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.”