Haunted, Haunted, Halloween, page 6
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” Angela breathed again.
But Roger Newsome shook his head. “Don’t be—I’m finally feeling useful again.”
“How did you know to come here?” she asked softly.
“Oh, I’d read about some ‘Krewe’ cases. I hung around your headquarters sometimes. You have nice, compassionate people working for you.”
Angela stood, setting Corby on his feet.
Jackson should be arriving soon. She could explain more once they were in the car. “Are you ready?” she asked.
“Remember, I don’t know exactly where we were,” Roger Newsome’s ghost said.
“I know. But we’ll drive around the district where some of those workshops and factories are located. Hopefully, you’ll find it for us.”
Corby looked at her. Mary, holding the baby in her arms, stood in the doorway to the bedrooms. She didn’t see the dead the way Jackson, Angela, and Corby did—but she sensed them.
She shook her head at Angela.
Corby shouldn’t go. Not when they didn’t know what they would find. He faced the evil that men could do to their fellows often enough.
“Corby, thank you. Thank you so much for helping. Now, will you help Mary with the baby?” she asked. “And you all will need to order dinner—”
“Halloween is tomorrow,” Corby reminded her.
“I know. And we’re going to do what we can,” she said. “You know that.”
He nodded gravely.
Roger Newsome was looking at her.
“My husband—Special Agent Crow—should be here any minute,” Angela told him.
He nodded.
“Great. We’ll go. Corby, young man, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said.
Downstairs, he stood with Angela as they waited for Jackson to drive around.
“You have a beautiful family,” he told her.
“Thank you. Roger, and you—”
“Only child. Parents are deceased. I was in love once. And it was ironic. While I was in Viet Nam, she was hit and killed crossing the street by a hit-and-run driver. I never fell in love again.” He smiled. “Maybe she’s waiting for me,” he said softly.
“I like to think all those we loved are waiting for us,” Angela told him. “And I’m lucky; I get to believe it’s probably true!”
Jackson’s SUV came around the corner. He pulled over for them to hop in.
“You take the front,” Angela told Roger. “You can see better that way.”
Roger got into the car, introducing himself to Jackson. Jackson looked somber as he introduced himself to the man as well.
“You just saw my corpse!” Roger said.
“Yes. Sir, I’m so sorry—”
“Hey! I got to go out in style,” Newsome said lightly. “The thing is this, David Andre is going to kill people who shouldn’t die. I take it he has killed already. We need to stop him, and if I can help—well, then it gives purpose to my life—and death.”
Jackson glanced at Angela in the rearview mirror.
She knew they both wished they had known the man during his life.
They drove. Jackson, during the years in which the Krewe had existed—had learned the area like the back of his hand. He was familiar with areas in not just D.C., but Virginia, Maryland, West Virginia, Delaware, and Pennsylvania.
Darkness fell as they searched. But finally, after an hour and a half, the ghost of Roger Newsome shouted out excitedly. “There! That’s it—that’s the place!”
Jackson pulled the car into the driveway in front of the large, two-storied structure. There was a giant sign on the door that read, “Closed Until Further Notice.”
They got out of the car. Jackson and Angela both pulled out their weapons, though she doubted David Andre was there—not even a night light was lit within.
They pulled out flashlights as well and went in.
And it was much as Roger Newsome had described her light fell on a smiling, giant pig. And she almost started at the gruesome realness of the zombie beside it.
But there was more . . .
Cute little animals.
Mummies that appeared ready to move.
Little green aliens.
“These creations are ready for the movies,” Newsome murmured. “As soon as they can be made.”
They were so realistic! Angela walked through a line of living dead—ironically grateful for the dead man walking behind her. One of the zombie creatures held something that really resembled a human brain in its hands. She turned and nearly jumped despite her many years of experience when an alien did move.
It just . . . seemed to inch forward.
“What the hell?” the ghost of Roger Newsome murmured.
“Jackson!” Angela called.
And she stepped forward, pushing the alien aside. There was someone on the floor.
It was a woman—a real woman, flesh, and blood, trussed and hog-tied, the gag over her mouth so tightly Angela couldn’t tell if she was breathing.
“Jackson!” Angela cried again, and he hurried over to her. Together they worked at the gag and the ropes that bound her. Angela got the gag off the woman’s mouth and left Jackson to deal with the ropes binding her, dialing for help herself, and desperately hoping they had found the woman alive.
Chapter 5
“Yes, it was David,” Veronica Chastain said, sitting up in her hospital bed.
Jackson sat in a chair by her side, listening as the woman described her ordeal. “I had just gotten home from work. I was tired, not paying a lot of attention. I’m in an apartment. I have a great job, and I love it, but my company is small and it’s not as if I’m rolling in riches. I walked into the kitchen and then bam—that was the last I remembered until I woke up there. I was already tied up, but David was standing over me. He wanted me to wake up.” She hesitated, shaking her head. “He wanted a job with the company. When he came in, we weren’t hiring full-time. A month later, it was determined that we did need another full-time person, and it happened one of the directors we work with frequently had a nephew who really is good and . . . he got the job. I knew David was angry; he wrote all kinds of horrible things on our review sites. But I never imagined . . . anyway, he told me he was sorry I’d never get to see just how good his work was going to be on me. And he showed me a picture of what he had done to Gerard Greenway . . . he’s gone insane. Or he always was insane. You know, he got into an argument in traffic once, having a fit because the car in front of him didn’t make the right—but you don’t have to make the right there where it happened, the lane also goes straight . . . he punched the guy out! I mean, he could be a loose cannon, but I never expected . . . thank you. Oh, my God, I’m alive! Thank you. How did you find me?”
“Luck. Or, who knows? The homeless man was Roger Newsome. He was a veteran and fought in Viet Nam. Maybe he guided us somehow,” he said lightly. “We knew David Andre was . . . out for those who didn’t care for his talents, and we should be searching empty spaces having to do with special effects.”
“But I heard that nice Detective talking—the homeless man—Mr. Newsome—didn’t have anything to do with the movies or special effects.”
“No. We believe he was a victim of . . . circumstance.”
“I’m sorry! The poor man.”
“If it’s any comfort, he was ill. He wouldn’t have lived long.”
Veronica was drawn and anxious; she was going to be fine. She had some bruises, a concussion, and she had been dehydrated. But David Andre had only taken her the night before, and the doctors had said she was going to make a full recovery. She was earnest and sincere, a pretty woman in her early to mid-thirties, he thought. She seemed to care about others.
“He’s still out there—David is still out there, right?”
“Yes. Police have searched his home. He had a black SUV, but it was found abandoned. I don’t know how he plans to move his—”
He had been about to say victims.
He rephrased.
“His materials around. We will get him,” he said, trying to be reassuring.
“I’m afraid, even here!” she murmured.
“We’re going to keep an officer on guard,” he promised her.
There were officers in the hall. Barry was still there, and he would make sure the police were watching over her through the night.
He’d talk to Barry and make doubly sure. He’d get one of his people in as well.
“I don’t think he’ll come for you, Veronica. I think he has something big planned for Halloween, and it would be too risky for him to come here—even if he knew we had found you.”
“He’ll know; he’ll return to the workshop. Or he’ll try to. He may realize you’ve been there and hide out rather than come in, but one way or another, he’ll know I’ve been found,” she said.
“We’ll have an officer and an agent on guard,” he promised her, and leaning close he said, “I don’t like to sound too proud, but we’ve never lost anyone when an agent was watching.” He offered her an encouraging smile.
She tried to smile back. She was frightened, clutching his hand.
“Don’t leave me!” she said softly.
“I must go; I have to do everything in my power to stop him. I’ll leave you in good hands, I promise.”
An alert had already been sent out to every Krewe member, those in the area, and even those working cases in other states.
He stayed with her as he called Bruce McFadden, the oldest of three brothers now working for the Krewe. They would help.
“Hey, if they’ll allow it, we’ll tag-team, doubled-up throughout the night.”
“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 always needed an officer in uniform in front of the room—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 in 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 then 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.
He drove on quickly; glad he had planned well.
So, the police 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 been 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 that 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 read it again.
“ ‘Twas right before Halloween
And all through the land
Creatures were appearing,
