Palgrave waved him off, keeping his eyes fixed on Wegner, pinned and wriggling against the cork wall. “General Hooker was neither bluff nor genial,” Palgrave said. “Quite the contrary, in fact. I suggest you review Mr. Daniel Butterfield’s seminal biography, Major-General Joseph Hooker and the Troops from the Army of the Potomac at Wauhatchie, Lookout Mountain and Chattanooga. You will find it a most bracing corrective. As the ancients might say, Age quod agis.”

It was clear that Wegner had stopped listening well before the Latin epigram. He took another sip of wine, scanning the room as if idly looking for his ride home. Then, pretending to be unaware that all eyes were upon him, he set his plastic cup down on top of a light board, glanced at his watch, and fell back under a curtain of flying shot and blue smoke.

“THAT man is such a prick,” Brian said, setting down his pint glass. “I mean, who does that? And to George Wegner, of all people?”

We were in the Irish pub on King Street, holding something of a wake over a communal plate of nachos.

“He’s not a prick,” Kate said. “He’s not a prick at all. He’s a vampire.”

“You think everyone is a vampire,” Brian said. “You think Lionel Richie is a vampire.”

“Who’s to say he’s not?”

“And Spandau Ballet.”

“I did not say that Spandau Ballet were vampires. I said they were zombies. Not the same thing.”

“You’ve been impossible ever since Mystic Summonings.”

I fingered a “Guinness for Strength” beer mat. “Ever since what?” I asked.

“Mystic Summonings. Or was it Cosmic Beings and Haunted Creatures ?”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Sorry, New Guy. Before your time. We used to do a series called Tales of the Unknown. Surely you’ve heard about it? You must have seen the commercials.” Brian cleared his throat. “A man is about to get on an airplane,” he intoned. “Suddenly he has a strange premonition of disaster. He turns and leaves the boarding area. That same airplane—”

“No,” Kate interrupted. “Come on, Brian. That’s Library of Strange Happenings. I meant Tales of the Unknown.”

“Oh, right. Right. Let’s see. On a windswept hillside in Romania, a strange ritual unfolds far from the prying eyes of frightened villagers. Huddled deep within the folds of a billowing cloak, a lone figure mounts a broken stone altar. In his hands he clasps a bejeweled—”

“There you go.” Kate swirled the dregs of her wineglass. “Palgrave is a vampire. It all fits.”

Brian went after a sliver of jalapeño with a tortilla chip. “I once spent twenty minutes with Palgrave getting a lecture on the difference between a slouch hat and a forage cap. He’s just a prick. There’s nothing supernatural about it. Sometimes a prick is just a prick.”

“What about Jane Rossmire?” There was an edge to Kate’s voice now. “I’m telling you, she’s gone. Without a trace.”

Brian chewed for a moment. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess Palgrave must be a vampire. I mean, she couldn’t possibly just have moved out of town or gotten a better job. The vampire thing is the only possible explanation. What a fool I’ve been.”

“She would have said good-bye.”

“Maybe she was embarrassed,” Brian said. “After today, I wouldn’t be surprised if we never see George Wegner again.”

Kate signaled for another glass of wine. “I’m telling you, Thaddeus Palgrave is a creature of the night. Come on. For one thing, his name is Thaddeus. What kind of a name is that? It’s like he signed the Declaration of Independence or something.”

“I’m not sure I follow your reasoning,” Brian said. “There’s a guy in accounting named H. Basil Worthington. Is he a vampire, too?”

“Um, look,” I said. “I get it that I’m the new guy and maybe I should stay out of this, but are you serious? A vampire? With fangs and a black cape?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “We’re not talking about the Hammer House of Horror. Get a grip. I’m talking about vampires. Real vampires.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“They walk among us, dude,” said Brian. “My grandfather eats black pudding. It’s not a huge leap.”

“As creatures of the night go, they’re actually pretty interesting,” Kate said. “Did you know that Mexican vampires have bare skulls instead of heads?”

Brian snorted. “Always the researcher. The curse of LifeSpan Books.”

“Really, though. Can you imagine what that would look like? A bare skull?”

“Like the cover of a Grateful Dead album?”

“I just think it’s interesting, that’s all. And supposedly there are vampires in the Rockies that suck blood through their noses. They stick their noses into the victim’s ear. How cool is that?”

“I vant to sneef your bluh-ud.” Brian was on his third beer now.

Kate ignored him and barreled ahead. “In early folklore they’re often described as ruddy and bloated, probably from gorging on blood. I did a sidebar once on strigoi—you know, the Romanian vampires? Did you know that they have red hair, blue eyes, and two hearts?”

“Like Mick Hucknall,” said Brian. “Plenty of heart. No soul.”

I looked at him. “So if Thaddeus Palgrave suddenly starts singing ‘Holding Back the Years,’ I should run away?”

“First, unplug his amp,” said Brian. “That’s just common sense.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s been an interesting start to the new job. Just to be clear, when my mother calls to ask how things are going, I should tell her that everything’s fine, I did some really good research on the Spotsylvania Courthouse, I found an apartment, one of my coworkers is a vampire, and I’m trying out for the office softball team?”

“That’s about the size of it,” said Kate.

“I wouldn’t mention the softball team,” said Brian. “You don’t want to get her hopes up.”

Kate was fingering the rim of her wineglass. “I just can’t believe that Jane Rossmire never even said good-bye.” She turned to me. “Hey, New Guy, we’re getting to be friends, right? Brian and I have warmed your heart with our zany banter and all, right? Do me a favor. If you ever decide to disappear for no reason, take a minute to say good-bye. Just slip a note under my door or something. One word. Good-bye. Thanks for the nachos, maybe.”

I finished my beer. “It’s a promise,” I said.

SEVERAL weeks passed before I realized that I had unwittingly drifted into Thaddeus Palgrave’s crosshairs. My job at that time was to fact-check finished copy against the original research material, making sure that every fact and quote had a proper annotation. If there was anything in a chapter or sidebar that I couldn’t verify from the research packets, I was supposed to put a red check in the margin. The chapter couldn’t go to the production department until the red checks had been removed.

At first, while I was learning the ropes, I often had to go back to the writers when I couldn’t confirm a particular factoid. Invariably they’d say something to the effect of, “Oh, sorry, I got that out of the Boatner’s I keep here on my desk.” As I got the hang of things, I did the checking from my own sources and rarely had to touch base with the writers. In time I no longer bothered to take note of which writer had actually written the pages. That being the case, I hadn’t realized that I’d been working on one of Palgrave’s chapters until he appeared suddenly in the door of my office. It was four fifteen on a rainy Friday afternoon. I had been looking forward to the weekend.

“Worm castles,” he said.

I swear the temperature dropped by ten or fifteen degrees. He had a purple file folder in his hand and was tapping it against the door frame.

“Worm castles,” he repeated.

“Excuse me?” I said.

He opened the folder and turned it so that I could see the page of text inside. There was a single red check mark in the margin. He sighed heavily. “You have queried the term worm castles in my sidebar on dwindling Union rations.”