“The Monfwi district is near Yellowknife?”

Ryan nodded. “And the Legislative Assembly sits in Yellowknife.”

“That doesn’t mean Ruben went there.”

“What the hell’s he saying?” Ollie was growing more and more vociferous.

“I’ll call you back.” I clicked off.

“I checked the bus schedule.” Ryan again waggled Mr. Phone. “To get to Yellowknife from Edmonton, you take a Greyhound to Hay River, then you transfer to a Frontier coach line.”

“There’s nothing direct?”

Ryan shook his head.

“Besides Yellowknife, where else can you go from Hay River?”

“Not many places.”

I thought a moment. It all tracked. Ruben was, in all likelihood, at least part aboriginal. Ralph Trees said Roberts/Rogers/Rodriguez spoke accented English. Phoenix Miller thought Ruben came from someplace other than Edmonton. A woman resembling Ruben had tried to board a bus to Hay River. With a dog. Trees said Roberts/Rogers/Rodriguez had a dog. There was a pet bowl in the Saint-Hyacinthe flat. A scrap probably from a Monfwi district newsletter got wrapped in with the baby found at Susan Forex’s house.

Besides, we had nothing else.

I called Ollie.

* * *

Yellowknife lies approximately fifteen hundred kilometers north of Edmonton. To go by car, one travels north to the 60th parallel to cross into the Northwest Territories near Enterprise, then west to Fort Providence to catch a ferry across the Mackenzie River. One then skirts a vast bison sanctuary, avoiding freedom-sniffing Bovinae wandering the pavement. At Behchoko one cuts back southeast to the north shore of Great Slave Lake.

The drive takes up to eighteen hours. Most travel advisory sites recommend making it while the sun shines. And bringing a whole lot of bug spray.

Unless it’s winter. Then you can brave the ice road.

Not a chance this kid was enduring that trip. Nope. Not me.

As with bus travel, airline options were limited.

Ollie booked us onto a Canadian North flight leaving at eight-thirty P.M. The bad news: we wouldn’t land at YZF until after ten. The good news: sunset would occur many hours after our arrival.

Ollie spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening re-interviewing the Greyhound ticket agent and making calls to Hay River, Yellowknife, and other places I’d never heard of. Ronnie Scarborough, the pimp, had finally surfaced, and Ollie had invited him in for a chat. Ryan and I would join them at six P.M.

Using a list that Ollie provided, Ryan and I spent our time visiting bars and hotels favored by Edmonton’s fair ladies. Some of the establishments made the Cowboy look downright chic.

We floated Ruben’s picture, asked if anyone knew or had seen her. We also asked about the big spender Ruben was to have met the night she boogied to Quebec.

We learned two things. In the underbelly, three years is way past anyone’s memory horizon. And we were as welcome in that world as a roach infestation.

Upon arriving at RCMP headquarters, we found that Ollie had learned about as much as we had. Which was zilch. Which made him surly as hell.