“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 read 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
