“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
