Clown Moon

by Alex Jameson

  “What the hell, man?!” A hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. Harlan spun, swinging the tire iron. It connected with something—a man’s jaw. A large man. Likely a good Samaritan who didn’t know what this thing actually was. The man’s jaw broke with a crack. He fell to the concrete unconscious.

  “Oh! Oh, no! S-sorry… so s-sorry…” Harlan gazed around.

  People had stopped and were staring, horrified. He was vaguely aware of someone, maybe more than one person, screaming. Several people were on their phones.

  What have you done, you imbecile. We’re finished.

  “Oh… g-god,” he stammered. “What do I d-do? Tell m-me what to do!”

  Run.

  Harlan ran as fast as his short legs could carry him. He ran back across the street, towards the diner.

  Not your car! They’ve seen you!

  He stopped in the street. A white sedan screeched to a halt, barely a foot from hitting him. He came around to the driver’s side and smashed the window with the tire iron.

  The woman inside screamed and covered her face.

  “G-get out!” He grabbed her by the hair. “Out!”

  She managed to find the door handle and pushed it open. He yanked her out of the car. It started to roll forward with her foot off the brake. He jumped inside and punched the accelerator. Blew a red light. Cars honked.

  You fucking idiot. You’ve killed us both.

  “No… J-just tell me what to d-do!”

  Turn.

  He did. He drove straight for a while, going much faster than he should, and then turned again. Turned again. He was in a small downtown area, with bars and restaurants and little mom-and-pop shops.

  Park here.

  He pulled into a spot, tapping the bumper of the car in front of him. Put it in park. Got out and left the engine idling. He ducked into a narrow alley between two stores. Kept walking. A few blocks later he was in a residential area, small houses built close together. Kept walking. There was a small river. He followed it, walking along its bank upstream.

  “P-please… talk t-to me…”

  No answer. He kept walking. Eventually he came to a small bridge, one lane, but high enough from the river for him to crawl beneath on his hands and knees. He sat on the gravel bank of the river and hugged his knees to his chest and watched the river flow, the sound of cars passing by overhead resonating like thunder.

  “P-please,” he said. “T-talk to me…”

  What do you want me to say? You’ve killed us both.

  “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I just w-wanted to show you I… I’m n-not weak. I’m sorry.”

  Not yet you’re not.

  His fingers were in his mouth.

  You see this?

  Then they were down his throat.

  “Mmph!”

  You see this, kid?

  They pushed further, choking him. He sputtered and gasped. His fingernails scratched his esophagus.

  You do anything like that again, I’ll fucking kill you.

  Bile rose, blocked by his fingers. His face turned purple.

  You understand?

  “Grrllgh—gah!”

  The fingers came out. He vomited in the gravel, his breath rasping. His face burned. He sobbed harder. “I’m s-sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Here’s what’s going to happen. They’re going to have the car. They’ll check for fingerprints, but you’ve never been arrested before. They’ll look for documents; we didn’t keep any. You filed off the VIN. But they’ll run those plates. They’ll trace it back to the storage facility. They’ll find out who they belong to. From there, it’s only a matter of time until they learn your name. And then everyone will know it. They’ll know your name, and they’ll know your face. Matter of time.

  “Wh-what do we do?”

  We travel only at night. Find another car. And go north, like I told you to.

  “Okay.”

  You’ll have to be extra careful from now on, kid.

  “I’m n-not a k-kid… anymore.”

  You’ll always be a Kidd to me.

  CHAPTER 20

  * * *

  Arborton, Tennessee

  The footage was unmistakable. It was everywhere—all over the news, the Internet. Social media was in a frenzy.

  A clown had been killed in broad daylight in Kansas. But not a creepy clown; no, one of those guys that spins a sign advertising real estate. Why they had him dressed up like a clown, who knew? It seemed terribly ignorant.

  Nobody actually caught the murder itself on camera, it had all happened so fast, but there were lots of witnesses. And a few people had the foresight to take out their phones. They caught the guy running out into the street. Stopping the car, smashing the window, pulling the woman out, and speeding away. There was no denying it anymore. Luke had watched it a dozen times, maybe more. It was definitely Harlan. Kansas was so far away. But suddenly he felt a lot less safe. His first thought was to call the police.

  “Hello?”

  He did. Sort of.

  “Uh… hey. Connor, right?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “This is Luke. Luke Peters. We, uh, talked yesterday outside the police station.”

  “Oh, right. Luke. Yeah. I’m glad you called. What’s up?”

  “I have something I really, really need to tell someone. It’s not about me, but it’s important…”

  ***

  Reidigger was on the first plane out of Nashville before he even saw the footage. He was on his way north to Kentucky to further investigate the latest murder when he got the call that a guy killed a clown with a tire iron in the middle of the day. In the middle of a small town called Cedar Bluff in Kansas. Even worse, the home office said the guy was short. Chubby. Bald. Had a beard.

  Asher was ahead of him. But the cops had the guy’s car; Asher didn’t have that. Reidigger gave strict orders to the local PD for them not to touch the car other than to check for fingerprints on the outside door handles and trunk. He didn’t want some yokels messing something up, overlooking a registration as a scrap of paper or tossing something that had DNA on it.

  He called Agent Cole on the way to the airport and told her to get her ass to Cedar Bluff. They were close. This guy had no car and several million people knew what he looked like. That presented its own set of problems, though. Someone else could find him first. Maybe not Asher, but someone.

  No. He’d get him. He had to.

  When he was assigned to the clown-craze case, a few of his peers had laughed at him. They’d sent him emails of “hot leads” with attachments of Ronald McDonald. He’d almost lost his cool on Agent Jenkins, who left a clown costume under his desk with a note, “For undercover work.”

  Now they had a bona fide serial killer on their hands. And Reidigger was going to go down in history as the guy who nailed him.

  ***

  “Okay,” Connor said to himself. “Okay. I fucked up. Now, how can I do this?”

  He paced back and forth across his living room. He’d gotten off the phone with Luke Peters not ten minutes earlier. Luke had hitched a ride with a guy named Harlan that he seemed absolutely certain was the murderer. At first Connor wasn’t sure he could trust the kid, but he listened to his voice, heard his story. Luke had recounted the conversation he had with Harlan. The strange things the guy had said. His intense interest in the clowns on Blue Hill Bridge.

  Connor believed him.

  He had that smug agent’s number, that Reidigger. He could call him directly and give him the information. But their meeting had left a sour taste in Connor’s mouth. The right thing to do would be to call the chief, and have him make the call to the police in Cedar Bluff—who in turn would undoubtedly be in contact with Reidigger.

  He was a cop, and his responsibility was to uphold the law.

  But Asher had made a lot of sense.

  This latest victim was an innocent. He wasn’t stalking playgrounds or attacking people. He was spinning a sign, f
or Christ’s sake. He was a shoe store clerk, and a newlywed that had taken on the sign-spinning thing as a second job for a down payment on a house. Connor had read the articles, watched the reports.

  He wanted this guy caught, but if he was really, truly being honest with himself, he didn’t want the murderer arrested. He wanted him gone, wiped from the face of the earth. He never wanted anyone to ever stumble across what he’d seen ever again. He’d also shredded Asher’s number.

  He paced some more, thinking. There had to be a way. Wait… There was a way. Asher was from Kingston, where Connor’s sister lived. It was a small town; maybe she knew someone who could give him the number. He got her voicemail.

  “Sharon? It’s Connor. I need you to call me back, ASAP. It’s very important.”

  He hung up. Two minutes later, he hadn’t gotten a call back, so he sent her a text.

  Sharon. Call me please.

  He paced some more. She called a few minutes later. “Connor, what’s going on? Is someone dead?”

  “Do you know Sam Asher?”

  “Huh?”

  “Sam Asher. Do you know him?”

  “Uh… not personally. I know his brother, Jake Asher.”

  “You have his number?”

  “Yeah… Connor, what’s this about? How do you know about them?”

  “Just give me the number!”

  “Fine. Jeez. Hang on.” She gave him the number.

  “Thanks. I’ll call you later.”

  He tried Jake Asher’s number. It rang about a dozen times before a recording started. “We’re sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service…”

  “Dammit!”

  Think, Connor. Think. He opened his laptop and went to a phone directory website. He searched the Kingston area for Asher. Only Jacob Asher was listed; he already tried that number.

  Wait… Sam was related to Aiden McCreary. He searched McCreary and there was one result, Sarah and Patrick. He shook his head. If he was right, that could be the kid’s parents or grandparents. There was no way he could tell the truth about why he needed to get in touch with Sam.

  He called. It rang twice.

  “Hello.” A woman’s voice, flat and emotionless.

  “Hello… is this Sarah McCreary?”

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Officer Connor O’Shea… are you Sam Asher’s sister?”

  “What is this about?”

  “Ms. McCreary, it’s imperative that I get in touch with Sam.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just… it’s very important. Please. He gave me his number, but I misplaced it—”

  “Officer, you said? What is this about?” There was something new in her voice… anxiousness. Even hope, maybe. “Does this have anything to do with…?”

  “No,” he lied. “No, it doesn’t. It’s just important that I get in touch with Sam.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Alright. Do you have a pen?”

  He wrote down the number. “Thank you.”

  He called. It rang and rang. “We’re sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected…”

  “Shit.” He winced as he called Sarah McCreary back.

  “Yes, Mr. O’Shea?”

  “I called, but the number has been disconnected, and—”

  “I checked your area code. You’re in Tennessee. Why is a cop in Tennessee calling about my brother?” She sounded impatient, almost angry now.

  “Ms. McCreary, I really can’t tell you that. I just need another way to contact Sam—”

  “Officer, I really can’t tell you that.”

  He balled his fist. “You don’t want to know.”

  She was quiet again for awhile. “Did he…?” She cleared her throat. “Did he go after him? Is that why he disappeared suddenly?”

  Connor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Can you tell me something now?”

  “His cell was the only way I knew how to reach him. He didn’t have a land-line… God, is he in trouble?”

  “No. At least, not that I know of. I have information for him.”

  “So he’s working with the police?”

  “Um… yes.”

  “Thank God. Alright. Let me think… I have his girlfriend’s number. Her name is Lynn Hunter. She might know how to get in touch with him.”

  ***

  Marvin’s old Buick sputtered alarmingly every now and then, chugging along the highway as Jake piloted it north. They’d passed Coleman, Kentucky, and spent a night in a motel a few miles outside the town. Jake had insisted on checking out the murder site. Sam felt foolish that he hadn’t done that with any of the other victims. He thought Jake was on to something, but there was nothing of interest there. The site had already been picked over by the cops and cleaned up. When they found nothing that the police hadn’t, Sam changed his mind and decided they were wasting valuable time.

  The mood was somewhat sour when they got back in the car and headed further north. They didn’t speak much. Then Sam’s cheap cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but it was an 828 area code. Home.

  “Hello?”

  “Sam.”

  “Lynn?”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m at a pay phone. Just like Jake said.”

  That’s right. He had asked Jake to give Lynn the new number, and to tell her to only call from a pay phone.

  “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” She lowered her voice. “Listen, a police officer called my cell phone about twenty minutes ago. His name was Connor. He said he knew you.”

  “Yeah… I know him.” How in the hell did O’Shea get Lynn’s phone number?

  “He wanted me to tell you a name. Harlan.”

  “Harlan, or Harlem?”

  “Harlan, with an n, as in Nancy.”

  “Is that a place, or…?”

  “Sam,” she said, “that’s his name. That’s his first name.”

  He sat straight up in the seat. His back ached, but he felt a surge of hope in his chest. “Are you sure? I mean, is he sure? How did he find out?”

  “He didn’t say, but he sounded sure.”

  “Harlan.” The son of a bitch had a name.

  “He didn’t have a last name.” Lynn’s voice wavered. “Sam, just please be careful. I saw the latest… that video…”

  “What video?”

  “You haven’t seen it? It’s all over the place.”

  There was a video? “Lynn, I have to go. But you can call me again tomorrow on this phone if you can.” He hesitated. “I love you.”

  “I… I love you too.”

  He turned to Jake. “We have to get to a computer.”

  They drove for another sixteen miles before they saw a sign for a Best Buy. Jake pulled off the highway. The brakes squealed as they parked.

  “Hi, welcome to Best Buy! Anything I can help you find?”

  “Your computers,” Jake said. “They have Internet?”

  “Uh, yes…”

  “Thanks.” They hurried over to the laptop section, opened a browser and searched “clown attacks.” The first result showed them the video. It had clearly been taken with a cell phone; it was somewhat blurry, but they could clearly see the guy holding a tire iron, running out into a street, smashing a window, and stealing a white car. They watched it twice before either of them spoke.

  “Christ. That’s really him?”

  “Harlan,” Sam said. “That’s his name. Harlan.”

  Jake read the article below the video. “Shit. Guy beat a clown to death right in front of a bunch of people. Whacked another guy too, knocked him out cold. Then he ran for it.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Uh… Kansas.”

  “He went west?”

  “Seems it.”

  Sam shook his head. “Doesn’t make any sense. Why would he go where there are fewer people, f
ewer sightings?”

  “Could be clinical. If he has a plan, he’s going to stick to it.”

  Sam played the video a third time. “Look at him, Jake. There he is. Son of a bitch.”

  Jake peered closer. “Can’t really see his face much, but it’s something. I can’t believe it. He’s short, chubby, bald… you were right. You were totally right.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “Move aside a sec.” He opened a new search window and started typing.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Maybe I was right about something else, too.” The meat-processing plant in Arborton was called Fischer-White. He found their contact page and copied their phone number into his cheap phone. “Come on.”

  Out in the truck, Sam called the processing plant. It was late; he got an answering machine. He’d try again in the morning.

  Jake eased the old Buick out of the parking lot. “Alright, where we headed? West?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because,” he said blankly, “you’ve been right so far.”

  “North,” Sam said. “I think he’s going north. That’s what I would do.” He thought for a moment. “So now we know what he looks like. We know that whatever vehicle he was in, he abandoned, and stole a white sedan—”

  “That he probably won’t keep for long,” Jake interrupted. “Not if he knows there’s video. Also, we’re going to have to assume that Reidigger’s going to get to the guy’s car. If we know his name, the feds might know by now too—or they’ll find out real soon.”

  “True. But I don’t know… this guy might be a lunatic, but he’s not stupid. He won’t be carrying a phone or driving his own car. It might not be as easy on them as you think. I mean, he’s gotten this far.” Sam shook his head. “But he’s slipped up once. Next time he does it, we’ll be there.”

  “We can’t count on that. He’ll be more careful now.”

  “Maybe. You said that criminal psychopaths tend to be reckless, didn’t you?”

  “If he’s that, then yeah. Maybe.”

  They drove on in silence for a long while. Sam stared out the window. Harlan. The guy’s name was Harlan. He wasn’t the Clown Killer or some random psychopath. He was a real person, flesh and blood.