A Horribly Haunted Halloween

by Heather Graham

  “And through tomorrow,” Jackson said.

  “And through tomorrow,” Bruce promised.

  “Three top agents will be looking out for you,” he told her. “You’re in the best of hands.”

  He left the room, meeting up with Barry just outside and telling him they needed an officer in uniform in front of the room at all times—and the McFadden brothers would be doing guard duty, too, in their plain clothes.

  “You really think this guy would dare come into a hospital?” Barry asked.

  “No—but he’s clever and he’s bitter. If all else fails, he could come for Veronica. He’s a master at fabrication and make-up. He could come in as a doctor, a nurse, or an orderly. No one goes into that room with her alone.”

  “Right,” Barry agreed. And then he yawned. “Sorry. I must sleep.”

  “Of course. And I know your night shift is aware.”

  “Everyone in the country is aware by now,” Barry said. “But, yes, the night shift has been briefed and warned. Both of us have crews out at the workshop watching if he returns—or if they can find any clue as to where else he might bring a victim to murder them and dress them up. Every person involved with scenery, special effects, and anything else to do with movies, TV, and any such form of entertainment has been warned. By the way, Crow, you need to sleep, too. I know your Krewe tend to think of themselves as invincible, but you need sleep, too.”

  “Yeah. I know.” He grimaced. “Angela and I will sleep right after Halloween, I promise.”

  “You’re a better man than me,” Barry said.

  “No. Just one more accustomed to working without sleep,” Jackson assured him. “And don’t worry; I have other agents out checking any venue with creatures. Angela and I will be . . . just doing the same.”

  He hurried downstairs. Angela was waiting in the car with the ghost of Roger Newsome. Jackson had ridden with the ambulance and gone in to speak with Veronica as soon as the doctors had allowed.

  “Anything new?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Well, I have something.”

  “You do?” he asked.

  “Ray Channing.”

  “Who is?”

  “A CEO of a small film company. I found his name when I was searching through records on the various companies that might have rejected David Andre’s work. I was able to access his calendar—and he met with David Andre. I’ve called his cell and his office. He doesn’t respond. I found a number for his assistant and found out he always takes the days around Halloween off—he goes around and looks at houses and displays, always intrigued by what people come up with for the holiday.”

  “You got all that information in the car in the time I was in the hospital?” he asked her.

  “I guess my smart phone is really smart,” she said.

  Jackson leaned back in the driver’s seat looking at Roger Newsome.

  The ghost shook his head sadly.

  “I don’t know; I only know where I was taken,” he said.

  Jackson looked at his watch.

  Midnight.

  He looked back at Angela and grimaced. “Happy Halloween,” he said dryly.

  “We keep going,” she said softly.

  He nodded.

  The ghost of Roger Newsome let out something like a sigh.

  “Hey! I’m game. Let’s drive. I can probably slip in a few places where you can’t.”

  “All right, then. Thanks. Angela, what does your trusty phone suggest?”

  “A lot of places are closed for the time being. We just start with the closest,” she said. “The next is about five miles up the highway.” She bit her lip thoughtfully. “But then again, we may not be looking for another special effects workshop.”

  “You’re right; he may have taken up space in anything abandoned.”

  “Maybe we should—”

  “Look for something near here,” he finished for her.

  “Have you two been together long?” Roger Newsome asked.

  They were able to smile at one another and them at him.

  And they answered together.

  “Yes!”

  *

  David Andre cursed silently. He had slowed the car, but he saw the police vehicles before he pulled into the drive of the workshop.

  How the hell had they found the place? It had been closed for months; a maintenance crew went in once a week but that was it—the work there had been halted.

  He knew because he had planned and calculated everything he had done. He had scouted out his locations and he had followed his creatures—he didn’t call them victims. In his mind they were evil people who deserved to die. Well, not old Roger Newsome. That had been mercy killing.

  He drove on quickly, glad he had planned well.

  So, the police had found the workshop. And that meant they had found Veronica. And she was probably still alive—in a hospital, he imagined.

  He’d conked her good.

  He was furious at first, ready to burst with frustration. But then congratulated himself.

  He had planned well.

  He had Ray Channing waiting.

  In a different location. And Ray could take some time.

  He smiled, thinking of all the artistry that would be going into Ray. He was going to be a zombie—an exceptional zombie. And he would star in the local programming that had been planned for those who intended to stay in for the night.

  He drove on. He didn’t even worry the police would stop him.

  He didn’t look a thing like himself.

  And he had the I.D. to prove that—he wasn’t himself!

  He would have to see how it all went. Then, maybe, he’d try out another of the I.D.s he’d created for himself.

  That of Dr. Dirk Anderson. He was such a serious man! And ever so talented with a boning knife. Not that he needed much talent for a swift, single plunge.

  Dr. Dirk Anderson. Older, experienced. Always so deeply concerned regarding the life and death of his patients!

  He smiled to himself. He considered himself a visual artist. But he was damned good at any creation, and they just weren’t going to stop him. They were fools.

  They weren’t really reading his poem.

  Chapter 6

  “Near here,” Angela murmured, frowning.

  “Pardon?” Jackson said.

  She looked up from her smart phone.

  “We’re in an area of workshops and warehouses. Large places, usually filled with people daily, but closed now with people working on computers from home or putting projects on hold. There’s a place ahead owned by a company called Emery Sporting Sets—they make wet suits, dive skins, tennis shorts and shirts, golf shirts . . . anything to do with sports. They had been working with rotating staff, but they’ve closed for a few weeks. The place is filled with fabric. If David Andre is creating creatures, that would be a great place to do it. Everything is available for sewing outfits. Oh!” She was glancing down at the phone again. “Halloween! They also make Halloween costumes!”

  “Okay, we’ll head there now,” Jackson said.

  Angela turned to email, looking again at the poem that had been written and sent to the newspaper. She closed her eyes for a minute. They knew the killer was David Andre. And he had been a loose cannon, ready to explode. And then he had been rejected one time too many for his artistry.

  His mission was twofold. Kill those who had rejected him and prove his artistry with their bodies. He had been easy to find; he hadn’t cared that law enforcement might easily discover his identity. He was a man who could create creatures from human beings—and a man who could change his identity as easily. That’s why he didn’t care if they knew—in fact, he wanted to be known. The amazing artist who had done such a job creating creatures from human beings. The world had dismissed a genius.

  But the poem . . .

  Did he think himself a poet, too? Or was there more than just the warning—or the identity—in the poem?

  She re
ad it again.

  “ ‘Twas right before Halloween

  And all through the land

  Creatures were appearing,

  Gruesome and grand,

  Witches and goblins and scarecrows, oh, my!

  Skeletons, mummies, werewolves, no lie!

  And what to my wondrous eye should I see

  Blood and guts coming straight at me!

  And blood and guts coming straight at thee!

  So many ghastly ghouls on this night,

  How many to see before the light!”

  “So many ghastly ghouls,” she murmured out loud.

  “Pardon?” Jackson said.

  She suddenly leaned forward. “Jackson, there’s another Halloween park that’s going to be open to drive-thru and photo opportunities for kids who want to dress up and parents who want to play it safe. It’s called the Ghouls Parade. His poem—it ends with, ‘So many ghastly ghouls, how many to see the light.’”

  “Call Barry,” he told her. “And put the bulletin out to our people here. We’ve got to get in there before they open for tomorrow night—or tonight.”

  “Maybe we should go—”

  “I think we have to find Ray Channing first.”

  He was right, of course. But she couldn’t help thinking about the Ghouls Parade. About hundreds of cars going through . . .

  With ghouls on parade.

  Jackson pulled up to the address she had given him for Emery Sporting Sets. Pale light emanated from the building. It was an old building, she thought. Probably built in the mid or late 1800s. It would have an attic and a basement.

  “Basement,” the ghost of Roger Newsome said, before she could murmur the word herself.

  Jackson parked the car and they got out, surveying the old building—drawing their weapons.

  “Breaking and entering,” Angela murmured.

  “Due cause,” Jackson said.

  But they didn’t need to break anything; the front door was open. Heading in, they saw there was a reception desk in the old entry/parlor area, and wooden signs above doorways off the parlor advertised different sections. There was a sign reading Tennis Attire,” and another advertised “Dive Skins,” and one for “Golfing.”

  Angela headed straight for “Golfing.” She figured the old kitchen had been to the left and the door to a basement usually led from the kitchen. Or from beneath the stairway.

  Jackson followed her as she hurried through, as did the ghost of Roger Newsome. She hurried down the stairs.

  The basement held boxes of material, needles, scissors, and industrial sized sewing machines.

  And something else.

  Trussed like a hog and gagged.

  A man.

  “That’s got to be him!” Roger Newsome said.

  Angela was already dialing for help.

  *

  Now, David Andre was angry.

  How the hell . . .

  What had given them the clue as to where he might be working?

  He’d almost gone in. But just before he’d pulled off, he’d seen the SUV sweep off the road and to the driveway.

  And he’d watched them. Who the damned hell were they?

  Cops? What? Of course, the entire area was looking for him now. Because he had done an amazing job with Gerard’s corpse. And then they had found Veronica, and now Ray.

  Fury swept through him. He fought it; emotion could get in his way.

  He knew to direct his anger in a different direction. To planning and artistry.

  The woman. A lovely blond . . . her hair was probably long when freed from the queue at her nape. She would make a beautiful fairy tale princess. And the man. Native American, or at least there was Native American in his background.

  He started to laugh.

  Dime-store Indian!

  Yes . . .

  They had to be brought down. Brought down low.

  He didn’t know who they were—but they knew him. They’d be on his trail. And in that, he would find them.

  Maybe they’d even come to the hospital.

  All he had to do was find out where they’d taken Veronica. And that should be easy enough; they’d be taking Ray to the same place. He just had to wait.

  And follow.

  Maybe it was almost time for Dr. Dirk Anderson to make an appearance.

  *

  It was three in the morning by the time Ray Channing was taken to the hospital, and he told them the same story of what had happened to him that they had heard from Veronica Chastain.

  He had come home—and been whacked on the head. The next thing he knew, he’d been surrounded by boxes in a dark basement.

  And David Andre had been there, telling him what a fantastic zombie he was going to be.

  Brian and Bruce McFadden were both at the hospital, and assured Jackson they wouldn’t leave. Nor would they let anyone—even a doctor—into either Veronica’s or Ray’s room without one of them present.

  “The police and our own agents are searching the area at ‘Ghouls Parade,’” Jackson told Angela. “But I know you—”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “Okay . . . so we head for Ghouls Parade,” Jackson said.

  The ghost of Roger Newsome was still with them. He grimaced at Jackson.

  “There’s no place I have to be. I’m along for the ride—if you wish.”

  “You saved Veronica’s life, and through getting us to her, you also got us to Ray Channing,” Jackson told him.

  “Oh, no, Angela did that!” he said.

  She shook her head. “We wouldn’t have found Ray if we hadn’t been looking for a place near where he was keeping Veronica,” she assured him.

  “I’m saving lives; I’m glad,” he said softly. “So—Ghouls Parade.”

  The drive was about an hour. When they arrived at the theme park, they were met by one of Barry’s men, a young detective named Ken Kendall. He had been waiting at the glass-enclosed toll booth and came out to the car when they arrived.

  “Special Agents Hawkins and Crow,” he said, nodding in acknowledgement. They knew him from previous cases. “We have three teams going through exhibits. Nothing so far,” he told them. “You follow a winding path through all the sections. There are backroads that reach them, too, and we have a team combing the backroads, but this place is a labyrinth if you don’t stay on the beaten path. When they’re open, they have employees stopping cars from going off the wrong way; and the correct way is well lit—the shadows are left for the displays. Zombie Island is to the left, Dead Aliens is there to the middle, Galloping Ghouls is the left. Oh, and past Galloping Ghouls, you come to Ghouls of the Caribbean and after Dead Aliens, you reach Knights of the Ghoul Table.” He handed them a map and sighed deeply. “There are over two-hundred and fifty animatronics along with stuffed creatures that . . . do nothing. And the owner is chaffing at the bit, of course. It’s Halloween. He needs to open. He is heavily invested in this place.”

  “Right,” Angela murmured. “We’ll do our best to look for corpses quickly,” she added dryly.

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry!” he said. “And I hope the dude knows it will be a whole lot worse if one of his creatures turned out to be a corpse when the place is flooded with cars full of kids. Do you want me to come with you or maintain communications here?”

  “You’re best here, and thanks,” Jackson told him.

  Detective Kendall saluted and moved back.

  “Zombie Island,” Jackson said.

  “I’ll hop out and see what I can see—I can keep up with the car,” the ghost of Roger Newsome told them. “And . . . well, I guess you’ll have to get out, too. I don’t have a sense of smell and . . . I’m not able to move things!”

  But he had gotten out of the car; he was going to walk along beside them.

  They had barely started before Jackson’s phone rang. He glanced at Angela and answered it quickly.

  Bruce McFadden was on the other line.

  “I had the hospital shut down all e
xits and entrances, except for emergencies. We’ve got our people combing the place. Jackson, he was here.”

  Chapter 7

  Jackson didn’t like the fact he had left Angela alone—or with a ghost for a partner—but she hadn’t wanted to leave the park until she’d gone through the exhibits and he knew she was right.

  One of them needed to be there.

  And one of them needed to be at the hospital.

  He’d talked to Detective Kendall before leaving. Kendall and Angela were connected not just through their phones, but with old-fashioned walkie-talkies. She could call for help the minute she saw anything she didn’t like. Officers in the park could join her quickly.

  And, if they were ridiculously lucky, of course, David Andre was locked in the hospital somewhere—and they would find him.

  Jackson found Bruce McFadden standing with his arms folded over his chest in front of Veronica Chastain’s room. Bruce was a broad-shouldered man and looked like an eagle-eyed guardian of old as he stood there.

  No one was getting past him.

  "I had them bring Ray Channing in here, Bruce told Jackson. “Bryan is on the search with hospital personal, cops, and some of our people. Jackson, the guy is a chameleon. He walked in as calm as could be and came right up to me, introduced himself as a specialist in neurology. He said they were worried about neurological effects from the concussion. I insisted on coming in with him and he protested, stating patient privacy laws, and then shrugged and told me if that was the way we were playing it, fine. He had white hair and a white mustache and beard, Jackson. Didn’t look a thing like the picture of him that went out to law enforcement and the media. Anyway, when we were in there, he never spoke with Veronica; he pretended his phone went off and he excused himself. And after he was gone, I checked with the nursing station and found out there was no Dr. Dirk Anderson in the system. Not one of the nurses noticed him or protested. He walked in as smooth as silk. I put out a lockdown order immediately and the search is on.”

  “He’s probably already changed his appearance,” Jackson said. “But if there’s a lockdown, we should get him.”