by Alex Jameson
And it was Alison.
CHAPTER 34
* * *
Harlan drove the white Honda out of Ohio and into western Pennsylvania, ever closer to the east coast. He was still shaken by the incident with Sue, and turned on the radio to try to help not think about it. The sun would be up soon; he had to ditch the car. He had to get some food in him. He had to get back on track, continue his mission. He shuddered for the hundredth time since leaving her behind. To think that someone could be like that, could have those sort of urges without a mission, without a purpose… just for the pleasure of it. To think there were people in this world with those inclinations, it sickened him.
He did what he did because he had to. He didn’t want to. He had to.
Harlan rubbed his neck. The sun would be up within the hour; he’d just passed Harrisburg. He could probably get a lot closer to Philadelphia before he had to get rid of the car, or even swing down toward Baltimore.
“Wh-which way should I g-go?”
Stay east. Go to the coast.
“Okay.”
He sighed. He was hungry. And so, so tired. He was tired of being on the road. Tired of doing what he had to do. He actually missed his little apartment, his lonely bed. He couldn’t believe it, but he found himself even missing his upstairs neighbors, who held entire conversations by shouting from room to room, clearly audible through the floor. He knew he couldn’t go back; he could never go back to his old life. Even if the cops didn’t know who he was, there was still no simply going back. Not after all he’d done. He’d have to go somewhere new, start over. He wasn’t sure how he’d do that, but it wasn’t important now. His mission was important: Send a message. Let the clowns know that he could be anywhere, on any night. That they couldn’t just hurt children, or they might be the next to pay for it—
He distantly heard the word “clowns” somewhere. “Who s-said that?”
The radio, you fool. Turn it up.
He cranked the dial louder. It was an early morning talk show, some fast-talking smart-aleck host going a mile a minute.
“So this clown thing—you know about this right? You heard about this? ‘Course you did, it’s all over the place. This clown thing, it’s getting out of hand, right? Well now, apparently, there’s some small town in North Carolina that the clowns are threatening to overrun on Mischief Night—that’s the night before Halloween, if you didn’t know.”
“Right,” said a female co-host with a smooth, sultry voice. “I read about this.”
“Yeah, so the authorities don’t know if it’s a hoax or not, but if it’s not, they’re estimating hundreds of clowns—maybe a thousand—are going to be all over this little town, just really messing things up.”
“Now wasn’t this the same town where a boy was killed?” the woman asked.
“That’s right—this is the same town where the first clown was killed, like a fifteen or sixteen year-old kid, a high-schooler,” the host confirmed.
“So this is like, what… some sort of act of clown solidarity?”
“Something like that, I guess. You ask me, the whole thing is stupid. I mean, we’re talking about grown adults here, not just kids. What’s worse is, threats are pouring in—I mean, pouring in from all over the country, other places where clowns are rallying—”
Harlan punched the dial, shutting the radio off. He trembled all over.
The clowns. They were rallying. And in Kingston, of all places.
“No,” he muttered. “No, no, no…” He punched the steering wheel with both hands. “No! No! N… n… n…” He couldn’t even speak, he’d worked himself into a frenzy. He hyperventilated, wheezing, his hands trembling so badly he could barely keep the car on the road.
Calm down, Kidd. You’re going to crash. There’s an exit; pull off.
Whimpering, he pulled off the exit and onto the shoulder. He shuddered as sobs wracked his body. His whole mission had been to send a message. Now the clowns were sending one right back—that it didn’t matter what he did. They would still dare to go where he’d gone, do what he’d warned them not to do. And worse, they were doing it on the night of the new moon. They were trying to tell him something—perhaps that they were resetting the clock, so to speak, on everything he’d done, beginning with where it had all started.
Everything he’d done was for nothing. They weren’t afraid of him. Not at all.
Relax, Kidd. You’re going to make yourself sick.
“I’m n-not a k-kid… anymore!” he shouted. He let out a primal scream and pounded the steering wheel some more.
Take some breaths. Roll down the window. Get some air.
He did so. After a while, he calmed himself down to heavy breathing and mild tremors.
“All… all that work. For n-n-nothing.”
It’s not for nothing. They’re trying to show you strength. You need to show them more.
“Sh-should we go there?”
I don’t see what else we can do.
“Y-yes.”
Yes. There were still two days before Mischief Night. He would go there. He would show them that he was stronger than they were. His breathing returned to normal. He actually smiled a little. Rolled the window up. Started the car. Pulled back onto the road. He needed food. He needed to ditch the car. He needed—
He went around a turn and the headlights caught a shape in their glow… a clown, walking alone on the shoulder of the road. No doubt creeping back to wherever it lurked in the daytime. Harlan fumed. His lip quivered.
Wait—
He gunned the engine and slammed the gas. The car lurched forward, jumping up to fifty in no time.
Harlan—
He slammed the clown from behind. It folded backwards over the hood and stayed that way for a few seconds before it caught on the ground and was sucked beneath the car. The rear tires bumped roughly over its body. Gleeful, Harlan threw it in reverse and backed over it again, this time hitting it with front and back wheels.
He laughed with the clown’s bent, broken body in his headlights. He put it in drive and ran it over once more. Then he headed back out onto the road, drove for a few miles, and parked in the empty lot of a closed hardware store.
He got out to inspect the damage. The front fender was cracked; there was a sizable dent in the hood. Blood all over it, and on the tires. Oh well. He had to ditch the car anyway. Here was as good a place as any.
He put on his hat and stuffed the sunglasses in his pocket and then made sure nothing else of his was left behind. Satisfied, he locked the car, threw the keys in the nearest trash can, and started walking.
Are you pleased with yourself? Feel better now?
“Y-yes.”
Good.
His right hand reached into his pocket. He felt his fist close around the small pair of scissors he kept there.
“What are y-you doing…?”
Then the silver tip of them was against his throat. Pressing hard.
What did I tell you, Harlan? What did I say? If you did anything stupid like that again, I’d kill you. Didn’t I say that?
The tip dug deeper, breaking his skin. He felt a warm trickle of blood down his neck.
“You c-can’t,” he said breathlessly. “You n-need me.”
The voice laughed dryly, the sound of it rattling around inside Harlan’s head.
You think I need you? Harlan, you idiot. You goddamn fool. I am you.
“Wh-what?”
Think about it. I am you, Harlan. I’m the part you don’t want to acknowledge. I’m every awful thought you’ve ever had. I’m every horrible urge you’ve ever suppressed or indulged. I am you. You’re me.
“No… That’s n-not true…” Harlan shook.
The tip of the scissors dug further into the flesh of his neck.
It is true. And guess what that means? You’re fucking bonkers. You’re as much of a psycho as your friend Sue.
“No!”
Come on now. Do you really think anyone but yourself is hol
ding those scissors to your neck? You’re doing this to yourself.
Harlan’s arm shook furiously. He tried to move it. The tip of the scissors scraped against his neck, tearing about an inch of flesh before they dropped to his side. He touched his throat with his left hand. He was bleeding, but not badly.
See?
“But you… you… you…”
I-I-I what, Harlan?
“You s-sound like…”
Yes. The voice in your head sounds like him. You made me sound like the clown that lured you into the woods. Forced you down. Stabbed you. Beat you. Come on. Do you need any more evidence than that? You’re certifiably insane.
“Oh, god,” Harlan sobbed. He fell to his knees. “N-no.”
Sorry kid. But you’re me. I’m you. You’ve been talking to yourself this whole time.
He lowered himself to the asphalt and curled into a fetal position and sobbed.
Stop crying. You need to get up. You need to get out of this parking lot before someone sees you.
At length, Harlan stopped sobbing. He wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his jacket. He needed to get up. He needed to get out of this parking lot before someone saw him. Slowly he dragged himself to his feet. His legs felt rubbery and weak, but he forced them to move. The sun was coming up; soon people would be out. He left the parking lot and crossed the street, cutting across a wide field dotted with trees on the other side. He wiped his nose on his jacket again, and used his other sleeve to wipe the blood from his neck.
Hey. It’s not all bad news, Kidd. Only someone truly crazy could have done what you’ve done. Now let’s head south and do this thing. Together.
“Alright,” Harlan whispered to himself. “T-together.”
CHAPTER 35
* * *
Jake should never have left the van. He hadn’t even seen the clowns coming. When the crowd charged, he’d searched for Sam among the faces, but things got too chaotic too quickly. Then there were cops, and then tear gas, and he just couldn’t stay there any longer. He had to find Sam. It wasn’t until he’d had to flee, to dash up an alley and around the block, that he realized Sam had most likely returned to the van to find him.
When the two shots rang out, people and clowns alike vacated the streets as quickly as possible. Jake instead moved toward the source of the sound; it had been close, right across the street from where he was hiding. He found Sam, sure enough. One officer knelt on his back and cuffed him while a second trained a gun on him.
Fury rose in Jake. His first instinct was to rush them, fight them off, save his brother. But he knew that was unlikely. Instead he ran. A block later, two other cops spotted him and chased him for a while, but Jake was fast; he ran two miles every morning. He lost them and hid in a parking garage. Then he returned cautiously to the scene, sticking to the shadows, hoping to find something other than cops. There was no one left. Not even the faded green VW Microbus; they’d left without him, of course.
The fact that they left him behind didn’t bother him as much as the realization that all their stuff was in the back of that van—not only their clothes and bags, but Sam’s sniper rifle too. That was a major loss.
The only thing Jake had now was his wallet, with a few hundred bucks in it, a bottle of three Vicodin, and his badge, which was less than useless. He tossed the latter bitterly into a trash can on the next street corner and returned to the parking garage, hunkering down in the shadows to hide and think.
He fell in and out of sleep, catnapping for twenty minutes at a time before a sound outside or a car going by would wake him. If Sam was here, he would tell Jake to get out of there, head to Kingston. Finish the plan. But there was no plan without Sam. Jake had never been much of the planning sort; he went with the flow. He kind of just did whatever seemed right at the time.
So, do that, he told himself. What seems right? Get Sam.
Sure. Easy.
***
It was nearly seven a.m., and Reidigger hadn’t yet contacted the director about where his fellow agents could meet him. He and Cole drove to a nearby halfway-decent hotel in downtown Columbus, flashed their badges, and demanded use of a conference room. Then he sent a text to the director. There was no way he was calling him. Not after what happened last night. The fact that he hadn’t yet received an angry phone call was evidence that the director probably hadn’t heard about it yet.
Reidigger had Sam Asher’s tact bag with him; the police had turned it over at his insistence. But he left it in the trunk of his car. He didn’t want any other agents poking around in there before he got a chance to go through its contents himself.
Around quarter after seven, they were joined in the conference room by six other men in black suits and ties. He recognized four of them, and noted with dismay that one of them was Agent Jenkins, who had given him unending grief about being assigned to the clown-crisis case. Now that it had evolved into a full-fledged serial killer case, of course Jenkins had weaseled his way into it. It was no secret that he and the director sometimes played golf on Sundays.
The newcomers took their seats around the table. Reidigger opened the case file in front of him and stood. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. Now I’ll assume that you’ve all read the reports, and that you’re familiar with the events that took place here in Columbus last night—”
Jenkins stood and cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, Carl, but, uh, I’m guessing you didn’t get the call yet.”
“What call?”
“Well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you’re no longer leading this investigation.” Jenkins didn’t seem at all sorry; the hint of a smirk danced on his lips. “In fact… you’re no longer on this case at all.”
Reidigger felt a tight ball form in the pit of his stomach. “Excuse me?”
“I’m simply relaying the message from the director. Your instructions are to return to Langley for reassignment. His words were—and this is a direct quote—that you’ve ‘displayed an unparalleled level of incompetence.’”
Reidigger felt his face grow burning hot. A couple of agents smirked. Beside him, Agent Cole shifted uncomfortably.
“Is that so?” he asked quietly.
He felt his rage building. He gripped the edge of the table with both hands. Not worth it, he told himself. He’s not worth it. Instead of reacting, he buttoned the top button of his jacket, gave a curt nod to the men around the table, and started toward the door.
“Um, Carl?” Jenkins said. “The case file, if you would?”
“Right. Of course.” Reidigger closed the file and slid it across the table toward Jenkins—a bit too forcefully. It flew off the edge, scattering pages everywhere.
“Really, Carl? Very mature.”
Reidigger rounded the table toward the door, pausing a mere foot from Jenkins. He stared him in the eye. Jenkins stared back, unflinching.
“Good luck,” he said quietly. “You’ll need it.”
Jenkins grinned. “Alison,” he said, “you’re welcome to stay. You can brief us on what you’ve found so far that might not be in the report…”
Reidigger walked out and closed the door behind him.
Back in the car, he gripped the steering wheel as tightly as he could with both hands, until his knuckles turned white. He swallowed his fury. He wanted to scream and shout and punch something, but he pushed it down. He still had Asher’s tact bag, and there was no way in hell he was giving that to Jenkins. In fact, he was certain that Asher still knew something that he didn’t.
He could just go back to Virginia. Be reassigned, handle a different case.
Like hell. He’d come too far.
The passenger door opened, and before he knew what was happening, Cole slid into the seat. He stared at her quizzically.
She sighed. “Where to next?”
“Huh?”
“I know you’re too damn stubborn to go back. I know you’ve still got Asher’s bag in the trunk. And frankly, I’d still rather take o
rders from a hothead like you than a smug prick like Jenkins.”
Reidigger nodded slowly. “Alright then.”
“So, where to?”
“Back to the hospital. Asher knows something, and we’re going to get it out of him, one way or another.”
***
Sam stared out the window of his hospital room. A gray, cloudy fall day had dawned. From his vantage point he could see the leafless upper branches of some trees, and beyond them, the yards and roofs of nearby homes covered in dead leaves. It didn’t look vibrant and colorful; it looked ugly and drab, lifeless, like his future felt at the moment. Then the door opened, and Jake walked in.
Sam blinked in surprise. The police officer posted outside the door of his room came in too. Jake wore a blue one-piece jumpsuit and carried a black and yellow bag with him.
“Hey, pal,” Jake said to Sam. “Don’t mind me. Just gotta fix this air conditioner right quick. Five minutes, I promise.” He was doing a ridiculous fake Brooklyn accent that he did sometimes to make Sam laugh. But Sam wasn’t laughing; he was bewildered.
“Uh… sure.”
Jake set the bag down and shivered. “See what I meant?” he said to the cop. “Cold as a witch’s tit in here.”
“Let’s just hurry this along,” the officer said.
“Sure, sure. Hey, can you close that door for me? I won’t be able to tell if it’s working right if the heat can escape.”
The cop looked doubtful. Jake spun his fingers in a hurry-up motion. “Come on, come on, we don’t got all day, right?”
The officer shook his head and closed the door. As soon as it was latched, Jake was on him. He crossed the room in two wide strides, wrapped an arm around the cop’s neck and put him in a sleeper hold. The cop struggled for a few seconds. His face grew bright red, almost purple, and then he lost consciousness.
Jake let out a long breath. “Christ.” He searched the cop’s belt for the keys.
