Bearwalker by Joseph Bruchac Page A

side to trot over to Mrs. Osgood, who kneels down and puts her arms around him. Her eyes are moist, but her face looks calm now.
    I’m trying to be unobtrusive, but Mr. Wilbur notices me. For a moment I think he’s going to ask me to leave the room. Then he shakes his head and smiles in resignation. “You might as well stay and hear the rest of this, Baron,” Mr. Wilbur says.
    He looks over toward Mr. Mack, slumped in a chair under the alert gaze of Mr. Philo, who is now holding the shotgun. “It won’t hurt to have one more pair of eyes keeping watch on our deceptive friend over there.”
    He motions for me to move over near the door that leads outside. It’s on the other side ofthe room from Mr. Mack, but plenty close to hear all that will be said as he takes a deep, shuddering breath and starts to speak.
    â€œI needed someone who knew the area. That is why I hired him.” Mr. Mack doesn’t look up. He keeps his gaze on his bloody hands. It is as if he’s talking to himself, unaware that anyone else is here. “How could I have known who he was and what he was really up to? It is certainly not my fault, not my fault at all.”
    â€œWhere’s my husband?” a sharp voice cuts in.
    Mr. Mack lifts his head in surprise, as if realizing for the first time he’s not alone.
    â€œGeorge,” Mrs. Osgood reminds him, holding up her husband’s coat with her left hand, her right hand on Poe-boy’s head. “Where is he now?” The big dog catches the tone in her voice. A growl starts deep in its chest.
    Mr. Mack cowers in his chair. “Keep that dog away from me. I don’t know. All I know is that Walker handed me that pack with that jacket in it. All he was supposed to do was stop him from calling for help. He wasn’t supposed to do anything to him. I didn’t know the man was a killer.”
    â€œBut you never saw my husband’s body, did you?” Mrs. Osgood is standing. For some reason she looks less distressed than before as she holdsback Poe-boy. The huge black Labrador’s growling has gotten much louder now and he is baring his teeth at the man who is shrinking even further back.
    â€œNo, no. No, I didn’t see his body.”
    Mrs. Osgood nods. “Good,” she says, pulling Poe-boy back with her as she sits down. She smiles over at me. “George is not an easy man to kill, son,” she says.
    Mr. Philo kicks the leg of Mr. Mack’s chair. “You said he was a killer and that you didn’t know who he was. I assume you meant that man who calls himself Walker White Bear. Explain what you meant.”
    Mr. Mack runs a hand through his hair. An officious tone comes back into his voice. “You fail to understand, sir,” he says. “Staffing decisions are difficult, even under the best of circumstances. I wasn’t able to obtain a résumé, you know. I would not expect a former basketball player to appreciate the difficulty of being an efficient administrator when lacking the requisite access to properly background-check one’s employees.”
    Mr. Wilbur rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. I know what he means by that. This guy, Mr. Mack, is whack.
    Mr. Philo nudges the barrel of the shotgun against Mr. Mack’s shoulder. “Speak English, pal,” he says. “I’m only a dumb ex-jock.”
    â€œCareful with that shotgun,” Mrs. Osgood warns. “It has a hair trigger. It would smart some if he was to get hit with the load I’ve got in those shells.”
    Mr. Philo steps back. “Speak,” he says again. “How do you know the man’s a killer and who he is?”
    â€œHow do I know?” Mr. Mack’s face is defiant now, his tone superior. “Do you recall my two other counselors? As soon as they saw that…”—he looks toward Mrs. Osgood and her husband’s jacket, which is now neatly folded and placed on the floor by her