He shakes his head. “Nope. State employee, not federal.”
“Do you know anything about the recent bear attacks in Sitka?”
He nods, shifting slightly in his seat. As a reporter, I try to be in tune with my subjects’ body language, and seat-shifting is often a sign of discomfort with the topic at hand.
“Can you tell me anything about them?”
“Sandra Stutz’s dog got mauled on the Indian River Trail last month. Good dog,” he adds. “Jester. Husky-retriever mix. Got between Sandra and a brown bear. Usually the bear will retreat, but this one charged. Killed the dog.”
“Any other incidents?”
“Family hiking down the Mt. Verstovia trail ran into some trouble two weeks ago. They did everything right. Backed away slowly. Clapped their hands. Bear kept coming. Luckily the kid was holding a granola bar. He threw it to the bear and the family ran.”
“Both of these incidents were in May?” I ask.
“Uh-huh. Mother’s Day weekend and Memorial Day weekend.”
“Are bear attacks common in the fourth safest city in Alaska? Would you say that this represents an increase in bear aggression?”
“Uh…hey, are you a reporter or something?”
Shoot. People sometimes clam up when they find out I work for a newspaper, but it’s unethical not to admit it when asked directly. “I work for the Seattle Sentinel. I’m doing a story on—”
“That stuff was off-the-record.” He turns into the Sitka Library parking lot, parks his car and turns around in
his seat to look at me. His dimples are gone. “I mean it.”
“Could it be…on the record?” I ask, trying for a flirty smile.
“No,” he says, the warmth gone from his voice. “You should have told me you were a reporter.”
“I did,” I say. “As soon as you asked.”
He clenches his jaw for a second, then lets it go. It’s a strong jaw, I think. It shouldn’t be covered by all those bristles.
“Well, we’re here at the library,” he says. “Safe and sound, as promised.”
“Could we just talk a little more? I just want to understand—”
“My lunch break’s over,” he says. “Sorry.”
I feel bad now, and I hate feeling bad, especially when I haven’t done anything wrong. So what if I asked him a few questions? I don’t even know his name. He would have been an anonymous source.
“I won’t print your words,” I say. A peace offering.
“Thanks,” he says, “and I won’t sue you for libel.”
“Wow,” I say, opening my door. “Pretty big threat for a friendly conversation. Now who’s suspicious?”
“Have a good day, miss. Enjoy your time in Sitka.”
I slip out of the door and slam it shut behind me, standing all alone as he drives away without looking back. And for no good reason at all, I feel like something potentially important just slipped through my cold, wet fingers.
5
Luke
A reporter?