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.”