*
Roger Newsome had been a tall, dignified man in life. He’d been slim to a point that showed his illness, but he still stood tall. He had a fine face with good cheekbones and a strong chin, and large dark intense eyes. When he smiled, she knew he’d had a fine sense of humor. She believed he must have been a kind man, and she was sorry for all the bad that had befallen him.
“I shot a man; I don’t know if I could have talked him down or not, but I shot him and he died there and . . . I resigned. I should have been a traffic cop. I went to war, and I knew how to fight, but when I was a civilian . . . well, the fellow I shot was suffering from severe mental disease. I think something else could have been done, so . . . well, I resigned. And right after, I found out I’d gotten hep C from a blood transfusion during my time in the military, and while there are drugs now that can help, it was too late, so my liver has been killing me for a long time. Of course, I should have found decent work, but I wound up with odd jobs . . . and then on the streets.”
“I’m so sorry!” Angela told him. Corby sat on her lap, listening. His dark eyes were big with compassion, and she hugged him tightly.
“Anyway, this fellow, this man, David Andre, invited me to his place. He said he had some work that needed to be done in his cellar. But we didn’t go to his house; we went to a shop that looked like it had been abandoned. He said he just needed some tools that were there. I went in with him and he explained it had closed with the pandemic, that it had been a workshop for creature effects. And I was fascinated! There was a laughing, adorable pig right next to one of the most grotesque zombies I’d ever seen. But while I was being amazed and enjoying myself, he was getting a knife. He apologized to me—but he said he’d been watching me and knew my death would be painful so . . . he was going to get it over with for me. He needed material. There were those who deserved to die—and me, who needed to die.”
“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 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 reading, “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
