“Maybe he’s just—”
“Shy?” Kate gave a snort. “Is that what you were about to say, New Guy? No, Thaddeus Palgrave is not shy. He holds himself apart. He looks down his aquiline nose at the hoi polloi. Has he given you one of his off-the-cuff Latin witticisms yet?”
“No, I haven’t even met the man.”
Kate glanced at her watch. “Well, the moment is at hand. We have a paste-up at four o’clock. He’ll be there.” She stood up and brushed some crumbs off her lap.
“What’s a paste-up?”
“Just before a book goes to press, we have a meeting to review the galleys. All the pages get pinned up on the walls so everyone can take a last look.”
“It’s really just an excuse to open a bottle of wine on a Friday,” Brian added. “Everyone stands around patting themselves on the back for a job well done.”
“Everyone except Palgrave,” said Kate.
“Yeah,” said Brian. “Everyone except Palgrave.”
AT four o’clock I trailed into the corner conference room behind George Wegner, a thirty-year man who had started his career on the Russia desk of NewsBeat. More than a hundred layout pages were pinned to the cork walls, and as Brian had suggested, the air was heavy with selfcongratulation. Wegner spent twenty minutes earnestly telling me about the brief “bill of fare” sections he had written near the front of each chapter, teasing the contents and laying out the themes to come. “If it’s done right,” he told me, “the reader won’t even be aware of it. But it’s vital to the structure of the chapter. It gets the reader’s mind pointed in the proper direction. So, for instance, in the chapter just before Missionary Ridge, it was important to—”
“Bluff and genial? Can you possibly be serious, Mr. Wegner?”
The voice caught me off guard. I turned to find Thaddeus Palgrave hovering at Wegner’s elbow, an expression of amused contempt playing over his features. I had never seen him up close before. He had a high, broad forehead and an underslung jaw, giving his head the appearance of an inverted pyramid. His dark blond hair was flecked with gray, but his face was taut and unlined, making his age hard to figure—no younger than forty-five, I would have guessed. His narrow eyes were dull green and—though he would have objected to the cliché—as cold as ice. Sometimes there’s no other way to say it.
Wegner recovered more quickly than I did. “Thaddeus, I don’t believe you’ve met our newest member of the staff? May I present—”
Palgrave ignored my outstretched hand. “You are excessively fond of the phrase bluff and genial, Mr. Wegner.”
“Excuse me, Thaddeus?”
“In The Deadliest Day, you informed us that Ambrose Burnside was the ‘bluff and genial commander of the right wing of the Army of the Potomac. ’ In Second Manassas, you declared that John Pope, ‘though bluff and genial off the battlefield, had gained a reputation as a determined tactician in the western theater of the war.’ And now, in The Road to Chancellorsville, we learn that General Joseph Hooker, ‘a bluff and genial man, took command of the Second Division of the Third Corps at the start of the Peninsula Campaign.’ ” Palgrave cocked his head toward the galley where the offending phrase appeared. “I could go on.”
Wegner tried to laugh it off, but his ears were reddening. “I’ll have to watch that,” he said. “Still, every writer has his little quirks, wouldn’t you agree?”
“If by that you mean most writers are lazy and inaccurate,” Palgrave said, “then of course I am forced to agree. Or have I misunderstood?”
The room had gone silent. Peter Albamarle, the managing editor, stepped forward to try to save the situation. “I’m afraid I do that sort of thing all the time, Thaddeus,” he said. “I’d be embarrassed to say how many times I’ve used the phrase ‘fell back under a curtain of flying shot and blue smoke.’ No one in my chapters ever makes a strategic retreat. They invariably fall back under a curtain of flying shot and blue smoke. It’s become something of a—”
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.”
“Ah. So I did. Please, Mr. Palgrave, sit down.” I tipped my gym bag off the folding chair in the corner.
He stayed where he was. “Mr. Clarke—” he began.
“Jeff,” I said. “Please call me Jeff.”
He looked at me with what appeared to be genuine curiosity. “Whatever for?”
“Well, it’s just—if we’re going to be working together, I thought it would be nice to be on a first-name basis.”
“Do you imagine that we’re going to become friends, Mr. Clarke?”
I tried to read his eyes. “I just thought—” I broke off and tried again. “It’s casual Friday.”
The answer appeared to satisfy him. “Yes, of course. Jeff.” He somehow broke it into two syllables, as if translating from Old English. “Let us review the offending section of my description of food rations during the Chattanooga campaign.”
“Look, I was simply checking the sources. I didn’t mean—”
“As always, a staple of the Union fighting man’s diet was hardtack, a hard, simple cracker made of flour, water, and salt. Hardtack—a term derived from tack, a slang term common among British sailors as a descriptive of food—offered many advantages to an army on the move. Cheap to produce and virtually imperishable, hardtack easily withstood the extremes of temperature and rough handling to which it was subjected in the average soldier’s kit. Indeed, the thick wafer proved so indestructible that soldiers were obliged to soften it in their morning coffee before it could be eaten. This extra step offered an additional advantage—at a time when improper storage conditions meant that many of the army’s foodstuffs were infested with insects, a good soaking in coffee allowed any unwanted maggots or weevil larvae to float to the top of the soldier’s cup, where they could easily be skimmed off. As a result, the soldiers often referred to their hardtack rations as worm castles.”
Palgrave stopped reading and looked at me expectantly. “Well? This did not meet with your approval?”
“It’s perfect,” I said. “Very concise and informative. But I need a source for the phrase worm castles.”
“A source?”
“I’ve checked every source in the packets you were given. Furgurson, Foote, Livermore—all of them. I’ve found any number of slang terms for hardtack. Tooth dullers. Dog biscuits. Sheet iron. Jaw breakers. Ammo reserves. But I can’t find worm castles.”
“I don’t see the problem.”
“I need a citation. It may be just a formality, but I need it. My job, as I understand it, is to check the facts—even the trivial ones. If somebody says that Grant’s first name was Ulysses, I have to check it. You can’t just say that Civil War soldiers walked around using the phrase worm castles without a source. What if they didn’t?”
“They did.”
“I’m sure they did. I just need you to tell me where you got it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Clarke, I have worked here for thirteen years.”
“I appreciate that. And I’ve only worked here for a few weeks. So I’m asking you to help me do my job.”
“You may rest assured that my facts are in order.”
“With respect, I can’t take it on faith. I need a source.”
“I am the source.”
“But how do you know it’s right?”
“It just is.” He closed the folder and stared at me for a long moment. “Per aspera ad astra,” he said, walking away.
I recognized that one. Through hardship to the stars.
PALGRAVE began weaving a single unverifiable fact into every page of his work. Again and again I went to him asking for sources. Each time he looked me square in the face and said, “It just is.” The red check marks continued to bloom in the margins of his copy, creating a logjam in the production chain. The burden of breaking the jam rested entirely with me.
One day Peter Albamarle appeared in the doorway of my office. It was rare to see him moving among the drones, so I had a pretty good idea of what was coming. “I understand yo
u and Thaddeus have been at odds,” he said.
I looked at his face and knew my job was on the line. My first job. The job that was supposed to be my entrée into big-time journalism. “Not at all, Mr. Albamarle,” I said.
He folded his hands. “Thaddeus . . . can be something of a challenge,” he said slowly.
“I’m sure we’ll iron this out. I’m still learning the lay of the land.”
“Perhaps.” Albemarle stepped into my office and closed the door. This can’t be good, I thought. “It’s no reflection on you,” he said, “but not everyone is cut out for this job. If you like, we can reassign you to Imagination Station and pass Thaddeus off to a more seasoned researcher.”
Imagination Station. The kiddie series. The Siberia of LifeSpan Books. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” I said.
“It’s not a reflection on you,” Albamarle repeated. “Thaddeus takes a certain pleasure in being difficult. This office is his entire world. He has never once in thirteen years taken a vacation. Not once. I’ve tried to speak with him, but . . .” He raised his palms and shrugged.
“I understand,” I said. Actually, I had no clue, but I understood that he was prepared to throw me under the bus.
“It’s just—it’s just that if you can’t resolve your issues, we won’t be able to meet the drop date. That’s ten days from now.”
“So I have to find a source for each of the red checks in Mr. Palgrave’s work.”
Albamarle gave a tight nod. “Exactly,” he said.
“Without his cooperation.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Somewhere among all the tens of thousands of books and references we have available on the Civil War.” I flipped the pages of the book I was holding. “A needle in a haystack—only the haystack is the Library of Congress.”
Albamarle had the decency to look abashed. “I’m afraid that’s the situation precisely,” he said.
AND the strange thing was, I began to think I could do it. I wanted to prove to Palgrave that I could take whatever he threw at me. It became my only goal in life to erase every single red check. I came in early to get first crack at the 128 volumes of The Official Records of the War of the Rebellion. I dipped into the memoirs of officers and enlisted men—Company Aytch by Sam Watkins and Following the Greek Cross by Thomas Worcester Hyde. I made a special study of Major General John D. Sedgwick, the highest-ranking Union casualty of the war, who fell to a sharpshooter’s bullet at Spotsylvania. His last words: “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.”
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