involved ravens jockeying for position on the overhead wires. Then a door slammed and an engine fired to life.
My head whipped left. Thirty yards north, a red pickup was backing down a drive. I watched the truck wheel out, stop, then head toward Hamilton.
By eight-fifteen my enthusiasm for surveillance had dropped lower than my core body temperature. A million arguments for leaving swirled in my brain.
This house might have nothing to do with Ruben. Maybe it was Nellie’s home and she was inside, warm in her bed, with Ruben back at the Gold Range.
Maybe Nellie had stopped by the hotel to tip Ruben about our presence in Yellowknife. Maybe Ruben had already gone underground and I’d blown it again.
What the hell? I knew the address. We could return later to see if Ruben was here.
Occasionally, I give myself good advice. In rare instances I take it. Unfortunately, this was not one of them.
Before bailing, I decided on one quick peek. No, that’s not quite accurate. There was no conscious decision. My semi-numb feet just started moving toward the house.
Quick scan left and right, then I scuttled across Ragged Ass, up the drive, and around the awning side of the house. Circling the barbecue with what I hoped was stealth, I flattened my back to the wall beside a pair of sliding glass doors.
Breath frozen, I listened.
From inside came the muted cadence of a radio or television talk show. Outside, around me, nothing but stillness.
Ever so gently, I disengaged my right shoulder and rolled left.
Pointless. A set of thin metal blinds covered the inside of each glass door. Both sets were fully extended with the slats firmly shut.
I slid to my right and tried the same maneuver on a window whose sill was at shoulder height. More closed blinds.
I was about to give up when I heard what sounded like yapping coming through the wall. Ruben’s dog?
Totally amped, I stole toward the rear of the house.
On the right of the backyard, a clothesline ran from the house’s rear wall to a stunted birch maybe twenty feet back. Opposite the birch, across mostly dirt, was an aluminum storage shed. Beside the shed was a weathered wooden Dumpster with an angled flip lid.
A set of sagging wooden steps descended three treads from a door at the house’s rear center. On their far side sat a cracked ceramic planter. Beyond the planter was a rickety wooden table. A stained surface and rusty gutting knife suggested it was used for cleaning fish.
Between the house’s left corner where I stood and the steps was another, slightly higher window. Though I couldn’t be certain from my angle, shadowing hinted that the blinds stopped six inches short of the sill.
Senses on high alert, I rounded the corner and began inching along the rear wall. A raven cawed and took flight from the birch.
