3.21 The Abyss of WonderLand
It seemed that Timothy had been busy earlier in the morning. After finishing breakfast, we walked out to the front of the hotel, passing the stinky flowers and the huge bowl full of red apples in the lobby, and found a large black limo waiting for us. The car was shiny clean and came with a polite middle-aged driver bearing a full-toothed, gentle smile and a greeting of: “Good Morning, lady and gents.” Inside the flashy vehicle, on the seat, sat a white plastic bag that contained four baseball caps (tiger icons for Bob and Terry and two yellow giraffe caps for Timothy and me.) The sack also contained our entry tickets for the zoo plus an Overly Koalified zip up hoodie Timothy had purchased for me. We all gushed over them, even the two guys with their slightly embarrassed, uh, thanks, Boss. Then with our caps donned and my hoodie slipped on, we nicely zoo ready. The drive from the hotel to the zoo wasn’t long, and I was excited to think that we would soon be starting our 100 acre walking trek around the various zones to see the more than 12,000 animals, 4,000 of them rare and endangered species, but Timothy had other intentions. Besides ordering us each hats, he’d signed us up for a private seven hour tour, which is why we got a cute little tram to ride around in. What luxury! Our guide, who was also the cart’s driver, was Danny. He was a carrot-red head and very tall (six foot-seven?) man in his early thirties who, although his legs seemed to be the longest part of him, capably collapsed into his driver’s seat with the foldability of a transformer toy. He was also a bio-diversity scientist, he told us and said he liked to give monthly tours that allowed him to not only do PR for the zoo, but to get a good overview of the zoo animals. Once Danny found out we were interested, he was like a beaker of liquid, over-flowing with information. Every question anyone asked lit up his slightly freckled face, and his green eyes seemed to glow as he gave us details and explanations about the zoo and its animals. (Like the fact that the San Diego Zoo had the biggest colony of koalas and successfully breeds them, and that the zoo was the first of its kind, demonstrating a native and environmentally matched, open-aired, and cageless concept for each species of animal.) I’ll admit that at the beginning, it felt a little strange being scrunched up in a cart with five large males, but I soon forgot about that because Danny was so incredible. His stories and steady stream of knowledge kept us entertained and interested (even though just seeing the animals would have done that on its own, but as I said, such a tour was an additional bonus.)
3.20 The Abyss of WonderLand
With that parting thrust, Mr. Peters stood up, returned his chair to the table from which he’d taken it, and strode off without a backward glance. “Wow,” I said. “And we’ve been trying to avoid him? He’s a hair-brained idiot, but he doesn’t seem that dangerous. I mean, no stake ready to plunge. Not even any garlic, holy water, or giant Christian cross.” I was laughing, but Timothy, Terry, and Bob maintained their jaw-tightened grimaces, stiffened bodies, and tension-casting vibes. “See that he is gone,” Timothy ordered Bob, who’d pushed his plate to the side. Logical since it was completely empty. Unfortunately, from the expression on his face, I think that Bob had envisioned going back to the buffet for a second round, but the guard said nothing, stood up, and took off in the direction that Mr. Peters had headed. Terry had still been eating his way through the hash browns which had congealed into his pile of stewed tomatoes. He looked up, fork in the air. “Want me to move on him?” I set down my second half of the English muffin. Terry’s offer sounded like gangster talk to me. I turned to look at Timothy, watching the way his jaw clenched from the guard’s wording. “We keep him under surveillance,” Timothy said. Then he turned to look at Terry. “Mr. Peters is not to come near Penelope again, understood?” “Hey, I thought it was an interesting conversation,” I protested, this time not reaching out to soothe Timothy. The whole scene was making me nervous, not about a reporter gone vampire chaser, but because of my own boyfriend’s attitude and his warning to Terry, like this was a scene from some grade B mafia movie. I shook my head to clear out the cobwebs. “You know, I’m very glad I finally got to meet the errant golfer. This Van Helsing of journalists seems so much easier to stomach than some unknown bad guy. Mr. Peters wasn’t really harassing and spying on us. He was just trying to make sure I wasn’t the latest flavor of milkshake. So, sure, the guy is crazy, but I doubt he’s any danger to us — as long as we watch out for flying stakes.” Timothy sighed, shook his head, and gave me a quick smile. “More coffee?” he asked, not addressing my words at all. “I’m already floating,” I said. Timothy smiled at me with that marvelously inviting and sexy grin he had, and I practically melted against him. Perhaps he knew his effect on me because he squished me in closer, then whispered in my ear. “You handled him well, my darling, but I don’t want him near you. Please don’t engage with him again.” I shrugged in a non-committal way, knowing that I should tackle the overly protective attitude that Timothy was demonstrating, but he was drugging me with sex hormones. I simply slid deeper into his cuddle.
3.19 The Abyss of WonderLand
The black and white photo showed three men standing in a saloon with a woman dressed in a skimpy barmaid’s costume. The men wore cowboy attire, holstered guns atop black jeans, long-sleeved shirts, and, of course, dark Stetsons. I laughed. “Where did you get this? Was it one of those photography shops where you get to play dress up?” I asked. “I’ve always wanted to do one of those.” Beside me, Timothy was munching on a waffle, one with blueberry compote. My mouth watered. I picked up my muffin and took a bite. Yum. Not even the very persistent and nutty as a fruitcake Jack Peters could destroy the deliciousness of a honey-coated English muffin. However after my bite, I was back to sticky fingers. I licked my index finger, the recipient of a big honey drip. Luckily, I’d already passed the photo back, so it wasn’t contaminated by my breakfast smear. “This picture was taken in Texas in the year 1885,” Mr. Golf Jerk said. “Did you notice that one of the men was your lover, Timothy, or whatever he called himself in that century? “Okay,” I chuckled. “So someone looked like Timothy back in 1885. Do you have a picture of that cowboy drinking blood? Did Stetson Guy burn up when the sun came out?” Amused by the whole discussion, I munched on my English muffin half, sipped some coffee, and darted a look at the men. Timothy was quietly eating his breakfast, but the growling guards had stopped wolfing down their mostly empty plates. Their faces looked dark with shadows of beard stubble, which I hadn’t observed earlier. That was curious since I usually noticed things like that. I studied the two men more intensely. Both guys still seemed on edge, much more so than Timothy, although I doubted that he was as relaxed as he seemed. Tension was almost a perfume in the air. I breathed in deeply, wondering if I could actually smell such a thing. I couldn’t. My eyes moved on. Mr. Peters was more or less glaring at all of us. Obviously, he didn’t like it when people jeered at his statements, even if that someone was me, whom he’d come over to save from being Drink of the Day. Catching my eye, the man’s eyes softened a bit. “Scoff if you want, Ms. Casey, but I’m warning you. This man will bring your death. He is lethal.”
3.18 The Abyss of WonderLand
“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.
3.17 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Don’t let him bite you, ma’am,” the golf man pleaded. “He’s going to kill you. His kind suck the blood out of your body and leave you lying in a dry heap of skin.” I had just taken a sip of coffee. With golf guy’s words, I almost spit it out. Timothy slid in beside me on the chair next to mine, no longer hovering above the stranger with the potentially hot missile of food. Instead, Timothy planted his plate on the table and draped his arm over my shoulder. “You okay?” he asked me. We were in a semi-busy restaurant with a family that included three little children only a few yards away. Couples were mooning over each other at the tables to our right and left, and a young waiter was scurrying over with a full coffee pot, ready to do refills. Although I should have been nervous about the crazy who’d joined us, the dog growls of our two guards, and the strangely cold voice of Timothy as he’d subtly warned the guy away, I was actually feeling remarkably safe. I picked up the dull-edged knife from my place setting, just to be sure, then wondered if a fork was a better weapon. “There will be no need for that,” Timothy said, removing the implement from my hand. “Mr. Peters was just leaving.” “Wait a minute,” I said, taking another sip of my coffee, then indicating to the server that I was ready for a fill-up. The waiter poured, and I paused my inquisition. Our valiant waiter filled all the cups and asked Mr. Peters if he would like a cup of coffee. “No. He’s not staying,” Timothy said, practically barking at the poor young man. “In fact, Carl,” Timothy said, reading the server’s name tag, “If this man isn’t out of here in one minute, I want the security staff to haul him out. His presence is offensive.”
3.16 The Abyss
Chapter Twelve In the morning, after Terry and Bob informed us that they hadn’t spotted the golfing jerk since the night before, the four of us headed down for breakfast in the hotel’s fancy restaurant. There, a long table was spread with every kind of breakfast food imaginable. The fruit bar looked especially appealing, purely from an artistic perspective, but I wasn’t feeling like eating a huge breakfast. I’d already eaten a shiny apple and munched on a red-waxed cheese (plus a couple of gingerbread cookies.) So, I asked for coffee and an English muffin. The offerings in the center of our table showed packages of honey. That was my favorite topping. Terry and Bob did the banquet thing and came back with mounded plates. I hated when food puddled together, but I guess that didn’t bother them. I sipped my coffee as they dug in, and then Timothy set off to fix himself a plate full of goodies. I had just received my English muffin and was in the process of decorating each half with sweet goodness, when Golf Jerk pulled over a chair and sat down at our table. I guess Terry and Bob had been too fixated on their breakfasts to notice the guy’s approach, and I’d been preparing my twin muffin slices for that first delicious bite. “What are you doing here?” I asked the stranger, slightly preoccupied with licking a honeyed finger. Bob or Terry, one of them, growled. It was a sound that sent chills down my spine, at least for me. My honey-iced English muffin halves suddenly lost their appeal. “I promise I’ll leave, if you just give me a moment to speak with the young lady. I need to warn her,” the guy said. “Warn her about what?” Timothy asked, coming up behind us and speaking with a voice that reminded me of a movie where the cold-blooded assassin made light conversation with his victim. Same tonal quality. Timothy was towering over the seated stranger. If I’d been golf man, I’d have worried about the hot plate of food hovering over my head. And then there was the ominous assassin voice of my . . . well, boyfriend, lover, and maybe fiancé.
3.15 The Abyss of WonderLand
I continued walking around, checking out our riches. Timothy sat and watched me with a huge smile, his back pressed against the leather couch, his legs crossed loosely in a relaxed mode. He acted like someone without a care, yet downstairs, wasn’t that strange man probably still lurking about on the prowl? “Don’t you want to investigate our suite?” I asked him, but Timothy only shook his head and smiled more broadly. A marvelously giant bed with a cool green bedspread took up a good portion of the bedroom. As I’d said it could fit a family of five. I sat down and tried out the mattress. Feeling like Goldilocks, I pronounced, “The mattress feels just right – not too soft or too hard.” Timothy, still in the other room, now unseen, gave a big laugh, not an evil one, not one of mockery either. It was more as if I’d just said the final line of a good joke. The bathroom had a lovely tub bigger than my kitchen. I heard Timothy stand up, then his hard-heeled shoes padded on the velvety carpet. A moment later, he entered the bathroom and swept in behind me. “The bathtub is a whirlpool,” he said, wrapping his arms around my body. “And it will be fun to share it with you.” I ignored the innuendo. I was still having too much fun touring the suite. I wiggled free and examined the freebies on the tub rack. Five bottles of bubbles had been placed near the jacuzzi tub: lavender-chamomile, eucalyptus-spearmint with essential oils, citrus detox, sweet almond- vanilla, and peach with sea mineral salts. I took a whiff of each of them and decided that if I had time, I’d try every one of them. Big green towels filled a second rack on the wall. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, hand cream, and a selection of other goodies were stacked neatly along the gorgeous counter and sink. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I told Timothy. “That comes next,” he said, placing his arms around my body as he whispered into my ear. His arms twirled me about and then his lips joined mine. One of my pocketed apples hit the bathroom tile and rolled across the floor. Neither of us bothered to stop what we were doing to pick it up. Oh, and Timothy was right about heaven. It was found underneath that minty green bedspread on the mattress that was just right.
3.14 The Abyss of WonderLand
Timothy pretended to ignore him, threw his arm around my shoulder, and indicated that we were heading for the elevator. We got there just before the strange man did. His face darkened with rage as the door closed in his face. Timothy held his finger on the closed button, keeping it from opening at the man’s summons. Moments later, the four of us stepped off on the floor beneath our rooms and had to walk up two flights of stairs. I guessed we were doing secret agent stuff. Why not just tell the man to shove off? Couldn’t we call the police about someone so obviously following us? But it wasn’t question time, not with the three stiff bodies of the men and the serious looks on their faces. Terry, the Viking warrior who didn’t care for apples, had his hand in his pocket. Was he carrying a gun? When we reached the door that our key card liked, Bob peeled off to the right. Terry took the room on the other side of us, which meant that Timothy and I had an entire suite to ourselves. I’ve got to say that the room was divine from my first glance, but as we stepped into its swankiness, I saw why Timothy hadn’t taken any apples. There was a large bowl of mixed fruit on the table in the center of the room, plus little cookies, some cheeses enshrined in red wax, and even a vegetable platter with carrots, celery, and radishes, all of it sitting on fresh ice. I set off to explore the rest of the room, marveling at its size. We had a full living room with comfy chairs, lamps, a cabinet with alcoholic drinks, a large couch, and the beautiful mahogany table with food. A sideboard even had full-sized Keurig coffee maker and underneath it, I saw a microwave oven and a small refrigerator. The living room looked out over a balcony with chairs. We could almost see the ocean from our inside window. San Diego’s evening air had grown chilly, so I scurried back inside. The bedroom looked bigger than my whole apartment. It had pieces of furniture that could probably hold the contents of at least five suitcases full of clothing. The bed had the potential to allow a soccer team to pile onto it, not that I thought that would be a good idea, but huge doesn’t describe it accurately. I’d guess it was a king-sized plus. In other words, the suite was amazing. I’d always thought that hotel rooms were supposed to be tiny with only a TV and a twin bed. That’s what someone had told me, anyway. This place could be comfortable for a member of the British royalty, a CEO billionaire, or even the president of the United States!
3.13 The Abyss of WonderLand
The four of us made our way over to a long counter where three attendants stood. They were all women wearing stunning uniforms, which looked designer to me. I had the urge to ask Simone. She’d know. The women’s cherry red skirt suits with the swanky hotel identification badge made me feel like I was entirely out of place. I was wearing a white tee shirt, jeans, and a hooded, zippered, navy sweatshirt. Simone, if she were with us, would have had a fit. Each of the women paused to give us a smile. They didn’t just concentrate on Timothy either. I felt equally welcomed with their quiet-voiced greetings. On the counter was a huge bowl of shiny red apples. I wanted one, but I thought they might just be decorative. Two four-foot bouquets of flowers had been plopped on the counter at each side of the apples. The flowers were pretty, I supposed, and artfully assembled, but the bouquet was made up of the raunchy kind of flowers, those that made you sick if you stood too close. I pitied the hospitality staff, which is what the ladies’ name tags said. Timothy signed in for all of us, then handed rectangular cards to Terry and Bob. “Are the apples for us?” I asked, blurting it out as I had the tendency to do. But I could smell the apples, and they were my favorite kind — red delicious. “Help yourself,” the woman with Tina on her name tag said, smiling at me. “Take a couple if you like. I do all the time.” “How do you put up with those stinky flowers?” I asked her. The woman next to her, Donna, shrugged. “We get used to it. It only bothers us the first ten minutes we’re standing here.” Timothy was barely keeping his laughter back. When his eyes twinkled as they were doing at that moment, the hints of gold shone through. I wondered if he knew that. Bob reached out and grabbed two apples, and I did the same. Timothy and Terry acted like they didn’t care for apples. How could anyone not like Red Delicious? Just as I’d palmed my apples, the males all stiffened. I turned to see what was bothering them. The golf guy had just entered the hotel. His eyes fixated on us.
3.12 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Of course. I’d never risk you, my darling. I told you it was completely safe.” Timothy was smiling at me, a smile so gentle and full, I almost melted. Instead, I simply kissed him, right on the cheek. (And yes, I wanted to kiss him better, but there were people all around.) There was a lot of congestion getting off the plane. We waited until the aisle was clear, even though others offered to let us go first. I was feeling a bit claustrophobic by then, but I certainly wasn’t going to say so. Besides, being smothered in a crowd would be worse than waiting. Eventually, the aisle cleared, and Timothy and I got up. The two guards behind us piled in at our backs. We walked down the aisle, our exit from the plane unhurried and uncrushed. We exchanged smiles with the flight attendants. Then we walked down through another tunnel and departed the terminal a few moments later. Since none of us had checked baggage, it was an unrestricted walk. We caught a taxi immediately at the curb and sped off to our hotel. I guess all this was something most people had done before, but I’d never ridden in a taxi or stayed at a hotel. I was having a lot of new adventures! “I booked us a shared room,” Timothy whispered into my ear. “Is that okay? I can change it to separate rooms if you like.” “Like my grandmother used to say, When you’ve already traversed a bridge, it’s too late to wonder if it was safe to cross,” I said, which made Timothy laugh and then give me a quick hug. The hotel from the front looked enormous, all white pillars and velvet green bushes with lots of flowers in bloom. The double door entrée had an automatic circular sliding door. Its glass was so clean, I suspected the staff must wipe it every hour. The front door had thick red carpeting sprawled across the entrance and a huge red tarp-like overhang to protect both the plush carpet and any guests afraid to dart outside into the rain. Huge pots on each side held a combination of pink and deep purple azaleas, which should have clashed with the red of the welcome mat carpet, but didn’t. We entered through the fancy door. Timothy did the pushing, while I just enjoyed the sensation of gliding a circular dance. Stepping out and into the lobby, I let out an ah of amazement. Everything was shiny. The floors looked like mirrors, they sparkled so, as did the chandeliers overhead. There were comfy chairs, tables, and lamps. The entire area was like a giant living room with people sitting around reading newspapers or studying their cellphones. An elevator toward the back in a coppery color looked like it had just been buffed. How did the hotel staff keep things so clean with people constantly touching the doors and buttons? Did housekeeping immediately rush forward and wipe the windows, counters, and elevator every time a person came near?