27

The Six Flags theme park was ringed with a new chain-link fence to keep the public out. Kevin told me about the spot where the fence had been cut. Not far from the Super Heroes area.

As I walked along the chain-link boundary, I could already see up ahead the twisted metal and rusting signs. The flood tides of Katrina had inundated this place and laid it waste. When the powerful waters receded, the theme park that was left behind looked as if it had been hit by some cosmic blast. Not decimated entirely, but ravaged, leaving only its skeleton behind.

I trotted along the six-foot-high fence until I found a part that buckled slightly. When I looked closer, I could see that the chain link had been cut from top to bottom and closed up with some thin-gauge wire. I plucked the wire open and bent the metal mesh back so I could slip through.

At one time there must have been a manicured grove of trees where I was walking, but the trees had been uprooted by the floodwaters and strewn across the wasteland.

I tried to get my bearings. Not easy when you are surrounded by four-foot weeds and rusting outbuildings. I ended up doing a tour of the devastated grounds. At one point I could see in the distance the sign for the Jester and the outline of the mangled roller coaster that had been tilted by the force of Katrina’s waters. A giant clown’s head lay sideways on the ground, its eyes blankly staring ahead.

Eventually I spotted an entrance to my destination —an archway that read DC Super Heroes Adventures.

Scanning the area, I noticed some tall scaffolding that had at one time been a supporting structure. I studied it closer. It had been the theme park facade of an art deco cityscape building, now in shambles. That was all that was left of the Gotham City Hall. At one time a fun house for children and families, now a sagging false-front building with peeling paint.

But there was no Bert or anyone else. Until I started calling out my name and yelling that I had been sent by a law student by the name of Kevin Sanders.

Then, the sound of feet shuffling through the wreckage. A tall young man in jeans and a T-shirt, maybe in his late twenties, stepped out from behind the fake scenery. Followed by another male about the same age, shouldering an expensive-looking steady-cam. A few seconds later, they were followed by two girls, maybe eighteen or nineteen.

I showed him my ID and explained that I was an investigator looking into strange occurrences and abductions, some of which happened in the abandoned park.

One of the girls elbowed Bert and yelled, “See. I told you so. I told you this place is creepy.”

I asked him if he saw anything unusual the night Peggy Tanner went missing.

“Nah, nothing at all,” Bert said. “We’re just shooting a film, that’s all.”

“You see anyone else here?”

He shook his head.

“I’m here on behalf of the local police. I need to advise you of something.”

All four of them flashed a panicked look. For a moment, I could relate. I was back in my own crazy youth thinking about all my stupid risk-taking and brushes with cops and near misses with the law.

I said, “So here’s the deal. I promised the police that I would get you people out of the park. Count yourselves lucky. They’ve agreed not to prosecute you for criminal trespass. But you have to leave right now.”

A disappointed expression on Bert’s face as he puffed his cheeks out, then exhaled loudly.

“Sorry about that,” I added. “Hollywood will have to wait.”

Just then, one of the girls went wild-eyed. “Uh . . . uh,” she stammered. She slowly raised her arm, pointing to something out there, beyond.

I whirled around. About fifty yards away, there was a stocky male who quickly turned away from us. But before he did, I caught the fact he was wearing sunglasses. And a little, short-brimmed bebop hat.

I yelled to the group. “Get out of the park now!” Then I took off after the man in the hat, who had disappeared behind a dilapidated ice cream booth, heading toward a field of chest-high weeds.

Wheeling around, I saw Bert urging his partner with the camera to start filming my chase.

“Shut it down and get out!” I yelled again and sprinted toward the collapsed ice cream booth.

As I ran, I plucked out my cell and punched in the number for the patrol officer in the parking lot. “I’ve got a possible perp on the run in here, wearing a hat, sunglasses —”

He bulleted back. “Where are you?”

“Leaving Gotham City, heading past an ice cream vending kiosk.”

He ordered, “Do not engage that individual.”

Ignoring that, I clicked off my cell and burst into a full sprint. But at the ice cream shack, I lost sight of the man in the hat. I stopped for a moment because I was winded. Time to get back into shape, I thought as I bent over to catch my breath.

It would be my last thought. Next, a heavy blow to the back of my head, shooting stars, the world beginning to tilt, and the sensation of falling forward.