Clown Moon

by Alex Jameson

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I: SEND IN THE CLOWNS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  PART II: CLOWNS AT MIDNIGHT

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  PART III: CLOWNING AROUND

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  PART IV: CLOWNS TO THE LEFT OF ME JOKERS TO THE RIGHT

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  Clown

  moon

  By

  Alex Jameson

  S. PRESCOTT Thrillers

  Copyright 2017 S. Prescott Thrillers

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.

  **This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.

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  CLOWN

  MOON

  Prologue

  On August 29, 2016, in Greenville, South Carolina, the local police department received calls claiming that a person dressed as a clown was attempting to lure children into the woods with money. More calls followed, alleging that there were now several clowns in the woods, stalking children and “making strange noises.” Those claims went largely unsubstantiated, but served as an eerie foreshadowing for what was to come.

  In early September, in Georgia, three children were chased from their bus stop early one morning by two men in clown costumes. A week later, in Pennsylvania, a clown chased a twelve-year-old through a local park. In Phoenix, Arizona, two men in clown garb robbed fast-food restaurants. In Kentucky, a woman was chased by a clown who she claimed wielded a machete.

  By mid-September, dozens of clown sightings had been called in across twenty-five states. They lurked on street corners, near playgrounds, and around schools. Some of them chased children. Some threatened adults. The media labeled it a “clown epidemic.” Seven people in clown costumes were arrested on felony charges of terroristic threats connected to “clown-related activity.” The arrests did little to hinder copycats nationwide.

  By early October, the clown scourge reached across nearly forty US states and had spread overseas, to the UK and the Philippines. In England, a woman was chased into a pub by a red-haired clown waving a ten-inch knife at her.

  Several areas banned clown costumes, labeling them as “symbols of terror.” School districts were forced to close in the wake of clown threats. Student coalitions formed mass clown hunts. The hysteria drove fear and fascination in the populace, as more and more sightings cropped up across the United States and elsewhere.

  For some, it was a game. A prank. A dare. Teens. College students. Young adults out for a good time. For others, it seemed that the determination to terrorize people was legitimate. Clowns tried to lure children from playgrounds and into vans or woods. They attacked people. A forty-five year old Ohio woman was choked by a clown. An entire Philadelphia-area school district closed for days in the wake of social media posts threatening clown attacks. But still, most people thought there was nothing to fear, that it was hysteria. It was a bunch of kids and young people being stupid.

  It was just a joke. Right?

  In the first week of October, the Department of Homeland Security got involved. The top internet searches for clowns were “clown attacks,” “clown crisis,” “clown sightings.”

  Yet this wasn’t the first time this has happened. Back in 1981, before the internet, before social media and cell phones and texting, there was another clown scare. The creepy clowns first appeared in Boston. Then in Kansas City. In Omaha and Denver and Pittsburgh. From April to December that year, clown sightings cropped up across the country— people were threatened and children were stalked. No one really remembers it much, because there wasn’t a digital document of it.

  After all, it was just people trying to scare other people. Wasn’t it?

  No one stopped to consider that maybe it wasn’t the clowns they should have been afraid of.

  PART I:

  SEND IN THE CLOWNS

  “Today’s society is a good example of what happens when you let the clowns run the circus.”

  Unknown

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  Kingston, North Carolina

  A flank steak comes from the lower rear portion of the cow—the flank. Best used for London broil and skirt steaks. These steaks tend to be tougher than most, and—

  “Mm… oh, right there. Yes.”

  Ribs contain the prime rib, short ribs, and rib eye steaks. Below the rib is the plate, another source of short ribs and skirt steak.

  “Oh, Sam.” Lynn clenched her eyes shut and adjusted her hips, moving rhythmically.

  Jeez, don’t say my name.

  Sam looked away, at the muted television playing some inane sitcom, at the impeccably neat bureau with the jewelry box and a stuffed animal he had freed from a claw machine at a diner they liked to go to.

  The tenderloin, named so because it’s the most tender cut, is where filet mignon comes from. Cut bone-in they comprise part of the T-bone steak.

  “Oh… yes. Almost there.” Lynn sped up, straddled across him. She dug her fingernails into his shoulder and panted. The pain helped a little, but she never gripped too hard.

  Sam had heard that, to last longer, some guys think about baseball. Some guys count to a hundred. There was one guy in his platoon that said he mentally recited his grandma’s shoo-fly pie recipe—which was just plain weird.

  Sam thought about cuts of meat. It was the simplest place for his mind to go, to distract him from the brunette currently gyrating atop of him with increasing speed. Not that he wanted to be distracted; he would have liked nothing more than to focus on her, memorize the details of her face. The natural wave in her hair. Her modest breasts, the curve of her ribcage down to her pale, flat stomach…

  He didn’t want to distract himself. But he didn’t want to disappoint her, either.

  “Oh…”

  Sirloin can be divided into top sirloin and bottom sirloin, from approximately three hundred and ten yards. Adjust three-point-two-five inches for MOA. No. That’s not right.

  “
Oh!”

  Adjust for wind. Humidity’s at seventy-six percent.

  Is that…? The target appears to be a woman.

  Command says she’s strapped, Asher. Take the shot when you have it.

  I…

  You’re gonna lose her! Take the goddamn shot!

  “OH!”

  Sam’s eyes snapped open as Lynn’s entire body tensed and spasmed twice. Every muscle relaxed simultaneously as she let out a long, contented sigh, a hundred and fourteen pounds settling on top of him.

  “Oh, my god,” she said as she rolled onto her back beside him, her chest heaving. “That was fantastic.” She ran her hand over his chest. “Did you…?”

  “Yeah,” he lied. “Of course.”

  He kissed her forehead and got up hastily. In the bathroom he peeled off the condom and dropped it in the toilet, and then splashed some cold water on his face.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  He stared at his reflection. He needed to shave. His hair was getting too long. The bags under his eyes were growing. He was getting old.

  Warm hands stroked his back, running up his spine slowly, and then wrapping around him. Lynn rested her head on his shoulder.

  “You could stay tonight.”

  “Can’t. Got to be at work at six in the morning. Sorry.”

  “Yeah, okay.” The disappointment in her voice stung him. “How about dinner tomorrow?”

  “I, uh, have that thing with Jake.”

  “Right. I forgot. Fine, then at least come back to bed and cuddle with me for a few minutes.”

  He forced a smile. “Sure.”

  He let her lead him by the hand back to her bedroom and lay beside her, spooning. Four minutes later she was asleep. He got up as quietly as he could and pulled on his jeans.

  ***

  Sam knocked twice on the door to the rented townhouse. Jake answered with a broad smile.

  “Hey, little brother.”

  Sam stepped past him, into the small living room and nodded approvingly, his arms laden with a case of Belgian dubbel and a chilled package wrapped in brown paper. There were only a few empty beer cans, one dirty sweatshirt, and a couple of caseless DVDs strewn about.

  “Did you clean up the place just for me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I had a ‘friend’ over last night. How’s life?”

  “Business as usual.”

  Jake crossed to the adjacent kitchen and stuck the beer and steaks in the fridge, calling back as he did, “Grill’s on; I lit the charcoal about ten minutes ago. Won’t be long.”

  “I’m in no rush.” Sam raised a disapproving eyebrow at Jake’s gun, a Glock 29 lying on the coffee table as if it were a centerpiece. “How was training?”

  “Same old shit.” Jake had just returned a couple days ago from his two-week stint at Fort Bragg. “Like I don’t know the stuff already. There must be some way to get exempt from all that.”

  Despite no longer being active military, Jake had joined the National Guard for the extra money—which meant doing his one weekend a month and two weeks a year. It was worth it for the supplemental income; being a beat cop in a burg of three thousand people wasn’t exactly winning the lottery, and Jake never shied away from living above his means. Even the rented townhouse was in the nicest part of town.

  Sam, on the other hand, played it safe. He hadn’t blown all of his deployment earnings on a brand-new Mustang convertible; he drove a ten-year-old pickup he’d bought just before he’d entered the military. His apartment was on the south side, where rent was cheaper. He had a good job as a butcher in the local grocery store; he made decent money and had health insurance and a retirement account. His existence was safe and simple. He liked it that way.

  “Hey,” Sam said, “this is new.” He pointed at a framed photo hanging on the wall opposite the television, a fifty-two inch flat-screen LCD that looked utterly ridiculous in the small living room.

  It was the only photo that Jake displayed anywhere in his whole place. It was a family photo, all six of them, when they were younger. Sam must have been about twelve in that picture. Sarah would have been around sixteen, Jake was ten, and little Zeke was only five…

  “Been meaning to put it up for a while,” Jake said, standing beside him. “Didn’t have a frame until Mom gave me one a few weeks ago.”

  “We look… happy,” Sam said quietly.

  “Yeah. Well, I do. You look constipated.” Jake laughed, snapping Sam out of it. “Come on. Let’s get the hard part over with.”

  “Sure.”

  He followed Jake into the kitchen, watching as he reached far into the rear of a chest-high cupboard and pulled out a dusty bottle of Glenfiddich 21. They’d been working on it for six years. He poured them each a shot and handed one to Sam, who took it and held it aloft.

  “To Zeke,” he said. “Happy birthday, buddy.”

  “We miss you every day.”

  Jake toasted and they each downed the shot. It warmed Sam as it slid down his throat; strange. He didn’t recall feeling cold.

  Jake winced a little and then sighed. “Jeez. Would’ve been… what? Twenty-seven?”

  “Twenty-seven,” Sam confirmed. He dropped the shot glasses in the sink while Jake replaced the bottle in the rear of the cupboard.

  “How about something to drink?” Jake said, trying to sound chipper.

  “Please. But one of the ones I brought. Not that domestic piss-water you call beer.”

  Jake laughed as he grabbed a bottle and a can from the fridge. “I seem to recall you shotgunning PBR like they were gonna stop making it. When did you go all beer-snobby on me?”

  “Eh, I don’t know.” Sam popped the cap off with a bottle opener on his key ring. “Lynn’s dad is kind of a connoisseur. He’s got me trying all this new stuff—”

  Jake raised an eyebrow. “Lynn’s dad, huh?”

  “So?”

  “So, you two have been dating for what, like a couple of years now?”

  “Something like that.” Two years and two months, almost to the day.

  “You’ve been dating for two years.” Jake counted on his fingers. “She’s smart. She’s beautiful. She’s cool. She’s good in bed—”

  “I never told you that…”

  “It’s implied. And now you’re cozy with her folks? Let me ask you something. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Dude, if you give me that ‘you’re not getting any younger’ crap, I’m going to punch you in the throat.”

  “Alright, fine. Sam, I won’t tell you that you’re not getting any younger.” Jake grinned. “You two could at least move in together.”

  “I like my place. She likes hers. We’re good.”

  “Your place sucks. I’m telling you, if I had a woman like Lynn, I’d be packing my shit tomorrow and shopping for a ring by Sunday.”

  “You would not,” Sam rolled his eyes.

  “Okay, I wouldn’t, because I’m a philandering dirtbag. But if I was you I would be.”

  “Christ, you sound like Mom.” Sam took a long swig of beer. Lynn’s dad had good taste. “You know me, Jake. I don’t take the shot—”

  “No,” Jake interrupted forcefully, holding up a finger in warning. “No, no, no. Do not give me that bullshit catchphrase of yours. That’s an excuse, and you know it.”

  “Hey,” Sam narrowed his eyes angrily. “Don’t call it bullshit.” He softened a little. “And it’s a life principle, not a catchphrase.”

  Most active-duty snipers live by a simple saying: One shot, one kill. Sam’s sniper instructor, a stern, lean-faced man named Harkin, had imparted a slightly different wisdom upon him: Don’t take the shot if there’s a chance you’ll miss. Harkin had meant it literally, and Sam had lived his life by it for six years. Then, when he was out, he continued to live his life by it, though in a metaphorical sense.

  “You keep telling yourself that it’s some wise philosophy,” Jake said, “but there are two problems with that. First, it�
��s actually a saying about killing people, not living your life. And second, it’s keeping you from taking any real risks.”

  “I’ve taken plenty of risk. Six years’ worth. But thanks,” Sam said bitterly.

  “That’s not what I meant. Look, what’s the worst that happens? You marry Lynn, later you get divorced and she takes half your shit?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much the worst, I guess.”

  “And that’s enough of a reason for you to—”

  “Just drop it, alright?!” Sam shouted suddenly.

  Jake leaned against the counter and stared out the patio door. “Sure. Whatever.”

  Sam sighed and changed the subject. “You talk to Mom lately?”

  “A few days ago, yeah. I thought about calling her this morning, but you know she’ll be at church all day.”

  Their mother, Mary Asher, would not be answering the phone today. She would not take any visitors or even fetch the mail. A staunch Catholic, Mary would be at church, dressed in black and mourning the loss of her youngest son, Ezekiel.

  Six years earlier, Zeke had turned twenty-one. He was stationed in Kandahar at the time. One of his buddies had pulled some strings and managed to get their hands on an illicit batch of moonshine. They drank and partied all night until they passed out. Despite their situation and surroundings, they had celebrated.

  That same night, an errant mortar—that’s what the army called it, an “errant mortar”—was fired up over the wall of the FOB and landed directly on Zeke’s CHU (containerized housing unit, a fancy acronym for the corrugated metal boxes in which the soldiers lived). Zeke died immediately in his sleep. The walls had been blown outward, killing three others that slept nearby and wounding six more. The Ashers were given a folded flag; there hadn’t been enough of Zeke left to send back.

  Zeke had turned twenty-one, six years earlier, then died the same night. Every year since, Mary Asher would mourn her son in her own way. Jake and Sam would secretly gather and perform their ritual, an ode to him, as well.