A Horribly Haunted Halloween

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 exits 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.”
“If he didn’t get out in the few minutes it took me to get it all going. The emergency entrance is open now; nothing else. And I have Bryan down there. No one goes past him.”
“Video surveillance . . . it may show us who he turned into this time,” Jackson said. “I’ll get one of our people on it.”
               “And I will stand right here,” Bruce assured him.
Jackson pulled out his phone as he headed out of the hospital and asked that the video surveillance be surveyed immediately. Then he called Angela to tell her he was heading back to Ghouls Parade, that once