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"Anchorage is an outdoorsman's dream. A full-service city minutes away from a wilderness filled with lakes, rivers, mountains, glaciers..."
"It is pretty amazing," I said.
"Warmer than you thought, too, I bet. No mounds of snow or sub-zero temperatures..."
"Having experienced sub-zero, it's a very pleasant surprise."
I smiled, but her expression didn't change. What was with the tourism spiel? Was she going to try selling me timeshares?
She continued. "Good city. All the amenities. The great outdoors in its full glory at your doorstep. The perfect place for a young family to relocate."
"Relocate?"
"But first, you need a job."
"Job? I don't need--"
"You're not in the building five minutes and you're already shaking hands with the editor. I bet you think that's all it takes, don't you? A backwater place like Anchorage, there can't be any real journalists here. Probably all housewives, churning out articles before the kiddies come home from school. You can just show up, the perky Canadian girl--"
"Perky?"
"--and you think a spot will open up for you. A good spot. Maybe my spot."
"Um, no. I'm sure Anchorage is a great place to live, but I've already got a life--someplace else. I'm here to talk about the wolf kills."
"I'm sure you are. And I have nothing to say about them that isn't in my articles."
She walked away.
GARTH HAILED ME as I reached the doors.
"Did Mallory give you anything useful?"
I made a noncommittal noise.
"I might have another story for you," he continued. "I've been covering the disappearances of young women."
"Oh?"
"We've had three vanish in the last few months. It might make an interesting article for your readers back home."
Sadly, even in Canada, three missing girls wasn't news. It should be. Believe me, I know that, and I can rail against it all I want, but unless they're three teens from good families, even the police pay little attention. When I'd been in Winnipeg this winter, enjoying their twenty-below temperatures, I'd been researching a series on missing and murdered local women. The police had almost twenty cases of unsolved sex-worker deaths in as many years. Many of the victims were young, many Native Canadians, and all prostitutes.
One of my reasons for doing the articles was that Jeremy had sent me there to check out potential werewolf activity. Young sex-trade workers and street girls were the preferred prey of werewolves, who know how little attention will be paid to the deaths. It turned out that a few of those deaths had been a mutt. But it would be odd to have a man-eater in Anchorage mixing vanished young women with men left lying in the open.
"Were the girls from Anchorage?" I asked.
"One was. Two were from Native communities farther inland. Why don't we go grab a bite to eat and discuss it?"
"I'd love to, but I'm supposed to meet my husband for lunch."
His gaze dropped to my hand. "Oh, right. Sure. Well, if you decide to run the story, call me."
He headed back into the offices without giving me his last name, card or any way to "call him." I reached the exterior doors this time before he hailed me again. He walked over, looking chagrined, as if realizing how it must look, taking off once he discovered I was married.
"About Mallory's story," he said. "The wolves. There's someone else you could talk to. A local woman who knows more about the case than anyone, including Mallory."
"Oh?"
