by Alex Jameson
“Clown Craze Grips Greater Nashville Area.”
“Dozens of sightings.”
As he drove, he had some time to think. This guy had to have an MO, and it had to be more than just clowns. First victim: Aiden. Killed in the woods near a park. Lots of cover, few people around. Second victim: A young man, Derek something, killed near a playground outside of Knoxville. Again at night, and again in a place with lots of hiding spots and not a lot of people. Third and fourth victims: The two clowns in Arborton, on a land bridge over a lake. He didn’t know what the area was like. He really should have checked it out for himself. But there were a few things in common.
All of them were at night.
All of them were in places where there were few people.
All of them were, presumably, in places that had cover. Places to hide.
Shit, Sam thought. I’m not profiling the murderer. I’m profiling the clowns. The clowns were the ones that liked to stalk people at night. They were the ones that preferred areas with few people—can’t have an angry mob after you, right? You need specific targets to scare. Or attack. Or whatever it was they were doing. This guy, this psychopath, was just going after the clowns. He was going wherever the clowns were.
There has to be more to it than that. There has to be.
Traffic was hell heading into Nashville, even at midday. As he sat there, growing frustrated, he couldn’t help but think to himself that maybe there wasn’t any more to it than that. Maybe this guy really was just a psycho driving around, finding clowns, and offing them. There were enough of them around now that even Sam could probably just drive around until he found one. The thought of it made his head hurt. No, he needed a destination. A motivation. Everyone did. Didn’t they?
He pulled into the first gas station he saw and filled his tank. Then he went inside the mini-mart, used the restroom, and waited until the other three customers had all left before approaching the Indian guy behind the counter.
“Hey, listen, I got a question for you. Where could I go around here that’s kind of open, like a park or playground, but where there’s woods nearby, or like, places to hide?”
The clerk just stared at him for a beat.
“Alright, that came out weird. I… I’m looking for clowns.”
The guy raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because… I’m a, uh, documentary filmmaker. I’m driving from city to city, making a film about this whole clown crisis thing. But I can’t get too close; I have to hide and film them from afar. You know where they like to go around here?”
“Sir, they are everywhere at night around here,” the man said. He seemed a little spooked when he said it. “Sometimes they hang out in my parking lot. They don’t do anything or say anything. They just… stare.”
“Okay. But have you heard about, like, a gathering or something? Where have the most sightings happened around here?”
The clerk pursed his lips. “I have heard that several were spotted at Green Hills Park. There are woods there, and playgrounds, just like you said.”
Sam felt a surge of hope. A large park in a major metropolitan area where multiple clowns were spotted and had everything that fit the criteria? Bingo.
Before leaving, Sam grabbed a sandwich, a couple Slim Jims, and two bottles of water. “Thanks again.”
“Good luck, sir.”
The park seemed innocuous enough in the daytime. There was a soccer field and a baseball diamond; a playground and a running track and a covered area with picnic tables. There was an expanse of green field dotted with the occasional tree, and beyond it, a narrow stretch of woods. It was surrounded on two sides by roads and the other two by suburbia. If this wasn’t the ideal place, he didn’t know what would be.
He parked his truck in the parking lot and opened the steel lockbox behind his cab. Pulling out the tact bag Jake had given him, he took out the binoculars and the infrared monocular. Just for good measure, he took out the black balaclava too. If the clown killer showed up, he didn’t want him to see his face.
Without taking the black case out of the lockbox, Sam opened it and made sure the M-21 was prepped, loaded, and ready. Then he locked the steel box and walked the perimeter of the park. He crossed its length to where the narrow stretch of woods stood and took a walk around that area. Climbing one of the trees, about fifteen feet high, he straddled a limb and watched the park. He didn’t want to use the binoculars for fear of someone seeing him and reporting him as some sort of creep, so instead he used a naked eye to scope out the park. The gentle slope of the field. The position and angle of trees. Line of sight to the playground and covered area and parking lot.
In sniper school, there was an exercise they would do to heighten their perception. Each two-man team, sniper and spotter, would sit in a position and stare at a field. They’d do this for hours, just staring, memorizing the terrain. The next day, the instructor would place an object in the field. At first it might be a football or a dog’s chew toy. Then it might be a golf ball or a pinecone. Eventually it would be a paperclip or a stick of gum. Each time they would have to find the irregularity. What didn’t belong. They’d stay out there until they found it.
Even without a scope or binoculars, Sam could see that someone had abandoned a soccer ball on the eastern edge of the grassy field, half flat from neglect. A paper fast-food cup lay on its side not far from the covered area with the picnic tables. A couple piles of dog droppings from negligent owners. Overall it was a very clean park.
From the first spot, Sam could see almost everything except the soccer field. He climbed down and tried three more vantage points, repeating the process of climbing up, finding a secure position, and sitting still and just watching for at least an hour, before he decided that his first position was the best. Then he returned to his truck, ate the sandwich and a Slim Jim, drank a bottle of water, and called Jake.
“Yo, where are you?”
“I shouldn’t say.”
“Sam, if they’re tracking your phone then they know where you are anyway. I don’t.”
“Right. Uh, Nashville. Found a place here that’s perfect, called Green Hills Park.” He explained his criteria and theory to Jake, as well as what he’d seen on the news about the area.
“Yeah, okay. Sam, there’s probably a dozen places within a fifty-mile radius that fit that criteria. You just… picked one?”
“No. I have a hunch. I really think he’s going to show up here tonight.”
Jake sighed. “We need more to go on.”
“We don’t have anything more to go on.”
“Yeah. Alright, well, I’m going to keep my phone on. You call me if you find anything—or if you get into trouble. No matter how late it is, call me.”
“Will do.” He hung up.
The sun was going down. It was time. He opened the lockbox and took out the tact bag. He stuck the bottle of water in it, his back-up cell phone, and his keys. He hesitated, but he took the G17 out of the bag and put it in the glove box. The murderer didn’t use a gun. Neither would he. As an afterthought, he shoved his wallet in there too.
Sam locked the box again and stowed the tact bag on the passenger seat, then moved his truck. The park was supposed to be closed at sunset, and he didn’t want to invite scrutiny while he had an illegal handgun in the cab and an even more illegal rifle in the box. He parked in a cul-de-sac about a half-mile away and walked back, making sure that no one was following or watching him before he cut into the narrow strip of woods to his tree. Then, with the tact bag slung over one shoulder, he climbed up to the bough that he’d spotted from earlier, secured his position, and waited.
Night fell by ten after seven. The sky was still cloudy, extinguishing the stars and moonlight and making the park all the more dark. Eight o’clock came and went. It had been a long time since Sam had held a position like this. His legs began to cramp up. He slowly repositioned himself. Every fifteen minutes he did a sweep with the infrared monocular. Nothing yet.
&n
bsp; Nine o’clock. Still nothing. He felt a surge of excitement when, at one point, he saw a trio of red and orange bodies through the monocular crossing the park, but they were just some kids cutting across the baseball field. A short while later a pair of raccoons flitted through, searching for trash.
Ten o’clock rolled around. The traffic on the street opposite his position in the distance slowed until there were so few cars that the sound of an engine prompted a look through the monocular. But they kept driving.
Come on, Sam urged. Send in the clowns.
It was ten forty before anyone showed up at the park. Sam had started scanning his infrared monocular every five minutes instead of fifteen, growing impatient. Funny that he used to hold a position for hours, even days, and now three hours felt like thirteen.
There were four bodies that entered the park. They were less than two hundred yards from him; he could see through the scope the orange and yellow details of their faces. Their baggy clothes. Through the infrared, the masks two of them wore appeared in blue and green hues.
Clowns.
They carried weapons. Whether they were real or toys, Sam couldn’t tell. One guy definitely had a blade, something like a butcher knife. Another had a baseball bat. A third had a fire poker. The fourth had nothing in his hands, but he had green strips over his hands that noted something cooler than body temperature. Brass knuckles?
Jesus.
He thought for a moment that if the killer did show up tonight, these four might be equipped to take him out themselves. These guys didn’t look like kids or college students.
They picked a spot between two small stands of trees that hid them from the road opposite the park and stood in a lazy circle, talking, possibly plotting out their night. The park must be a rendezvous point, Sam reasoned.
He maintained his position and waited and watched them through the monocular. Occasionally he switched out the monocular for the binos, but he couldn’t really see anything much in the darkness more than silhouettes. The cloud cover kept the moonlight out, obscured the details.
Fifteen minutes went by. The foursome of clowns had apparently agreed on something. They began to walk back toward the road. Sam’s heart sank. If there were no clowns, there’d be no killer.
He scanned the park once more and sucked in a breath. There, on the opposite side, coming from the direction of the soccer field, was a fifth shape. Judging by the distance and relative height of the trees, the guy was fairly short. He adjusted the monocular, trying to get better definition. Short. Bald. Chubby.
It was him.
It had to be him.
The killer carried something in his hand, something long and thin. A pipe, perhaps, or a piece of rebar. Those four clowns were headed right for him, and they’d never see him coming in the dark.
Sam quickly stowed the binoculars and the monocular in the tact bag and scrambled down from the tree. He stowed the tact bag under a pile of dead leaves, making sure it was hidden, then took off toward the clowns. Ordinarily, he’d choose a slow, silent approach. In sniper school, he’d spent countless painstaking hours crawling over terrain on his belly, his rifle held out before him. They’d taught him to stalk slowly, quietly, carefully, without disturbing the landscape and leaving a trail.
There wasn’t time for that. He sprinted.
He was halfway there before he remembered he didn’t have a weapon. No matter. He had two fists, two feet, two elbows, two knees, and a skull. And training. Training he hadn’t used in four years… doesn’t matter. He had allies. Armed allies. Or at least he would in a moment.
“Wait!” he called out in a hoarse whisper.
All four of the clowns spun suddenly at the sound of his voice.
Jesus.
He’d never actually been up close and personal with any of these clowns before. It gave him pause. They didn’t look like people. They looked like… monsters.
The one closest to him, the one with the knife, had wild green hair and a rubber mask with a bulbous red nose that eked blood from each nostril. The one with the baseball bat didn’t wear a mask, but his face was painted white and red and he wore blood-red contacts in his eyes that covered his entire sclera. Another one—which Sam noted did indeed have brass knuckles on each hand—wore an oversized mask that made his head look three times bigger, with huge sharp yellow teeth in a wide, maniacal smile.
The clowns didn’t know what to do. They looked at each other, and then back at him.
They’re just people, he had to remind himself. Stupid people, but they’re still just people.
“Wait, listen to me. You’re in danger,” Sam panted.
“We’re in danger?” said the green-haired clown with the knife. He snorted loud. “Look at the balls on this guy!”
“That clown killer, the one on the news? He’s here, tonight. I just saw him. I think that together, we can—”
“Whoa, whoa,” said the clown with the oversized head. His voice was muffled by the mask, but it was deep, gruff. “You a cop?”
“What? No.”
“Then what the hell are you doing out here, huh?”
“Ooh, I know what this is.” The clown with the red eyes and the baseball bat used it to point at Sam. “I bet he’s one of them clown chasers. Those people goin’ around, beating up clowns. Is that it? You followin’ us?”
“No! Just listen to me—”
“What’s this?” A new voice. Sam turned. A fifth clown appeared behind him. The guy had white face paint rubbed all over, even on the crown of his bald head. Blue diamonds under each eye. He grinned wide; Sam could see he was missing a few teeth.
The guy was bald. Short. Chubby. Not the killer. Another clown.
“You guys gettin’ started without me?” The clown perched his weapon over his shoulder; it was a wooden cane.
“This guy says that clown killer’s around here somewhere,” the green-haired one said.
“Is that right?” asked the new clown. “Huh. Is it you? You the clown killer? You here to take us out?” Then he threw back his head and let out a high-pitched laugh. His buddies mimicked him, all of them howling with forced, horrible laughter.
The killer wasn’t here.
These guys weren’t kids.
Sam felt a tight ball of dread form in his stomach. It was a familiar feeling; it was the one he’d get just before every firefight. Before every squeeze of the trigger.
“I don’t want any trouble…” he said.
The green-haired clown and the new clown stood their ground; their three cronies moved slowly, fanned out, forming a circle around Sam.
“No trouble?” said the green-haired clown. “Well, that’s gonna depend. How much money you got on you?”
He’d left his wallet in the truck… not like he’d pay off these thugs anyway. He didn’t say anything. He kept his eyes open, watching his periphery, turning in place.
The green-haired one made the first move. He lunged forward and swung the knife down in a wide arc—too wide. He missed Sam by three feet. It was a scare tactic. Sam didn’t flinch.
“Balls of steel,” said the bearded clown. “You are a cop, aren’t you?”
“No,” Sam said, trying to keep his breath steady. “I’m a Marine. Or, I used to be, and—”
“A Marine.” The bearded clown let out another laugh. “Semper fi, asshole.” He mock-saluted Sam. His buddies took up the cue too, saluting and laughing.
Mid-laugh, the green-haired clown swiped at him again—closer this time. Within a foot. Sam stepped back quickly. He put one hand out in front of him, palm facing the clown.
“I’m warning you,” he said. “Don’t do that again.”
Another round of laughter erupted from all sides. One of the clowns laughed so hard he fell into a coughing fit. Sam couldn’t keep his eyes on all of them at once. The knife was the biggest threat right now.
The green-haired clown swiped again. He broadcasted his movement, dropping his shoulder back before raising the knife. Ins
tead of stepping backward or to the side, Sam took one large step toward him so they were only six inches apart. He caught the clown’s arm under his own and pinched it hard against his ribs. The knife blade was behind him. He gripped the clown’s bicep, twisted it forty-five degrees, and jerked upward sharply.
“Aah!” The clown yelped and dropped the knife. Sam released him and he fell to the ground, holding his dislocated shoulder.
“I asked you not to do that—”
Crack! The cane slapped hard against the back of his thigh, forcing Sam to a knee. Pain shot up and down his leg. Sam grabbed the butcher knife from the grass in a reverse grip and spun. He tested weight on his leg. It hurt like hell, but he could stand.
The short, chubby clown’s eyes were wide and wild. His buddies gathered around him. He was the leader. Take him out and the others will run, Sam thought.
“You alright, Sid?” the clown asked his downed friend, not taking his eyes off Sam.
“Gah! Motherfucker tweaked my shoulder! Kick his ass!”
The clown with the cane licked his lips as he held the cane aloft, his fingers tightening against it like a batter on deck. He swung. Sam ducked out of the way, and then slashed upward, from the guy’s hip up the side of his ribs. He screamed and held his side, dropping the cane. It was a superficial cut, but painful and bloody. A lot of blood tends to make people think the wound is more substantial than it is.
The others would certainly run now.
Sam turned toward them to show them the edge of the bloody knife—just in time to catch the baseball bat in the gut. All the air rushed from his lungs. He fell to his knees again, desperate to suck in a breath. It came down again, this time on his shoulder, and drove him to the ground.
“Marv! Where’d he get you?”
He didn’t have the knife anymore. He couldn’t see it. He needed the knife. The bat came down again, this time glancing off his ribs.
“Christ, I’m bleeding like a stuck pig… Kill that prick!”
