Clown Moon

by Alex Jameson

  “Asher, if you have more information that you’re withholding—wait. What do you mean, guy that we’re looking for? Asher, where are you?”

  “On a little road trip.” Sam stuck the key in the ignition and turned the engine over.

  “Dammit, Asher, don’t even think about it. I will track your phone and lock you up.”

  “Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Not yet you haven’t,” Reidigger said. “But I know about you. I looked into you. Thirty-seven confirmed kills to your name. That’s quite a list. Thirty-eight, if you include Joseph Heckler. That name ring a bell?”

  Sam sighed. “Can’t say that it does.”

  “Let me refresh your memory. About four years ago, Heckler was killed in Kingston, North Carolina with two 7.62 millimeter slugs to the head. Forensics said they came from less than a hundred yards out. You were a suspect in his murder for about ten minutes. This sounding familiar yet?”

  “There were no charges brought up.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. Looks like you had an airtight alibi. Little twelve-year-old Aiden McCreary claimed that Uncle Sam took him to the arcade that night. Mama Sarah confirmed it. There’s even security camera footage of you two there.”

  “That’s right. And Heckler was killed clear across town.”

  “Yeah. Real strange.”

  Sam put his cell on speaker and pulled away from the curb from Connor O’Shea’s house, heading north. “Look, Reidigger, do you want to know what I know or not?”

  “Not if it comes at a cost.”

  “The guy is about five-eight, five-nine. Overweight and probably bald.”

  Reidigger chuckled. “So we’re looking for a guy that works at a meat-processing plant that’s kind of fat and kind of short and kind of bald? Christ, Asher, you just described half their workforce.”

  “It’s all I’ve got for now.”

  “Asher…” Reidigger sighed heavily. “Go home. Go back to your life and your family and your girlfriend, alright? Don’t make me come after you. I’d hate to waste the manpower.”

  “Can’t do that. I’ve come too far already.”

  Silence on the other end of the line for several seconds.

  “Alright, how about this. You learn anything, you see anything, you call me. You don’t take action; you call me and you tell me. And in return, maybe I won’t arrest you when you do something stupid, which I’m sure you will.”

  “Then tell me what you’ve found out.”

  “Fine. We’ve got a whole basket of nothing. We tracked a hundred and thirty-eight phones; all of them are where they’re supposed to be, except for four guys that are on vacation with their families. We’re following up on them now, but so far, there’s nothing suspicious. We’ve got squat. The plant is a goose chase. Now tell me where you are.”

  “I’m in a town called Arborton, a ways south of Nashville in Tennessee.”

  “Where the two murders happened last night? Jesus. You might be right on top of him.”

  “Might be. Or he could have driven through the night and he’s five hundred miles away by now.”

  Again, silence on the other end.

  “How about you just keep me up to date?” Reidigger said.

  “And you’ll do the same?”

  “No promises.” The agent hung up.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  You have to do it again.

  “No. N-No, I can’t. C-can’t develop a p-p-pattern. Can’t stay in one p-place. Gotta m-move. Keep m-moving.”

  They’re everywhere here, Harry. Everywhere!

  “Don’t c-call me that!”

  You know I’m right.

  “I’m n-not a k-kid any… anymore.”

  You’ll always be that kid to me.

  “No…” Harlan sat on the bedspread of the dark motel room with his legs bunched up and his arms hugging his knees. The quilt was a sickly pale green like split pea soup; the walls were stucco orange. The colors made him want to vomit.

  Admit it, kid. You’re developing a taste for it. You like it.

  “N-no. Please… be quiet.”

  You liked breaking that girl, didn’t you?

  “W-wasn’t a girl.”

  It was a girl, Harlan. You smelled her perfume. You heard her scream.

  “A g-girl clown is still a c-clown.”

  Perhaps. But you liked it.

  “She h-had a knife…”

  He had expected that after the first one went down, the one he stabbed in the eye with a screwdriver, that the others would just run. They did, mostly. The skinny clown with black eyes and blonde pigtails didn’t. She screamed at him. Reached behind her. Pulled out a hunting knife.

  He wasn’t ready for that. Luckily she stabbed downward at him from overhead; easy to avoid, even at his size. He grabbed her arm in his beefy hand. It felt so thin. So frail. He twisted hard. Felt the wrist break. Heard the scream of pain.

  Adrenaline surged through him. He felt invincible. He lifted her up, one hand gripping the fabric between her shoulder blades, and the other holding the belt cinched at her waist. He lifted her up so she faced the stars and the moon—the horrible moon.

  “No no no no no no…” she’d said, over and over.

  Then he’d brought her down on his knee. He felt her spine give way.

  Then he did it again.

  And again.

  He set her down gently. Her body was at an odd angle, but it looked right for a clown. He backed away toward his car—

  She blinked. She blinked at him. Still alive.

  He took her head in both his hands. She blinked again. He twisted it hard, one fluid motion, until she was facing the wrong way.

  The sound of it… the feel of it… made him sick. Made him want to throw up. Made him nauseated. Excited him.

  It excited you.

  “No… no.”

  It did. Don’t feel bad, kid. It excited him too. You know it did.

  “No!”

  Oh, it did, Harlan. You felt it. You felt how excited he was…

  You try to run, this is gonna slit your fuckin’ throat… Every time you squirm I’m gonna push this knife in a little further…

  “Oh!”

  Harlan scrambled from the bed. He tripped over his own feet and fell forward. Smacked his chin on the carpeted floor. Bit his lip. Tasted blood. He crawled on his hands and knees to the bathroom. Lifted the toilet lid. Vomited yellow bile. There wasn’t anything else in his stomach.

  He whimpered and dry-heaved. Then he sat back against the wall and hugged his knees to his chest. He rocked back and forth, blood and bile dripped down his chin.

  “T-tell me what to d-do.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  Alright, kid. Alright. Calm down. Get a good night’s sleep. Get some food in you. We’ll start again tomorrow. New place. Okay?

  “O-okay,” he whispered.

  Clean yourself up. You’re a mess.

  “Y-yes.”

  Tomorrow—oh, we’ll show ‘em, Harry. We’ll show ‘em all.

  “I’m n-not a k-kid any… anymore.”

  ***

  “How much for this one?” Sam asked the bored-looking clerk behind the register. He held up a cell phone in a hard plastic container, one of those old flip-phone deals that were popular umpteen years ago.

  “Twenty-nine ninety-nine,” the cashier said, monotone. He casually scratched his nose. “And you prepay the minutes.”

  “Can I pay in cash?”

  The clerk furrowed his brow. “Duh.”

  In the truck, Sam used his lockback knife to free the phone from its packaging. He transferred four numbers to the phone’s memory: Jake’s, Reidigger’s, Connor O’Shea’s, and Lynn’s. He wasn’t sure why he put her number in there; he just felt better having it handy if need be. He felt a pang of something—guilt, maybe—that he never bothered to memorize it. But wasn’t that was cell phones were for? He took a few minutes to memorize hi
s new number, reciting it several times over until he had it right. Then he called Jake from his regular cell phone.

  “Hey,” his brother said in a near-whisper. “Can’t really talk right now. I’m at the desk.”

  “Alright, then just listen.” Sam quickly shared the new info he’d gotten from Connor O’Shea.

  “That’s not much to go on, bro.”

  “I know. But it’s something. I’m going to check into a place tonight, get some sleep. I need it. I’ll head out again in the morning.” Sam sighed. “I have no idea where to go.”

  “Head north. That’s most people’s natural inclination.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything natural about this guy’s inclinations. There’s more. My phone is likely being traced, maybe even tapped.”

  “Jeez, Sam. You sound paranoid.”

  “It’s that agent, Reidigger. The one from Homeland Security. I talked to him. I think I’m in the clear for now, but I don’t trust him. Listen, you remember when we were kids and we’d get sno-cones?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Be there at ten.”

  “You got it.”

  Sam hung up. He needed to find a hotel, get some rest. He hadn’t slept in nearly thirty-six hours. He could use his phone to look up nearby places, but if Reidigger was tracking it…

  He went back inside the gas station and up to the bored clerk.

  “Where’s the closest hotel?”

  “There’s one about four miles up the road.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sam checked in and paid for the night in advance in cash so he wouldn’t have to waste time in the morning. At ten o’clock, he called information from the phone in his room and asked the operator to connect him to the pay phone in Kingston on George Street, area code 828. It took a couple of minutes, but eventually the line rang. Jake answered on the second ring.

  “What’s with all the cloak and dagger stuff, man? You need help? I’m there in a heartbeat.”

  “No, I’m fine. I just don’t want this agent knowing too much before I do. He’s not as much into sharing as I am.”

  Jake snorted. “Alright. What do you need?”

  “Write down this number.” He gave him the number to the pay-as-you-go cell he’d bought earlier. “It’s a back-up, just in case I have to ditch my phone.”

  “Seriously, Sam. You need me, I’m there.”

  “I need you where you are right now. You have access to info that I don’t. Is Reidigger still hanging around Kingston?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I was afraid of that. Alright, I’m gonna get some sleep. Wait… give the number to Lynn too. Don’t text it to her; deliver it in person. Just in case. Tell her not to call it unless it’s from a pay phone.”

  “If you insist.”

  “Thanks. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Be safe.”

  ***

  “Now Aiden, I want you to stay right here for a few minutes, okay?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m just going to the bathroom real quick. You stay right here. Don’t talk to strangers. There’s about five dollars in quarters here, so you just keep shooting aliens and I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Stay here and shoot aliens.”

  “You got it, kiddo.”

  “When you get back, will you play too?”

  “Absolutely. Three minutes, tops.”

  “Jake, you there?”

  “Yup. All clear?”

  “Aiden’s in a blind spot and I slipped out a side door. You got eyes on Heckler?”

  “Yeah. I’d say you have about forty-five seconds until he’s in positions.”

  “Plenty of time.”

  “Sam… are you sure about this? Like, really sure?”

  “He had his chances. Too many of them. He’s not getting another.”

  “Alright. Let me know when you’re there…”

  Sam awoke suddenly. It was still dark out. No; he’d closed the curtains. It was a gray, cloudy morning. Where was he? Right. In a hotel off the interstate. He’d slept like shit. He needed coffee. His stomach grumbled. And some food. He recalled passing a diner last night on the way to the hotel. That’ll do.

  The place was packed. By the looks of it, most of them were truckers stopping off for breakfast. He subconsciously looked over every man that was short and chubby and balding before he realized that he was even doing it. There must have been ten of them, maybe more, just in this diner alone.

  He took a seat at the counter. Hell, even the guy two stools away fit the physical profile. Sam shook his head as a tired waitress in her forties with close-cropped hair came by and passed a menu wordlessly across the bar.

  “Nah, I don’t need that. Let me get a cup of coffee. A couple eggs, scrambled. Uh, some wheat toast, and bacon.”

  “You want hash browns?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

  “How ‘bout you?” she said to the guy beside him. “You doing alright?”

  “M-more coffee, p-please. Thanks.”

  She took the menu and moved slowly down the counter to another patron. Sam took out his phone and checked the headlines, both local and national. It didn’t look like anyone had been killed last night… or at least no bodies had been found.

  The television mounted in a corner behind the counter played the news on mute. They were reporting something about Syrian refugees. How about that? No clowns for once. Just the usual atrocities of war.

  The waitress came back and slid a cup of coffee in front of him. He sipped it black. It was awful, but it was caffeine. He reached for the glass sugar container and liberally dumped some in. The guy beside him dipped a wedge of toast into the yolk of a sunny-side-up egg. Yellow yolk dripped down his chin. Gross.

  Sam turned his attention back to the TV. Ah, there it was. “Clown Craze Grips Greater Nashville Area.” The sound was off, but Sam had gotten decent at reading lips by staring at people through a scope. It looked like the reporter said something about “dozens of sightings.” It didn’t seem like anyone had been killed, but the media still had to keep it at the forefront of people’s minds, and it didn’t seem like anyone was deterred from going out there. What the hell was wrong with them?

  “Fucking people, man,” Sam murmured.

  The guy beside him smacked his lips and said, “You mean the c-clowns?”

  Sam glanced at the guy. His eyes were glued to the TV, too. “Yeah. The clowns.”

  An awkward silence passed between them. He’d inadvertently initiated conversation, and now they were sitting two feet from each other.

  “I mean… why?” Sam asked aloud. “Bunch of idiots. With all the technology and entertainment and, and media we have today, people still have to dress up like clowns and parade around at night, scaring kids and chasing folks? It’s sick.”

  The guy shrugged. “M-maybe it’s something m-more.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what… a crazy cult? Gangs?”

  “It’s s-simpler than th-that. It’s the m-moon.”

  Great, Sam thought. A conspiracy nut. Eh, might as well have some fun with him. Not like I can get up and leave now. “You know, there might be something to that. My brother’s a beat cop—small town, but still—and he says that every full moon, all the crazies come out. People go nuts. It’s weird.”

  “It’s w-weird, all right. But th-this is different. See, right n-now we have what’s c-called a Hunter’s Superm-m-moon. It’s m-making them crazy.”

  Sam felt a stab at remorse when the guy said “Hunter.” He thought of Lynn briefly. He stared off into his coffee. Then he pushed the thought out of his mind.

  “That’s not a bad theory, pal. You should tell the government. I hear the Department of Homeland Security is investigating this thing.” He really hoped the guy wouldn’t be able to tell he was making fun of him.

  “Th-they wouldn’t l-list
en.”

  Whew. “Ain’t that the truth.” Sam sipped his coffee. “And now there’s some psycho out there murdering them… I mean, that’s enough to keep me at home.”

  “M-maybe he’s not a psy-psycho. M-maybe he’s just try… trying to protect p-people.”

  Even better. A conspiracy theorist and a sympathizer.

  “Yeah, maybe. Gotta protect the children, right?”

  “Exac… exactly. I’m n-not a k-kid—”

  “Now look at this!” Sam exclaimed, pointing at the TV. “See, this is why I don’t watch the news. Twenty-four hours goes by without anyone getting killed, so they do a recap on all the murders up until now. Just so it stays in people’s minds, you know? Eh, I’m sick of clowns.”

  The waitress came by and dropped a plate in front of him. Everything looked greasy and delicious. He shook some salt on his eggs and slathered some butter on his toast. “So what do you do, pal?”

  “F-for work?”

  “Yeah. You from around here, or you drive one of those rigs out there?”

  “N-no. I mean, n-neither. I’m a, uh, code… code inspector. Heading up-upstate for the job. You?”

  “Me? Drug trafficking. Yup, got a trunk full of heroin I’m bringing into Nashville.” He caught the guy’s wide-eyed expression and grinned. “I’m just kidding. I’m from Frankfurt. Heading back home after visiting some relatives down in Jackson.”

  “Oh.” The guy laughed a little, an odd snort that was reminiscent of a pig. “You h-had me for a second th-there.” The guy finished his coffee and dropped a twenty on the counter. “Gotta h-hit the road. You drive… drive safe now.”

  “Yeah, you too, pal. And remember—no clownin’ around.” Sam grinned again, and the guy snorted again.

  “Wouldn’t d-dream of it.”

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  After his breakfast—which admittedly made him a little queasy—Sam got in his truck and headed north on I-24 toward Nashville. It was just a hunch. The lunatic could be a state or two away by now. He could have gone south to Alabama or Louisiana, or north to Kentucky. He could have gone west. He could have just turned around and gone back to North Carolina, or up into New England. But if he was still in the area, and he was actively looking for clowns, then maybe he saw the same thing that Sam had seen.