Clown Moon

by Alex Jameson

  Arborton, Tennessee

  “Hey man! Thanks for stopping. I thought I’d be out there all night.”

  “Y-you’re welcome. B-but you sh-shouldn’t hitch… hitchhike.”

  “Hey… you okay, man?”

  “Yes. I just have a s-slight st-st-stutter.”

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I wasn’t making fun or anything.”

  “It’s o… kay.”

  “And I know I shouldn’t hitchhike. But I ran out of cash and my mom cut off my freakin’ credit card. So it’s not like I could take a bus or Uber home.”

  “H-happy to help.”

  “I’m Luke, by the way. Thanks again.”

  “I’m H-H-Har… Harlan.”

  “Nice to meet you, Harlan. Man, can I say again how glad I am you came by? I got chased earlier… no shit, honest to God, by these clowns…”

  “C-clowns?”

  “Yeah. You know about this whole crazy clown thing, right? They’re all over the place out here. Anyway, there were like four or five of them. I swear one of them had a machete—like a real machete. Not a toy. It was crazy.”

  “…Where were they?”

  “What?”

  “The clowns. Wh-where were they?”

  “Behind us, thank God.”

  “Sp… spec… specifically.”

  “Uh… I don’t think you should go messing with those guys, man. I think they were like in a gang or something.”

  “Just… tell me.”

  “Oookay. You know where the Blue Hill Bridge is? Right around there.”

  “Th-thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  “So they ch-chased you?”

  “Oh yeah. For like a half a mile. I was just minding my own business, honest, crossing the bridge and sticking out my thumb when these fools jumped out of the bushes. Scared the shit out of me. The one guy with the machete, like I said, he was waving it around and saying stuff like, ‘We’re gonna gut you like a fish!’ And the others, his buddies, were all laughing. So I fuckin’ ran, man. I don’t think I ever ran that fast in my whole life. Scared the shit out of me, I’m tellin’ you.”

  “D-don’t curse p-please. How old are y-you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Alright, fine. Seventeen.”

  “You’re j-just a kid.”

  “Jeez, dude, you sound like my folks.”

  “I’m n-not a k-kid any… anymore.”

  “Uh… yeah, man. I can… I can see that.”

  “B-blue Hill Bridge, you said?”

  “Uh, yeah. Hey, Harlan, do you think you could just let me out here? I live close by. I can walk the rest of the way.”

  “No can d-do, Luke. I h-have a respon… responsibility to s-see you home s-safely. Especially with the c-c-clowns out there.”

  “The clowns are behind us. We’re fine out here.”

  “The c-clowns are e-everywhere, Luke. See, the m-moon, that’s what m-makes them act like th-this. They used to b-be regular people… but the m-moon, it does some… something to them…”

  “Oh, Christ, I hopped a ride with a freak…”

  “Wh-what did you say?”

  “Nothing, Harlan. Nothing. I just… hey, red light. Alrightgottagothanksfortheride!”

  “L-Luke! Wait! It’s not s-safe! The moon! The m-m-moon!”

  ***

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Sam. Listen, just got a tip on two more. Hasn’t been on the news yet.”

  “Not like I’d see it. I’m driving… wait, did you say two more?”

  “Yeah. Little burg called Arborton in Tennessee, south of Nashville.”

  “Nashville? Shit. I just crossed the state line. He’s way ahead of me.”

  “Hey, you and I both know he’s got to stop sometime.”

  “Right. So what’s the tip?”

  “There’s a place called the Blue Hill Bridge. It’s not actually a bridge; it’s an isthmus across a lake that—”

  “Did you just say ‘isthmus’?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry that my vocabulary is so much more refined than yours, Sam. It’s a narrow strip of land with water on both sides, you cretin.”

  “Jake…”

  “Right. So anyway, there was a whole group of them there—the clowns—hassling people driving over the land bridge. Is that better, ‘land bridge’?”

  “You’re an ass.”

  “According to the ones who ran, some dude pulled up blazing his high beams. They couldn’t even see what kind of car it was. Guy gets out. Again, they can’t see anything. Their leader—who had a goddamn machete, by the way—goes over to spook him. Threatening to cut his guts out and all that. This fucking guy, Sam, he’s cool as a cucumber. He pulls a screwdriver and…”

  “And what? Jake?”

  “He jammed it in the guy’s eye. Killed him instantly.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah. So they all ran like hell, except one other.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. The dead dude’s girlfriend was there, dressed all up like Harley Quinn or some shit.”

  “Harley…?”

  “Never mind. So the girl goes nuts. She’s got a knife on her. She pulls it. That’s all her friends saw. You can guess how this story ends.”

  “First female victim?”

  “You can’t see me, but my finger is on my nose.”

  “Geezus. That makes… four.”

  “Sure does.”

  “How do you know all this before the media?”

  “That’s the best part. Remember that divorcee I told you about? Her brother is the officer that found the bodies. Poor guy lost his dinner over it. His name’s O’Shea. Go to Arborton and talk to him. He might have more info than I do.”

  “Thanks Jake.”

  “Be safe, bro.”

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  By the time Sam parallel-parked his truck on the tree-lined avenue in front of Arborton’s police department, it was morning. He was tired. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, sighed and went inside. Behind the front desk was a female uniformed police officer, a stout woman who looked up at him with an eyebrow raised.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to speak with Officer O’Shea, please.”

  “Why?”

  “Personal matter.”

  “He’s not here. We sent him home.”

  “I see. Can you tell me where he lives?”

  “No. I can’t.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t. Listen…” He looked left and right and lowered his voice. “I know what happened last night. I’m a friend of his. I just want to know that he’s alright.”

  “But you don’t know where he lives?”

  “We, uh, lost touch some time back. But I think I can help. I was in Afghanistan; I’ve seen some things. I know how he feels right now.”

  Finally the woman’s gaze softened. She shook her head. “We never had this conversation, alright?” She scribbled an address on a Post-It and tore it off.

  “Thanks.”

  Arborton was a small town, even smaller than Kingston, so it didn’t take long to find O’Shea’s place. It was a little ranch-style home in an ordinary neighborhood. One car in the driveway. Sam knocked on the front door. When there was no answer, he peered in through a window. He couldn’t see anything.

  He knocked again, waited, knocked again, waited… nothing. He went around to the back. The guy’s lawn needed mowing. He tried windows until he found one unlocked and climbed into the kitchen.

  Quietly and slowly he moved from room to room. Finally he came to a bedroom. It was dark inside; the shades and curtains were drawn. A thin guy with blond hair lay in the bed, fast asleep. Two empty blister packs of Dramamine and a half-empty (or half-full?) glass of water sat on the bedside table. The guy had dosed himself to sleep. Great.

  Sam returned to the living room and sat down on a loveseat. This
had better be worth the wait.

  ***

  It was all the kids at school were talking about. It was everywhere. Online, on TV, buzzing in the lunchroom. By the time the final bell rang, Luke was practically shaking. He got home and opened his laptop and found an article that included some details.

  He read it, again and again and again.

  There was no mistake.

  Two clowns had been killed last night at Blue Hill Bridge. One of them was a guy with a machete. The other was his girlfriend. Their buddies ran when the guy showed up. They were the ones that reported it. A handful of lowlifes in their mid-twenties getting in on the clown craze.

  The witnesses, their friends, said that it was definitely a guy. They couldn’t see what kind of car it was. But it was that guy, the one he’d hitched a ride with. That creepy Harlan dude. Luke was sure of it.

  “Luke,” came the stern voice. His father’s broad shoulders filled the door frame. He was home early. “You’re not supposed to be on the computer. You’re grounded.”

  “Yeah. I know. Sorry.” He closed the lid and passed the laptop to his father’s outstretched hand. “Uh, Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course. What’s up?”

  Luke sighed. “What if… what if you saw something bad happen, or… wait. What if you knew about something bad that happened, but you’re kind of glad it happened? Should you still tell somebody?”

  His father furrowed his brow. “Did something happen, Luke?”

  “No, no. I’m just asking.”

  “Well, I guess it would depend on what happened.”

  “Like…” Luke searched for an apt metaphor. He couldn’t very well tell the truth outright. “Like let’s say there was a, uh, bully at school, a real asshole—”

  “Language, Luke.”

  “Sorry. And this guy gets beat up, real bad. And you know about it, and who did it and all that, but… he kind of deserved it. And you’re not really sorry it happened. Should you still tell someone?”

  His father scrutinized him for a long moment. “You’re not fighting again, are you? Let me see your hands.”

  “No, Dad, this isn’t about me.”

  “Then who’s it about?”

  “Look, forget it, okay? It’s not about anyone. It’s just a question.”

  His father looked at him for a few seconds. “I guess I would say that sometimes things happen for a reason. I think most people would say that you should always do the right thing, but… sometimes, people deserve what’s coming to them.”

  “Yeah,” Luke said quietly. “That’s what I thought too. Thanks, Dad.”

  His father paused at the doorway. He passed the laptop back to Luke. “Just don’t tell your Ma, okay?”

  ***

  Sam couldn’t help it. He’d driven through the night and into the morning. He dozed; not quite falling asleep, but into a semi-unconscious state. He sensed movement and his eyes snapped open. He stared down the barrel of a revolver while the very nervous man behind it thumbed back the hammer.

  “Who are you?” O’Shea asked, his voice tremulous. “Why are you in my house?”

  “Whoa, hey. I don’t mean any trouble.”

  “How did you get in here?”

  “The kitchen window was unlocked,” Sam said slowly.

  “You climbed through my window?”

  “Look, Mr. O’Shea, I’m not armed.” Sam held up both hands, palms out. “I’m not a thief or a criminal. If I was, I would have had plenty of time to take whatever I wanted and left by now. I’m just looking for information.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Aiden McCreary. Do you know that name?”

  O’Shea thought for a minute. The barrel of his gun faltered slightly. “That kid from North Carolina?”

  “Yes. He was my nephew. My name is Sam. Aiden was the first victim. I think the two you found were three and four… of the same perpetrator. And I plan to find him.”

  “You… think it was the same guy?”

  “Yes.”

  The officer narrowed his eyes. “I should call this in.”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  O’Shea actually paused with his hand halfway to his pocket. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t just want to find him. I want to kill him.”

  “You… can’t do that.”

  “I assure you I can. I was a scout sniper with the Marines for six years. I can, and I will.”

  “No, I mean… it’s illegal.”

  “Well, yeah. But I also broke into your house. Par for the course, right?”

  O’Shea was not amused.

  “I just want some information,” Sam insisted.

  “I want you to leave. Now.”

  “I’m not leaving without talking to you.” Sam stared him in the eye. “Are you going to shoot me?”

  The barrel of the gun wavered a bit.

  “We both want the same thing, O’Shea. You saw those bodies. You know this guy can’t get locked up. He has to be put down.”

  O’Shea stared at a spot on the couch. The barrel of the gun tracked slightly to the left, off of Sam. He could have jumped up, snapped it out of his grip. Turned it on him. But he stayed seated.

  “Stand up,” O’Shea ordered. “Hands in the air.”

  Sam complied.

  “Turn around.” O’Shea checked him for weapons. He pulled Sam’s wallet out of his back pocket and checked the ID. “Samuel Asher. Kingston, North Carolina.”

  “Satisfied?”

  “Sit down.” He tossed Sam’s wallet in his lap. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing Sam, the gun still trained on him. “You’re really trying to find this guy?”

  “That’s why I came straight to you, and not the police.”

  “I am the police.”

  “You know what I mean. This is off the record. At least, I hope it will be.”

  O’Shea thought for a long moment. “What do you want to know?”

  “What’s your first name?”

  “…Connor.”

  “Alright, Connor. First, can we lower the gun, maybe?”

  “I feel better with it.”

  “Fair enough. I want to know everything you know.”

  Connor cleared his throat. “It’s not much…”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  “Fine. I was on the night shift last night. Got the call from their friends, the other clowns that were out on Blue Hill Bridge. They said their friend had been murdered. At the time, I didn’t know it was clowns; I just thought it was some kids. Maybe even a prank call. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in Arborton, you know.”

  “Was this your first body?”

  “No.” Connor shook his head. “Had a gunshot victim once before. Wife shot her husband with his own shotgun. That was a mess. But this was… different.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I really don’t want to.”

  “It’s important that I know.”

  Connor swallowed hard. “It was dark out there. I was alone. I found them by flashlight; somehow, that made it worse. The guy—the male clown—had a screwdriver in his eye. It was just a black and yellow handle sticking out. The girl… Christ.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know how to describe it. She was… broken.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Connor rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “It was like she was folded in half. But the wrong way.”

  “He broke her spine?”

  He nodded. “Her eyes were still open,” he said quietly. “And her head…”

  Sam leaned forward. “Alright. Then what did you do?”

  “What do you think I did?” Connor laughed dryly. “I puked in the bushes, called it in, and got back in my car until someone else came.”

  “Was there anything on the scene? Evidence, fingerprints, anything?”

  He shook his hea
d. “No. The screwdriver was wiped clean. Tire tracks were useless; there’s barely any treads on whatever car he’s driving. There was nothing else.”

  “The other clowns, what did they see?”

  “All they could see was his silhouette, because he put on his high beams. They said it was definitely a guy. Not too tall, maybe five-eight or five-nine. Kind of fat.”

  “And the car? What did they say about the car he was driving?”

  “Same thing—they couldn’t see. It was definitely a car. A sedan, not like a truck or an SUV. But they couldn’t give us a make or a color or anything.”

  “Was there anything else? Anything at all. Please, think hard.”

  Connor thought about it. “Yeah, one other thing. One of the witnesses said that the guy might be bald. Like, there was a gleam on the top of his head.” Then he shook his head. “But that was it. The guy didn’t say anything to them. He didn’t threaten them or shout at them. He just… killed them.” He shook his head again. “Man, I just quit drinking, too. Not even thirty days sober and this happens.”

  The gun was lowered. O’Shea still had it in his hand, but sometime during their conversation he’d pointed it downward, at the floor between his feet.

  “For whatever it’s worth, I know what you’re going through. I’ve been there. It gets easier,” Sam lied. “I want you to take down my phone number. If anything else comes up, will you call me and tell me?”

  “You’re really gonna kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “No, I mean, how are you going to get him?”

  “With your help, I hope.”

  Connor nodded. “Alright. If I find anything, I’ll call you. But nobody can know. I’d lose my job and then some.”

  “Of course. This never happened.”

  They shook on it.

  Outside, Sam got back in his truck and made a phone call.

  “Reidigger.”

  “It’s Sam. Sam Asher.”

  “I know. What do you want, Asher?”

  “You find anything on the guys that work at the meat-processing plant? Track their phones and whatnot?”

  “I told you I’m not going to share that information with you.”

  “But you will. I have more details about the guy we’re looking for.”