Clown Moon

by Alex Jameson

  “Sure.”

  Sam cut three more steaks before he realized what Travis had said.

  “Wait, repeat that.”

  Travis blinked at him. “The price of beef is about to go up.”

  “No, no. Who’s on strike?”

  “The meat-processing plant in Asheville. About eighty percent of our stock comes from there, so until they find an interim distributor, price is going up.”

  Sam almost slapped himself in the forehead. He turned off the saw and tore off his apron. “Going on break.”

  Outside, he took out his phone and made a call.

  “Jake, remember you mentioned a cleaning agent on Aiden’s body? Did it have like, chlorine, or bleach, or, or hydrogen peroxide in it? Anything like that?”

  “What?”

  Sam repeated himself, slower this time.

  “How in the hell would I know that?”

  “Can you find out?”

  “I mean… I don’t know. I’d have to call the detective on the case, who would have to call forensics, who would have had to run the tests—”

  “Great. Call me back when you find out.”

  He hung up. He paced for a while. Nearly every industrial cleaner or detergent had something like that in it, some harmful chemical if ingested… but not in a meat-processing plant. It was too risky. They only used additive-free detergents and cleaning agents. The police think that the killer wore a smock and rubber gloves. So would someone who worked in a plant…

  Jake called back eight minutes later. “Sam? They said no, it’s a ‘green’ cleaner. No harmful chemicals or additives.”

  Sam quickly relayed his theory.

  “Okay… that’s not bad. Just one problem: they’ve already run down the company that makes it, and they sell to about a thousand places around here. This whole ‘green’ movement is real popular. Everyone uses that stuff now.”

  “Yeah, but…” But the killer knew to turn the knife sideways so it didn’t get stuck on the ribs. He knew to puncture the lung so he didn’t scream out. He slit his throat… he butchered Aiden.

  He didn’t say any of that.

  “Sam, come on, man. You need to let this go and let the cops do their thing. The feds are involved too. They’ll find the guy, I’m sure of it. Sam? Hello?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Jake.”

  He hung up. Jake was right; the feds were involved too. He found the card that Reidigger had left him and made the call.

  “Reidigger.”

  Sam hesitated.

  “Hello?”

  What if he could find this guy on his own? What if he had just stumbled upon something that no one else had thought of? What if this was his shot?

  “Mr. Asher? Sam?”

  Hearing his name snapped him out of his thoughts. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Homeland Security, Mr. Asher. There’s no such thing as an unknown number, you know.”

  “Right. Um, I had a thought. About my nephew’s case.” He related the notion to the agent, who paused for a long moment. He could hear a keyboard click-clacking away in the background.

  “I have to admit, that’s not a bad idea,” Reidigger said. “Problem is, that plant has a hundred and thirty-eight employees. We could background-check every one of them, but if they had no priors—”

  “What about interviews? In person?”

  “Look… I’m not going to lie to you, Mr. Asher—”

  “Sam.”

  “Sam, this whole clown-craze thing has the government’s attention, I assure you…”

  “Just not a lot of it.”

  “You could say that there are more important forces at work in the world.”

  “How many?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How many other agents like yourself are working on this thing?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Ballpark it.”

  Reidigger sighed. “Fewer than you could count on your fingers.”

  Christ, Sam thought. “So you don’t have the manpower. I can help.”

  “No, you can’t. Besides, I’m looking into this as we speak, and it looks like this plant just went on strike as of this morning. That would make things exponentially tougher.”

  Sam shook his head. “Come on. This is gift-wrapped, for God’s sake! He has to be there. I mean… what if the strike was orchestrated so this person could get away?”

  “That’s… that’s quite a reach, Sam. I didn’t really pin you as a conspiracy sort of guy.”

  “I’m not. I’m just spitballing here—”

  “Look, I promise you that I want justice too. Not just for Aiden, but for anyone affected by anything that threatens our freedom and the safety of this country.” Reidigger sighed. “Tell you what I can do: I can track phones.”

  “Track phones?”

  “Yes. It’ll take some time, but I can have every employee’s cell phone tracked by GPS. I can probably have someone check call logs, too. If there’s any suspicious activity, we’ll consider them a suspect and look into it further.”

  “Will you let me know what you find?”

  “No.” Reidigger hung up. Well, it was something. Finding a needle in a haystack of a hundred and thirty-eight would be far easier than just saying “it could be anybody.”

  But Sam was right. He knew he was right. He had to be right. He wanted to be right.

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  Asheville, North Carolina

  The strike was not orchestrated so that he could get away, but it certainly came at an opportune time. He hadn’t been paying attention lately; he had no idea that the union had filed a grievance with the plant, or that a strike action had even been called. He simply went to work on Tuesday, expecting it to be his last day there, and found fellow workers picketing outside. He did not engage with them or even ask questions. He simply got back into his car and drove home.

  He looked up the details online. The union was striking against a rise in the cost of health insurance; the plant wanted to switch everyone over to a different system and force employees to pay for fifty percent instead of the former twenty-five. Some of these guys had three or four kids and a wife at home; they couldn’t afford the sharp rise in cost.

  He didn’t care about that. But the way the negotiations had gone so far, it seemed that the strike had bought him at least a week, maybe two. Maybe even more. No one would miss him. No one would realize he was gone. He’d leave his car here. And his phone—the government tracks people by their phones. Everyone knew that, right?

  How would he get there, though? Bus? Hitchhike?

  Mother.

  Yes, right. Mother had an ancient, but reliable, Oldsmobile that she had willed to him at her death. It was parked at a storage facility just outside of town. He couldn’t bring himself to sell it; he liked the way it still smelled of her. Sometimes he would go there just to drive it a few minutes at a time, getting just enough maintenance on it to make sure it stayed running.

  File down the VIN. Switch the license plate in the night.

  What else?

  Clean it.

  What else?

  Computer.

  No, that would stay here. Everything else would stay here. He’d buy a new computer, in cash, on the road. Nothing could trace back to him.

  Presence.

  Yes. The phone and computer would stay here. He’d leave a light on. Leave a note for the mailman to push the letters through the slot in the door. Change his answering machine message to say he’s very ill and that no one should come around.

  Adrenaline surged through him. This was happening. He was doing it. He felt so good. He would rid the world of this problem for good. Forever. Thirty-five years from now, they would celebrate him. They would know. Once it was over, he would make sure they knew who they had to thank.

  Get going, kid. You have a lot to do.

  “Y-yes, I do.”

  We’ll do it together. Me and you.

 
“You’ll t-tell me what to do?”

  I’ll tell you what to do, how to do it, when to do it. Just follow my lead. We’re going places. We’re gonna show ‘em, kid. We’ll show ‘em all.

  ***

  “Our top story tonight: Six students at Villanova were arrested today for the brutal beating of a fellow classmate dressed as a clown on the school’s quad…”

  “The Clown Lives Matter movement gained traction today as popular children’s entertainer Sniffles the Clown was assaulted by three women carrying bricks in their purses…”

  “Breaking news out of Charleston: Four men robbed a McDonald’s at gunpoint dressed as the iconic clown…”

  “The 2017 remake of Stephen King’s It announced an indefinite halt to production when the lead actor and director each received several death threats…”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Lynn snatched the remote from Sam’s hand and switched the television off. “You never watch the news.”

  “I’m just… keeping up on current events,” he lied.

  “Bull. You’re looking for something.”

  Sam sighed. “He’s going to do it again, Lynn. I just know it.”

  “You’re becoming obsessed, and I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  She knelt beside him and gripped his hand in both of hers. “Tell me you’ll move past this. Tell me you’ll be alright. For God’s sake, tell me what you’re thinking.”

  I’m thinking that a man can lose nearly a liter of blood before passing out.

  I’m thinking that you can puncture seven major organs without killing someone.

  I’m thinking that it can take up to nine hours to die from a well-placed gut shot.

  “I’m just thinking that… if it happens again, someone else’s family will go through what we went through. I don’t want that to happen.”

  Lynn sat beside him and hugged his head to her chest. “Baby, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s almost ten. Let’s go to bed. Please.”

  His cell phone rang. It was Jake. “Turn on channel thirteen.”

  “Lynn, it’s Jake. He says turn on channel thirteen.”

  She sucked in a breath and held it, but did what he asked. A pretty blonde reporter stared back at them, reading from the teleprompter.

  “This just in from the greater Knoxville area: twenty-one year-old Derek Verlander, a forklift operator, was found dead outside a playground. The shocking discovery came only about twenty minutes after Kim Shelling, a mother of three, reported a sighting of a creepy clown stalking around the area. Police arrived on the scene to find Verlander, in a clown costume, beaten to death. Early reports claim that the weapon used could have been a tire iron or a crowbar…”

  “Oh my god,” Lynn murmured.

  “Sam? You still there? Sam?” Jake’s voice came small and tinny through the phone. Sam hadn’t realized he’d lowered it.

  “Yeah. Still here.”

  “Do you think…?”

  “It was him. I’m sure of it. Meet me at my place in fifteen.” He hung up and rose from the couch.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Lynn demanded.

  “Home, to meet up with Jake. Then to bed.”

  “Samuel James Asher, do not fucking lie to me!”

  He blinked at her in surprise. He’d never heard her use that word, not once.

  “Don’t do it,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t.” Tears came, flowing down both cheeks. “I know you want to. I know you feel this, this, need to. But please. I’m begging you.”

  He shrugged with one shoulder. “I have to—”

  “No you don’t!” she screamed. “You don’t!”

  He headed towards the door.

  “If you leave, we’re done,” her voice was cold, dead.

  He stopped. “You’re not serious—”

  “I am serious. If you go, we’re over. I never want to see you again.”

  He went to her. He wrapped her in his arms and she cried on his shoulder. He hugged her tight and whispered, “Then this is goodbye, Lynn.”

  Then he walked to the door and left.

  “Goddamn you, Sam!” Something glass shattered against the other side of the door. “Leave! Fine! Fuck you!”

  Her last words echoed through his head for the entire drive home. He found Jake waiting for him on the landing to his apartment. He was still in uniform, but his shirt was unbuttoned, a white t-shirt showing underneath. There was a beige tact bag beside him.

  “Don’t try to stop me, Jake.”

  “I won’t lie. I thought about it. But then I remembered last time we fought, when you sucker-punched me in the windpipe. Dick move. But I’m not really keen on doing that again.” Jake forced a grin. “Seriously, Sammy, what if it’s not him?”

  “It’s him.”

  “But—”

  “Look, I wasn’t wrong about Heckler, and I’m not wrong now. Are you going to help me, or what?”

  “Yeah, fine,” Jake said quietly. “I’ll help.”

  Sam unlocked his door and Jake grabbed the tact bag. “Here, I packed you some things.” He set the bag on the small dining table and opened the flap. “Maglight. Binoculars. Infrared monocular—seriously, this thing is like two thousand bucks. Do not fucking break it. Some BDUs—I know you got rid of all yours.” He set aside the camo-printed shirt and pants. “Black balaclava, for those cold nights…”

  “No one calls it that. It’s a ski mask.”

  “No, a ski mask has holes for the eyes and mouth. A balaclava has one hole for the eyes. Come on, man. You should know better.” Jake shook his head. “Anyway, I also packed you this beauty.” He pulled a silver and black pistol, ejected the magazine, pushed it back in and cocked it. “The G17. Short recoil, semi-auto. It’s the closest I’ve ever gotten to masturbation without actually touching myself.”

  He handed it off to Sam, who turned it over. He hadn’t touched a gun in almost four years, but Jake wasn’t wrong. It did feel nice.

  “Nine mil though? Couldn’t get your hands on anything stronger?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Does my lunatic vigilante brother with a death wish want a bigger gun? Dude, that thing is unregistered and very, very illegal, especially for me. Don’t get caught with it. If you do, you did not get it from me. Got it?”

  “Yeah, got it. Thanks, Jake.”

  “Did I mention you’re a lunatic?”

  “At least once, yes.”

  “How are you going to find him?”

  “Not sure yet. But I will.”

  There were two things that he learned from being a sniper that he would never forget. One of them was stalking—being the predator. Waiting for the opportunity when your prey showed their hand. When they tired or gave up their position or screwed up. The other, which went in tandem, was patience. Sam had it in spades. Plus, he was confident that Reidigger would turn up with something on the meat-processing plant’s employees, and when he did, Sam would get it out of him.

  “I believe you.” Jake clapped him on the shoulder. “You leaving tonight?”

  “I have to. He’s got a head start.”

  He nodded. At the same time his cell phone rang from a pouch on his belt. He looked at the phone, frowned, and then turned it around to show it to Sam. “It’s Lynn, dude.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Hi, Lynn. Yes, I’m here with him. Okay, hang on.” He clicked the speakerphone button. “Alright.”

  “Sam?” Her voice came through tremulously.

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I know.”

  “Then… why?”

  “What I mean is, I know why you think I don’t have to do this. But I can’t explain to you why I do. It’s…” he trailed off turning to Jake, who just shrugged as if to say, Don’t look at me, man. “It’s like our living situation. You like your place, and I like mine. I’ve t
ried to tell myself for a few years now that I didn’t like my place. That I was better off in some other place. It’s taken this for me to realize that… I really do like my place. It’s crowded and fucked up and full of awful memories, but it’s mine. And I like it.”

  She was a smart cookie. She’d get the metaphor.

  She sniffed. “I like my place too. But I would give it up in a second if you’d ever asked me to.”

  “I’m sorry it’s come to this. I hope you’ll let me talk to you again when I get back.”

  She hung up. Sam shook his head. “I need to pack some clothes.”

  He went to his bedroom and stuffed a duffle full. He stood in front of the open closet for a long time, thinking. Long enough for Jake to wander in, wondering what he was up to.

  “Sam, you alright?”

  “Yeah.” He reached up to the top shelf of the closet and pulled out a long black case. “I think I’m going to bring this too.” He unclasped the lid and lifted it. Jake whistled.

  Inside was a 7.62 mm Springfield M-21 sniper rifle.

  “Christ, Sam, I thought the Glock was bad.”

  “This gun is worth twelve thousand dollars—”

  “Yeah, and fourteen years, pending good behavior.”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll stay in the case. You know me—”

  “You don’t take the shot if there’s a chance you’ll miss. Yeah, yeah. Get out of here, man. Call me daily. I’ll keep you posted from over here.”

  They hugged briefly, man-style, with two claps on the back for good measure. Sam grabbed the tact bag and the duffle. Jake carried the rifle case. He locked the apartment door behind them and followed Jake out to the parking lot, where he stowed everything in the steel lockbox behind the cab of his pickup. Then he gave Jake a halfhearted salute, got in, and drove away into the night, northwest, toward Knoxville.

  PART II:

  CLOWNS AT MIDNIGHT

  “There is nothing laughable about a clown in the moonlight.”

  Lon Chaney, Sr.

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *