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He listened to my spiel and nodded appropriately, but I suspected I could say I was selling Tasers door-to-door and still he'd take me to Ms. Hirsch.
We walked. He asked where I was from, how long I was staying, what I'd seen of Alaska so far... I could have sworn we passed the same set of bathrooms three times before, on the fourth, we nearly collided with a man coming out.
My guide--Garth--stopped and introduced me to the editor, saying I was a visiting journalist. We were shaking hands when a woman came out of the ladies bathroom down the hall. She glanced our way. Garth called, "Mallory!" and waved her over as the editor left.
From the end of the hall, Mallory Hirsch could pass for late twenties, with short blond hair, a trim figure and stylish suit. But with each step our way, she gained a few years. By the time she reached us, I'd peg her at early forties, with a tight, expressionless face that suggested I could add another decade presurgery.
"Yes?" she said, her voice as tight as her skin. Her gaze slid over me, taking in my ski jacket, hiking boots and jeans with disapproval.
"This is Elena Michaels," Garth said. "She works for the Canadian press."
"Canadian Press," I said. "It's like Associated Press, only much, much smaller."
Garth laughed, too loud for the mild joke. Mallory's expression didn't flicker.
I repeated my spiel, expanding it to explain that we'd had wolf activity in Algonquin Park in the last few years, and I wanted to tie this into that as an examination of the issues surrounding humans and wolves sharing an ever-shrinking world. I thought it sounded good, but from the expressionless way she stared at me, you'd think I'd accidentally switched to French.
When I finished, she said nothing, just looked at me as if waiting for the rest of the explanation.
"So, I told Elena you could probably spare her a few minutes--" Garth began.
Her look made him shrink back.
"It really is only a couple of questions," I said. "I know how busy you must be--"
"Garth? You can go now."
He fled.
I continued. "I would love to buy you coffee. Or lunch."
"I've eaten. So you're looking for someone to write your story for you, Ms. Michaels? Crib from my article? Save yourself the legwork?"
"Um, no... as I said, I only have a few questions, ones that will launch my own investigation. And, of course, anything I discover, I'll share with you."
"Your own investigation?"
I sensed her hackles rising. "For my own article. For my own newspapers. I've already been to the general area where the deaths occurred, but..." I forced a smile. "It's a lot bigger country than I'm used to. If I had a better idea where the--"
"Everything I can tell you is in my articles. I presume you've read them?"
"Yes." Wanna quiz me?
She stepped back and did an openly critical assessment of me. "How old are you, Ms. Michaels?"
"I'm not fresh out of college, if that's what--"
"Married, I see. Kids?"
"Two," I said carefully.
"Little ones, I suppose?"
"Yes, but--"
"An outdoors type?" she said, taking in my boots and jacket.
"You could say that."
