“After I speak to him, please?” I requested, hoping to find out what had made the man follow us from San Jose. Was his research that urgent that he couldn’t wait for us to return?
Meanwhile, the waiter’s face paled and a spot of fear crept into his eyes. I’ve never seen a man carrying a hot pot of coffee back up so fast or speed away into the bowels of the kitchen like he did. He was probably a soccer player on his days off with legs that adroit at table weaving.
“Let me understand this, Mr. Peters,” I said. “You really believe that Timothy is a vampire? Are you writing a fantasy story that makes you the Van Helsing in your tale?”
Apparently, the man knew all about Dracula and the complete collection that followed concerning the dynamic vampire hunter (either from the books or the series.) Mr. Peters shook his head and an extremely brief smile flitted across his lips before he grew serious again. “My name is Jack, and yours is?” he asked, looking directly into my eyes and ignoring the three men sitting at our table.
“You know who she is,” Timothy interjected, his face stern and his chin lowered like a boxing pro.
“True,” the man said, still avoiding even a glance at Timothy. “Penelope Casey, age 22, secretary of sorts in . . .”
Our two guards were actually growling for real. Not just fake doggy sounds, but angry wolf speech. I would have commented on that, but I needed to make sure that Timothy didn’t stand up and punch Mr. Peters. I settled my hand on Timothy’s arm and felt the instant subsiding of his tension as his muscles relaxed.
“Yes, yes, anyone could have found that out. Not impressive,” Timothy broke in before I could question either Timothy or the strange Mr. Peters. No time either for a quick look in the growlers’ direction. Hadn’t anyone else heard their wolfy snarls?
Actually, I was rather awed by Mr. Peter’s data, except for the secretary of sorts. I was more than a legal secretary. I was the head researcher and Mr. Sanders’ assistant, but I let that ride for the moment.
I patted Timothy’s arm, calming him further. Then I turned my attention fully on the curly haired, mustached fellow who’d more or less attached himself to our group.
“If you know anything about vampires, Jack Peters, you will know that vampires don’t eat real food . . . or drink coffee,” I informed him. “Vampires don’t saunter around in the daylight either, and . . . they have red eyes and cold, pale skin.”
“Not this one,” the man cleared his voice, shook his head, and spoke. “I have proof this man is exactly what I said. Have you ever heard of day walkers, young lady?”
Mr. Peters suddenly inserted his hand into his jacket pocket. Both guards stiffened. Bob went for his gun. Timothy simply took a bite of his scrambled eggs.
Jack didn’t pull out the stake that I’d guessed he might be carrying since that was the instant method of death for vampires according to Buffy and other vampire series. Instead, what he clasped in his hand was merely an old black and white photo. He passed it to me.
Timothy grabbed it from me, stared at it a moment, then apologized and handed it back to me with a sheepish expression.