Clown Moon

by Alex Jameson

  Sam sat up suddenly. Jake was right; it did hurt, but he ignored it as best he could. “Jake, he knows where we are. He could be on his way right now!”

  “Doubtful. He said he’ll be waiting for your call.”

  Sam shook his head. A headache was coming on. “Give me another pill.”

  Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin orange bottle. “You can have a half. We should ration these. I’ve only got like—” He shook the bottle. “—six more or so.”

  Jake cut one in half with a pocketknife and Sam took it with the last of the water and then grabbed his phone from the bedside table.

  Reidigger answered before Sam even heard the line ring.

  “Asher, just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “You sound angry.”

  “I am angry! I know you were in that park last night. The same park the cops found blood… and then two clowns end up in the hospital?”

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I thought I had the guy.”

  “You thought you had… Listen here, Asher. I told you to call me if you found anything. I told you not to take action. Now you’re cutting up clowns? And you’ve got your brother in on this?” Reidigger took a deep breath. “Final warning, Asher. I mean it. If you’re not on the interstate heading east within the hour, I’m sending agents.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Goddamnit Asher, I’m not fooling around! I’ll have you both arrested. Your brother will lose his job. And I will drag your name through so much mud you’ll never get your cozy little life back. Is that what you want? Is it really worth it?”

  Sam thought for a moment. He thought about his life. His repetitive job. Lynn. His family, parents and sister. And Aiden.

  Aiden.

  “Yes.” He hung up.

  Neither brother spoke for a long moment. It was quiet enough in the motel room; Sam was sure Jake heard everything Reidigger had shouted through the phone.

  “I’m still in,” Jake said finally.

  “You’re sure? You don’t have to do this.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t just go back and pretend nothing happened.”

  “You were the one that said I should let the cops and feds handle it…”

  “That was before you got closer than they could. Look, I don’t know about the feds, but I know how cops operate. How they investigate. They’ll do their due diligence and they’ll collect the evidence and knock on some doors, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But the way this guy has been going, any single jurisdiction is going to assume that he’s already gone by the time they find the bodies. He’s not sticking around in any one place long enough for them to catch him. I’m not saying they won’t do their jobs; I’m just saying they’re going to assume they won’t be the ones to catch him.”

  Sam didn’t want to admit it, but Jake had a good point. Here today, gone tomorrow; that’s how this guy had been operating, and the cops would figure the same.

  “Jake, I want you to really think about it before you agree. This isn’t a game. We might never be able to go home.”

  Jake sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Got any more of those Slim Jims?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll definitely need some more of those. And cash.”

  “A different car, too. Can’t keep driving my truck around… too easy to spot the plates.”

  “I had an idea about that.” Jake grinned.

  CHAPTER 17

  * * *

  Sam dropped Jake near the hospital entrance. With the door hanging open, Jake paused a moment. “You sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “I’m fine, go. Just be quick.”

  “Alright. Ten minutes, tops.” He slammed the door and headed inside.

  Sam pulled out of the parking lot and down the block, just meandering. He didn’t want to idle in the lot; a blue truck with North Carolina plates would be too conspicuous.

  Paranoid? Yeah, a little.

  There was pain in his leg whenever he adjusted from one pedal to the other, and sitting upright hurt his back, but he could manage. He’d been worse off before. He saw a pharmacy a little further down the road and pulled in. The Vicodin wouldn’t last. Inside, he approached the pharmacist behind the counter at the rear.

  “Is there anything with codeine in it I can get over-the-counter?”

  The woman inspected him over the rim of her glasses. He knew he looked terrible; nose red and swollen, both eyes blackened, bandaged forehead.

  “I got jumped last night,” he explained.

  “You should see a doctor,” she replied.

  “No insurance.”

  “Without a prescription, no, you can’t get anything with codeine. You’d want acetaminophen—that’s the strongest you’ll get OTC.”

  “Acetamin…?”

  “Tylenol.”

  “Ah. Thanks.” He turned to leave—

  “There’s an urgent-care facility near the hospital, not far from here. They’d give you a script. It’s not expensive.”

  “Thank you.” He couldn’t see a doctor. Doctors required forms and ID, and then he’d be in a system, and then Reidigger would know he was injured. Looking for two ordinary guys is one thing; looking for a guy with a broken nose and a bandaged forehead would make it a hell of a lot easier.

  He picked up some Tylenol and two bottles of water and got back in the truck. He tore open the package and popped two pills free of the plastic.

  It was four o’clock. He fiddled with his phone for a bit. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d brought Lynn’s number up on the screen. His thumb hovered over the green call button. He pressed it.

  “Sam? Sam, where are you?”

  “Hi. I’m in Nashville.”

  “Jesus, Sam, it’s all over the news. Five of them now…”

  “I know.”

  “I miss you. I want you to come home,” she said.

  “I know. But I can’t—”

  “And I can’t turn on the TV one day and see it was you.”

  “He’s not going to get me. He’s only going after clowns. He has no idea I’m chasing him.” He took the two pills and a long sip of water. “I miss you too.”

  “All that stuff I said, I didn’t mean it. I just want you home. I want things back the way they were…”

  “Lynn, listen to me a sec.”

  “Okay.”

  “Jake is with me.”

  “Good God…”

  “Jake is here, and we’re going to do this together, so you don’t need to worry. But… soon I won’t have my phone.” He shouldn’t have said that. They could be listening.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s being tracked.”

  “By whom?”

  “The government.” Christ, I sound like that guy in the diner…

  “What?” she said in alarm. “Why?”

  “Long story. All you need to know is that I’m safe. We’re safe. Jake and I will watch each other’s backs, and… I’ll be home before you know it. This’ll be over soon.”

  “You sound strange, are you sure you’re okay?”

  His broken nose was making him sound nasally. “Yeah, I’m sure. Do me a favor though, okay? Check in on Sarah for me. Will you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And my folks. Let them know we’re okay. And not to believe anything they hear or say about us.”

  “Sam, you’re not making sense. What would we hear? From who?”

  “Just tell them.” His phone beeped. Jake was calling him. “I gotta go, baby. I love you.”

  “Sam, wait—”

  “I love you.”

  “…I love you too.”

  He switched the call. “Jake? You done?”

  “Yeah, easy-peasy. Come on back.”

  ***

  Jake entered the hospital through the sliding glass doors, whistling the tune to “Sweet Georgia Brown.” He headed down the ha
ll in long strides, even though he wasn’t yet sure where he was going. People rarely questioned someone who walked with purpose.

  Let’s see… intensive care? Probably not. Sam said it was a long cut, but not too deep. Post critical? Not likely. General recovery, I bet.

  He followed the signs to the unit and passed a nurses’ station, where a pretty redhead just a couple years younger than him smiled politely.

  “Excuse me, sir? If you’re visiting someone, you’ll have to sign in.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I’m looking for Marvin Harris’s room.” He’d gotten the clown’s name from a news article that had published the identities of all three that had been picked up the night before.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Harris isn’t allowed to have visitors right now. We’re under instruction from the police.”

  “But sweetheart… I am the police.” Jake reached into his back pocket and flashed his badge, just for a second. He looked left and right and lowered his voice. “Look, I’m a UC detective—that means undercover—and this Harris guy is linked to an attempted murder from about a year back. We want to ask him a few things while he’s here… pain meds tend to make people more honest, you know?”

  “Oh,” the nurse said, her eyes wide. “Is he… dangerous?”

  Jake nodded solemnly. “I’d keep him drugged, if I were you.”

  “Oh my.” She shook her head. “Uh, B-324.”

  “Thank you. And please—mum’s the word, okay?”

  She nodded. He winked and headed down the hall, trying to keep himself from laughing. He’d always wanted to do something like that.

  He entered Marvin’s room and closed the door behind him quietly. The guy was asleep on his back, his head tilted toward the window. So this was one of the guys that had jumped his brother. Jeez, he was even uglier than Sam described. They’d washed the makeup off his face, but there was still some white in his scraggly black beard.

  Jake searched the drawers and small, narrow closet until he found the guy’s clothes—the clown costume he’d been wearing, and a pair of dirty trousers he must have had on underneath. There was a wallet, and in the wallet was an ID. Jake took it, along with the fifty-three bucks in cash the guy had on him. He could’ve just walked out then… but this guy beat the hell out of his brother. He needed a little more.

  He lifted a loose end of the hospital gown, just a little. Thankfully Marvin had briefs on underneath. The gash was ugly and crooked, from his hip almost all the way up to his armpit, stitched up with black thread. Stitches always made Jake think of spiders, for some reason.

  He poked it.

  “Gah!” Marvin Harris jolted awake, his face twisted in pain. He glared at Jake. “What the hell? Who are you?”

  “Ooh, sorry to wake you, Marv. I’m Dr. Fuck You, and I have bad news. What we thought was your face is actually a tumor.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Marvin growled.

  “Okay, I’m not a doctor, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night…”

  Marvin grabbed for the call button, a red switch on a white cord attached to the wall. Jake snatched it out of his reach.

  “Uh-uh, Marv.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Sort of. Actually… probably not anymore. But I am pissed off. So here’s the deal, Marv. You’ve been a bad boy, and now…” He flashed the driver’s license he’d nabbed from his wallet. “…I know where you live.”

  “You think I’m scared of you, pig?” Spittle flew from Marv’s lips as he spat out the words.

  Jake reached for the back of his pants again, but not for his badge. He pulled the Glock 17 and pressed it against Marv’s forehead. “I think you should be. Because if I hear you’ve been clowning around again, I’m going to come to your house and kill you. If I hear you’ve done anything naughty—anything at all—I’m going to come to your house and kill you.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Marv grunted. “Not here.”

  “No? You don’t think so?”

  Jake pulled the trigger. Marv whimpered.

  The gun clicked. Jake grinned.

  “Relax. It’s not even loaded, Marv.” He poked at Marv’s scar again, eliciting another groan of pain. “But next time, it will be.” He tucked the gun in the back of his pants and headed for the door. “Oh, and if you tell anyone about this, I’m going to come to your house and… you know the rest. Have a great day, pal.”

  On the way out of the unit, he passed the redheaded nurse again, who gave him a small nod. He did the same. She wouldn’t tell anyone—at least not anyone important. Maybe later she’d get home and when her husband or boyfriend asked, “How was your day?” she’d get to confide in them that she’d been a small part of something exciting, something dangerous, even.

  He called Sam on the way out of the hospital. He only had to wait a minute or two for the blue truck to come pick him up.

  “You’re sure he won’t talk?” Sam asked.

  “Pretty sure. He doesn’t seem to care for cops much; I doubt he’d get them involved.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  First they went to a nearby pub and grabbed a bite to eat. Sam got a lot of stares for the state of his face, but he ignored them. He ordered soup; he wasn’t very hungry and it hurt to chew. They each ordered a beer.

  “Do I really have to be the responsible one and remind you that you shouldn’t be drinking?” Jake asked.

  “Just one,” Sam said. “I think I deserve it.”

  He left about an inch in the bottom of his glass, and before they left, they took the SIM cards out of their phones, snapped them in half, and dropped them in the beer.

  “What a waste,” Jake muttered. “That phone was like my little black book. I just lost so many phone numbers. I’ll have to start all over.”

  “It’s good to have goals.” Sam slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.”

  In the parking lot, they stomped their phones flat and tossed them in a corner trash can. Then they got in the truck and headed to Marvin Harris’s address. They had to stop for directions three times, twice being asked, “Don’t you have Google Maps on your phone?”

  It took the better part of an hour to get across town, considering the time of day, but once they did they parked the truck on the street and fed the meter enough quarters to last until nine p.m., when parking would be free until five the next morning, which meant it would be at least eleven hours until anyone towed it and started looking for the owner.

  They looked up at the tenement building in disgust. Harris lived on the fourth floor. There was no elevator, and the stairs creaked with warning that they might collapse at any time. A pair of filthy kids played with armless action figures on the second-floor landing. Harris’s apartment number was 43, a one-bedroom efficiency apartment. Jake jimmied the lock open with his knife only to learn that the deadbolt was on, too. He shouldered the door open, splintering the jamb.

  Inside was a pigsty.

  “God, it smells like booze and puke in here.” Jake wrinkled his nose and stepped over some yellowed newspaper on the floor.

  “Just find the keys.”

  It didn’t take long; Marvin’s key ring was sitting on the counter, between a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a donut with two bites taken out of it. The spaces in the small lot behind the building were numbered, so it wasn’t hard to find which car belonged to Harris.

  “Awesome,” Jake said sarcastically. It was a boxy nineties-model Buick that was more rust than anything. The cab was littered with fast-food wrappers, empty cigarette packs, and used tissues.

  “The guy was a biker, right? He probably didn’t use the car much.”

  “Is this thing even going to make it to another state?”

  “It’s just until we find something else—”

  “Like what? Until we steal another car?”

  “This was your idea,” Sam reminded him.

  “I’m regretting it now.” They got in. It smelled just as bad as the ap
artment did. “Next time we stop for gas, I’m getting one of those little Christmas-tree air fresheners.” He put the key in the ignition. The engine chugged twice before sputtering to life, black smoke pluming from the exhaust.

  They drove back to Sam’s truck and transferred the contents of the lock box into Marvin’s trunk, then Sam reached into the glove box and pulled out his registration and insurance cards.

  “Anything identifying,” he said. “We don’t want to make it easy on them.”

  As an afterthought, he took down the small Saint Christopher medallion that hung from his rearview mirror. Despite not being a practicing Catholic for years, his mother had given it to him. He stuffed it all into the tact bag and locked the cab.

  “All set?”

  “Give me a minute,” Sam said. He’d had the truck for ten years, and now he was just abandoning it in a strange city to be impounded and likely sold off at auction.

  Jake patted the rear bumper affectionately. “That’ll do, truck. That’ll do.”

  “You’re such an ass. Come on, let’s go.”

  They got back in Marvin’s Buick and headed toward the interstate. “What’s next?” Jake asked.

  “We’ll need cash. We can’t use debit or credit cards from here on out. Most ATMs have a single withdrawal limit of two or three hundred dollars, and most banks limit totals to about a grand a day. We’ll hit every ATM we find, pull a couple hundred at a time. After midnight, when their systems reset, we can pull out more until we get to Kentucky.”

  “So we’re heading north.”

  “He’s been going north since Arborton.”

  “Like I said, natural inclination—”

  “But I don’t think he’ll stay that way,” Sam said. “He’s trying real hard not to create patterns. There’s got to be something, though. There has to be. It can’t just be random. Even a psychopath needs some sort of MO.”

  “Well, not necessarily,” Jake said. “See, there are two kinds of psychopaths. There’s a criminal psychopath, who’s someone that’s lost their inhibitions. They’re usually aggressive, bold, and reckless. Then there are clinical psychopaths, people that lack empathy or remorse. They tend to be cold toward other people, calculating, antisocial.”