Clown Moon

by Alex Jameson

  “Huh. I’m impressed. You learn all that in cop school?”

  “It’s called police academy. And yeah, actually.”

  “So which do you think our guy is?”

  “Hard to say. Could be a combination, or some other mental disorder altogether. I mean, it’s not like everyone fits neatly into a category. What I do know is the clinical kind would have a plan. They wouldn’t be making it up as they go; they’d have a destination in mind. Hell, maybe even a body count. The criminal kind… they might actually just drive around the country killing random clowns. Hey, there’s an ATM.”

  They stopped and each pulled some cash. Sam wondered if Reidigger would be tracking their bank accounts; if so, he’d know they weren’t out of Nashville yet, and he’d know that they weren’t heading back home, too.

  Back in the truck, Sam said, “So let’s assume he’s the criminal kind. That he really is just going from place to place, finding and killing clowns. God knows there’s enough of them. He’s got to have an MO. Criteria for his victims.”

  “Well, yeah. Clowns.”

  “But what else? Come on, I need you serious for once.”

  “Alright, alright.” Jake leaned back against the headrest and drove with one hand, counting off on his other. “Aiden was the first victim. He was out with five other guys; got isolated; scared some kids, and then… you know.” He raised another finger. “That Verlander guy was the second. Twenty-one years old, and he was a pretty big dude—totally different body type and age than Aiden, so that rules out a specific build—”

  “What if it’s how the clowns look?” Sam interrupted. “Those five that jumped me, they all looked different, like masks and makeup and hair and noses…”

  Jake shook his head. “Doesn’t check out. He’s killed clowns in masks and makeup, and all different costumes. Now, the two in Arborton, they were with their posse—not isolated. He just went right up and stabbed one.”

  “Not to mention it was the first female victim,” Sam said. “But it seems like that was in self-defense. Maybe he’s targeting male clowns?”

  “Could be, but that doesn’t narrow things down much.” He held out his pinky to round out the five. “Latest guy, in Kentucky, was alone too. Stalking in the woods.”

  Sam was impressed by how much research Jake had done; he’d been keeping better tabs on the victims than Sam had. “You’ve done your homework.”

  “Yeah. Funny, isn’t it? Since I never really did much when I was a kid.”

  “Yeah. Funny.” Sam thought for a moment. Woods. Park. Playground. There had to be a correlation, something they were missing. “Jake, what was the guy from Kentucky doing when our guy found him?”

  “Uh… if memory serves me correctly, the only report that came in said he’d jumped out of the woods at a couple of kids. Offered them candy, and when they ran, he chased them down the road.”

  “Protect the children…” Sam murmured.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just something I said to someone as a joke, but now I think it might be accurate. What if this guy is targeting clowns that target kids?”

  Jake stuck out his lip and nodded slowly. “Could be… Maybe he thinks he’s doing the right thing. Ah, but our two from Arborton blow that theory. I don’t remember any reports about kids. They were taunting cars from the side of a road.”

  Sam sighed. It had sounded good in his head. Besides, that wouldn’t really bring them any closer to finding the guy; clowns were chasing and threatening kids all over the country.

  “Hey,” he pointed. “There’s another ATM.”

  As Jake pulled into the lot, he said, “Hey. Hey, Sam. We stole this car from a clown. You know what that means?”

  “No, what?”

  “It means we’re driving a… clown car. Get it? Ow! Why’d you hit me?”

  CHAPTER 18

  * * *

  Arborton, Tennessee

  Number five. He was up to number five.

  Luke stood on the sidewalk outside the Arborton police station. He’d been standing there for nearly twenty minutes now. When he’d arrived at school that morning, he’d heard about the murder in Kentucky—and that guy was only eighteen, barely older than Luke. How close had he come to being murdered by getting a ride with that Harlan guy?

  One thing was for sure. He was never, ever hitchhiking again.

  He stood out there on the sidewalk and deliberated going inside. All he had was a name, and only a first name at that. But it was something, seemingly more than the police had already. According to the news, there hadn’t been any arrests or even any suspects yet.

  When the two clowns at Blue Hill Bridge ended up dead, Luke was almost glad. Almost—two people were still dead. But they were jerks. They chased him. When their identities were released, he wasn’t shocked to hear that they were jobless, lazy wastes. One of them dealt pot to a few of the kids at school. The girl that was killed, she had gone to his high school six years earlier, and the rumors were that she had brought a knife to class and had gotten expelled.

  But now there was another, and if they were all the same guy, that brought it up to five total. This latest one, he was just an eighteen-year-old dude that was out scaring kids, having some fun. He was taking a year off from school before starting college—the same thing Luke was thinking about doing. According to the interview with the guy’s mother that he’d seen online, the last victim liked playing Xbox online with his friends and watching horror movies. Same as Luke.

  The media had given him a name: the Clown Killer. It was a little under-inspired, but apt. Five victims was enough to label him a serial killer, even though no one could prove definitively that they were linked.

  But Luke had another name.

  There were two things that kept him from going inside. The first was that he didn’t know if Harlan was the guy’s real name or not; he could have given a fake name. But Luke also knew the type of car he drove—he was certain it was an Oldsmobile, probably fifteen years old if not more, and he knew it was gray. He could even describe what Harlan looked like.

  The second thing was that he was no longer positive it was Harlan that did it. At first he’d been certain. The guy was creepy, and way too interested in the clowns on Blue Hill Bridge. But did he really seem like the type that would just walk up to a group of five clowns and stab one in the eye? That would take some major-league balls. The more Luke thought about it, the more Harlan seemed like the kind of guy that would have gone home and jerked his gherkin to the thought of killing a clown or two. But to actually do it?

  And what if Luke was wrong and they actually found and arrested Harlan on suspicion? Luke would be responsible for that. Just because a dude is creepy doesn’t make him a killer… look at that kid Brian at school. He was pretty creepy, and he’d fixed Luke’s laptop for him. They were almost friends.

  The longer Luke stood outside the station and waffled, the more excuses he came up with. Would he get in trouble for keeping this to himself for so long? If he’d suspected Harlan, why hadn’t he said something sooner? Could that be considered, what did they call it, withholding information in an investigation? Would they arrest him?

  “Can I help you?”

  Luke turned. A cop was heading into the station, a tall thin guy in uniform with blond hair. He looked young, around the same age as the student teacher in history class.

  “Uh… no. I’m alright. I’m just, waiting for a friend.”

  “You sure? You look stressed.”

  “Yeah. Totally cool.”

  “Alright.” The little rectangular name tag, a thin gold plate pinned to his pocket, said O’SHEA in black letters. The cop shrugged and headed up the stairs to the front door of the station. Then he paused and turned. “I know you from somewhere.”

  Luke’s stomach did a flip. “What?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen your photo. You’re that Peters kid, right? Luke Peters. You ran away like four days ago. Man, your mom was on a rampage looking fo
r you.”

  “I know. I, uh… I went home.”

  “Good. I’m glad. Whatever’s going on in your head, it’s worth talking about. Can’t run away from your problems. Believe me; I’ve tried. And your ma, she really loves you.”

  “I know.”

  The cop came back down the stairs and reached into a pocket. He handed Luke a card. “My name’s Connor. I know I’m a cop, but I’m also a guy who’s been there. If there’s ever a time you don’t know who you can talk to, give me a ring, alright?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. I will.”

  “Good. Take it easy, Luke.”

  ***

  Connor entered the station feeling like he’d done his good deed for the day. The kid wouldn’t call, but hopefully he felt like someone cared. Connor hadn’t lied, not really; he had tried to run from his problems. Not in the literal sense, but with a whole lot of booze. He’d lost his fiancée, Casey, over it. Almost lost his job.

  This latest fiasco, the double-homicide, had very nearly driven him to pick up a bottle again, but he’d held out. He was proud of himself for that. He felt good; better than he had since even before it happened.

  “O’Shea!” The chief’s telltale bark resounded from nearly across the station floor. He stood just outside the conference room, his face red, as usual, and his push-broom of a mustache twitching. He jerked a thumb toward the open door. “With me.”

  Dammit. Now what?

  Connor entered the conference room to find the chief sitting at the head of the long rectangular table. At his right side sat a man in a black suit and white shirt, with a round face and little bald spot on the top of his head.

  “Close the door,” the chief said.

  The man in the suit stood and shook Connor’s hand. “Officer O’Shea, I’m Agent Reidigger with the Department of Homeland Security. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the other night, if that’s alright with you.”

  Connor hesitated. “Everything I have to say, I put in my report.”

  “Yes, I read it. Very thorough. Please, have a seat.” Agent Reidigger sat and motioned toward the opposite chair. Connor rounded the table and rested his hands in his lap.

  “Officer, I want you to know that you are in no way a suspect here, and that we should talk comfortably.” Reidigger took out a small steno pad, spiral-bound, and a pen from an inside jacket pocket. “Like I said, just a few quick questions. Routine stuff, really.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Thanks. So you were the first one to respond to the calls about the clowns. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Well, I was on my way to respond to calls about clowns hassling drivers on the bridge, but en route the other clowns had reported the murder.”

  “So you were expecting to find someone dead.”

  “I wasn’t sure what to expect, to be honest. This kind of thing doesn’t really happen around here. I assumed—or maybe I hoped—it was a prank.”

  “Please, tell me: What was the first thing you saw when you arrived on the scene?”

  “Um… nothing at first, to be honest. It was too dark. There are no streetlights out there on the bridge. I took out my flashlight and shined it around. Then I found the first body. The guy, with the, uh, the…” O’Shea motioned toward his own eye.

  “Screwdriver.”

  “Yeah. In his head.”

  “And the second body; it was nearby? How far away?”

  “I’d say about eight feet…” He really didn’t want to reminisce about that right now. “Look, all this is in my report.”

  Reidigger faked a smile. “And as I said, I read it. We’re just checking for any inconsistencies—”

  “Inconsistencies? What, you think I made something up?”

  “Of course not. We just like to be thorough.”

  “Thorough? You know someone else died in Kentucky last night, right? While you’re being thorough, this maniac is in another state!”

  “O’Shea…” the chief growled in warning.

  Reidigger smiled again. “Now, what makes you think these were all done by the same perpetrator?”

  Connor shrugged. “Saw it on the news. They’re calling him the Clown Killer.”

  “I assure you, Officer, you can’t believe everything you see on TV.”

  “So, what is it then? You think these were done by four different people, in four different places, on four different nights?” Connor scoffed and looked out the window.

  “O’Shea, that’s enough,” the chief growled.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss anything about our investigation, Officer,” said Reidigger, “but I would remind you that we expect the Arborton police to follow up on every lead and perform a full investigation into this matter.”

  “And we certainly will,” the chief said. “We have every available man and woman doing their part—”

  “I think we’re done here,” Reidigger interrupted. He closed his steno pad with a snap.

  Connor stood wordlessly and headed for the door. He knew he could look forward to a thorough chewing-out session from the chief later, but—

  “Oh, one more question,” the agent said. “Does the name Sam Asher mean anything to you?”

  Connor stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He shrugged. “No. Should it?”

  “Maybe not. But the GPS in his cell phone was tracked to less than a block from your house two days ago.”

  Connor shrugged again. “I don’t know him.”

  “And no strange men approached you that day?”

  “No. I went home, took a couple Dramamine, and slept all day.”

  “I see. Thank you, Officer. You can go.” Reidigger turned to the chief. “I expect a full follow-up report sent to my office. You can fax it to this number…”

  Outside the conference room, panic rose in Connor’s chest. His heart pounded. Dead clowns. Vigilante Marines. Now the Department of freakin’ Homeland Security? This was all too much.

  He’d already lost Casey; he couldn’t lose his career, too. He opened his wallet where he’d stuck the small slip of paper that Sam Asher had written his number on, and fed it to the next paper shredder he saw.

  CHAPTER 19

  * * *

  Cedar Bluff, Kansas

  You can’t stay here.

  “I have t-to. I n-need to sleep.”

  He’d been driving since Kentucky. He’d first gone west, into Missouri, and then north through most of the state. At some point the highway had split. In his exhaustion, he hadn’t even noticed until he crossed the state line into Kansas.

  I told you to go north. We need to be where people are.

  “P-people are here…”

  Most people live near the coast. You know that. We need to go north, then east. People in New York aren’t afraid of you. People in Pennsylvania and New Jersey and Virginia. They need to know, Harlan.

  “I n-need rest.”

  You’re weak, kid. Weak!

  “Just a f-few hours.”

  He sat alone in a corner booth in a diner in this small, rural town, with his head propped on his fist so it didn’t droop. He was ravenous, but bringing each forkful of corned beef hash to his lips felt like a chore. Bits of potato tumbled down his chin.

  “N-need a differ… different car.”

  He mumbled so none of the other diners would hear him.

  You switched the plates.

  “Still…”

  When he’d retrieved the Oldsmobile from the storage facility, he’d switched the plates with a dusty old panel van that had been sitting there ever since Harlan had first stowed the car. No one would notice; he was sure of it. But still, driving through this part of the country with North Carolina plates made him feel conspicuous. If he was pulled over, they’d run the plate number and they’d see that it didn’t belong to him.

  Where are you going to get another car, huh? You’re weak and foolish.

  “No… no, I’m n-not.”

  In Kentucky, he’d chase
d that clown for more than a mile, and he dragged it all the way back to his car. Put its mask back on its head. Took a roll of duct tape and wrapped it, around and around and around, tighter with each pass, until he was sure they could never try to trick him like that again. It was a clever try. But it didn’t work.

  Was he weak for that? Foolish for that? No. He was strong. He saw through it.

  You wouldn’t have known without me. You thought it was a boy.

  “I-I-I knew.”

  Liar.

  Harlan brought the fork to his mouth again, chewing slowly, lazily. He needed sleep. If he could, he’d curl up under this table. There must be a place nearby. He peered out the window. He could sleep in the car somewhere, just park and—

  “Oh… oh, no. Oh, G-God.”

  Outside, less than a block away, standing in broad daylight—broad daylight!—was a clown. It leered as passers-by. It had a weapon, spinning it in its hands, swinging it at people.

  “No no no!” He got up. His heart pounded. Adrenaline surged in his veins.

  What are you doing?

  “The c-clown!”

  No, Harlan… don’t.

  He was already at the door.

  “Sir! You didn’t pay for your meal!” A waitress called out to him. He ignored her. “Sir!”

  Stop, Harlan! Stop!

  He got to his car. Popped the trunk. Took out the tire iron. He took long strides up the street, the tire iron held close to his leg. He was going to kill this clown. Then who would be weak, huh?

  Harlan, stop right now!

  The clown looked at him and stopped spinning his arrow. Confusion on its face for a moment. Then fear—it saw the tire iron.

  Too late.

  The first swing connected with the side of its face. Blood spattered the sidewalk. A couple of teeth skittered across the pavement.

  The clown fell. Harlan swung again. Its skull gave way. He swung again. And once more, for good measure. Its skull was split; brains leaked onto the sidewalk. Harlan breathed hard. The whole thing had taken no more than four seconds, from first whack to last, but it felt like it had taken several minutes.