by Alex Jameson
“Jesus. He can’t be in two places at once.” Sam rubbed his forehead. “I hate to say it, but running a clown down with a car doesn’t sound like Harlan’s style. It could have been an accident, or someone else entirely…”
“Which means he might be headed west,” Jake said. “Maybe he didn’t hear about Kingston. Or maybe he didn’t take the bait.”
“Dammit!” Sam pounded the dashboard with a fist. “It doesn’t make sense! He should be headed there right now!”
“Hey, relax,” Jake said. “We have a plan; we have to see it through. We’ve come this far. We can’t just run off chasing him again.”
“That’s not all,” Lynn added. “This whole Mischief Night thing has really blown up. Even if Harlan doesn’t show… we might be looking at a thousand clowns running the streets of Kingston. It’s going to be bad either way.”
Sam sighed heavily and stared out the window. Lynn was right. They had started this thing; they were responsible for whatever happened in their hometown, whether Harlan Kidd showed or not.
They arrived just after dusk, a little after seven p.m. Lynn drove instinctively toward her place until Sam said, “We should go to Sarah’s. We should see her.”
They parked at the curb and walked up the driveway. Strange; Sam felt nervous to see his sister. He knew that she knew what they’d been up to; at least she knew enough to know that they had gone after Aiden’s killer. They knocked on the door. Sarah answered, not looking the least bit surprised to see them. She glanced from one to the next before stepping aside.
“Come in.”
She closed the door behind them and immediately launched into a five-minute diatribe that involved frequent usage of the phrases “stupid,” “idiots,” and “dumb as hell.” At one point, Jake thought about rolling his eyes and reminding her, “You’re such a mom,” but he bit his tongue.
“And look at your face!” she scolded. “I don’t even want to know what happened! I can’t believe you two… you’re grown men, for God’s sake!” She huffed.
“You done?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes.”
Sam wrapped her in a loose hug with his good arm. She leaned against his shoulder and cried for a few minutes. When she pulled away, she wiped her eyes and said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too. But it’s not over. Jake will fill you in on what’s going on. I need to use the little boys’ room.”
He trudged up the stairs as Jake started in on what was about to happen in Kingston. Upstairs, the hall was dark. Sam passed the door to Aiden’s room. It was closed. He stood there for a moment, thinking about going inside. He even had a hand on the knob, but he decided against it. Instead he just leaned his forehead against the door. He didn’t need to look; he remembered it well. He had no doubt that Sarah hadn’t been in there once since it happened.
God, he thought, how many times has she stood here, just like this? Walking past it every day, daring herself to go inside… The thought of his sister torturing herself daily with the memory of her son tore a fresh hole in his heart.
In the bathroom, he washed his hands and face carefully, working around the cuts and bruises and trying not to move his shoulder much. He inspected himself in the mirror; he looked like hell. Far too conspicuous for anyone that had a description. If the cops or the feds were looking for him in a town as small as Kingston, he’d stick out like a sore thumb.
Although…
Maybe he didn’t have to look like himself.
He headed back downstairs with a new idea. He could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen. The three of them sat around the living room, chatting quietly about Mischief Night.
“Patrick’s not here?” Sam asked.
“Working a late shift,” Sarah answered. “You should really let me take a look at that shoulder.”
“Maybe later.” He was in no rush to be poked and prodded.
“So what’s the plan?” Jake asked.
“Well, I know it’s going to sound crazy, but first thing, I think we should—”
He was interrupted by a brisk knock on the front door. Everyone froze except Jake, who jumped to his feet.
Sarah approached the door slowly. “Who is it?”
No one answered. They knocked again, harder. She opened the door a few inches.
“Hello, Mrs. McCreary.” Sam recognized the voice immediately. “Might we come in and speak with Sam?”
Sarah looked at Sam, who nodded once. She opened the door and stepped aside so that Reidigger and Cole could enter.
He shook his head. “Really, Asher? Your sister’s house? How could you be so monumentally stupid?”
CHAPTER 37
* * *
After hearing about Kingston, and running over the clown, Harlan ditched Sue’s car in the parking lot of a hardware store and walked right out of town. He walked for a solid two hours as the sun rose and morning blossomed over eastern Pennsylvania. He walked over long fields of gently sloping farmland and through thin stretches of woods. He wasn’t even sure what direction he was going. It didn’t matter; he had two days to get to Kingston. Plenty of time—as long as he could find another vehicle.
Eventually he came upon a small farmhouse with green siding. It was well isolated, and there was an old gray pickup parked in the gravel lane next to the house. He went around to the back door and, gripping the mustache scissors in his fist, busted the pane of glass with his elbow. He snaked his hand in and unlocked the deadbolt and stepped into a kitchen that clearly hadn’t been updated since the seventies.
Standing stock-still for a few minutes, he listened for the creaking of floorboards or the pounding of feet or even the cocking of a gun. It seemed like the right type of house in the right type of area for that.
Kill us. We don’t care. We’re just going to keep going until someone does anyway.
After a few minutes of silence, he stalked through the house slowly, checking every room. No one was home. Once he was sure, he relieved himself in the bathroom and checked the kitchen again. There was a ring of keys hanging on a hook near the back door; keys to the truck, presumably.
He grabbed the keys and a couple of the larger knives from a block on the counter. Outside, there was a small shed a ways from the house. He checked it out; inside he found an old hand-scythe, half-rusted but still fairly sharp, and a large pair of hedge shears. Those were the kinds of weapons that would inspire fear. Much more effective than simply flashing a knife.
He loaded all of that into the cab of the truck before realizing how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten in some time. He returned to the kitchen and took a sleeve of saltines, a package of cookies, a can of soup with a pry lid, and two cans of soda. Then he returned to the truck and tried the ignition.
The first few tries were fruitless; the engine chugged but wouldn’t turn over. He was careful not to flood the engine as he gave it a little gas. On the fourth try it started, coughing a cloud of smoke from the exhaust. He let it run for a few minutes. The truck was old, probably from the late seventies, but it was in decent shape and only had around a hundred and ten thousand miles on it. He assumed these folks probably only used it for hauling whatever it was they needed to haul around their farm.
It took him almost a half an hour just to find signs for the nearest highway. He didn’t have GPS, but he knew he needed to head south, and he’d go from there once he was in more familiar territory. He wondered if he could make it to North Carolina before the truck was reported stolen.
We don’t care. Let them find us. What’s the worst that could happen? We have no home. No life. And we are certifiably, one-hundred percent insane.
“Let’s g-go kill some c-clowns, then,” Harlan chuckled to himself.
He clicked on the radio and tuned it to a talk station. He was hoping to hear more about Kingston, some new angle or confirmation on whether or not it was a hoax. Instead, twenty minutes later, he heard about the murder in Indiana. Another clown had been killed, its skull bashe
d in, similar to the one in Ohio. The broadcaster also mentioned the hit-and-run in Pennsylvania. Two clowns killed in one night. They called on some psychoanalyst to muse on the possibility of a copycat killer, but the so-called expert thought that the murder by car was likely something else entirely, and possibly even an accident. He was adamant that the new murder in Indiana was the Clown Killer. No doubt about it.
Harlan just shook his head.
We’d bet money that’s our good pal Sue. She’s careless; she’ll get caught. But in the meantime, she’ll throw them off our scent. So it’s not all bad.
Harlan drove carefully, never exceeding the speed limit. He pried the lid off the soup can and drank it cold, and then ate some crackers and sipped a soda. He crossed briefly into Maryland and then into Virginia before it occurred to him that he probably shouldn’t be driving with knives and shears and a scythe casually sitting on the passenger seat beside him. He stopped at a department store and bought a duffel bag, and stowed all of his newfound toys in it, except for the small scissors. Those he kept in his pocket. He thought about buying a baseball bat too, but he was running low on cash and would need the rest for gas to make the trip.
He navigated back onto the highway, turned the radio off, and began whistling a tune. He couldn’t remember the name of the song or where he’d heard it, but it was a light melody that he found soothing. It made him believe, even if only briefly, that everything was just fine.
We’re gonna show ‘em. We’ll show ‘em all.
He made it into Kingston just as the sun was setting.
***
“Seriously Asher, you can’t be that dumb,” Reidigger repeated. He crossed his arms over his chest while Cole stood at his shoulder in Sarah’s foyer. Agent Cole had Sam’s tact bag, holding it by the strap. “If you know about Kingston, then chances are the agents on the case know about it. You might be smart, but don’t assume everyone else around you is stupid.”
“I’m not assuming anything, Carl. You didn’t know about Kingston; what makes you think they would? Did you tell them?” Sam stood facing Reidigger with Jake at his side, while Lynn and Sarah looked back and forth between them, confused.
Reidigger stiffened. “Of course not. But I don’t know where they’re headed or who they’re pursuing. They know about you and your brother, and if they decide to come after you, they’ll come here and you can bet your ass they’ll check your sister’s house.”
“They have no reason to come here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“First off,” Sam answered, “there were two more murders last night, two states apart. I’m betting they’ll go to Indiana, to the site that seems more fitting for our guy. Second…” He hesitated, glancing at Jake and Lynn. “I started this thing.”
Reidigger raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
Sam very briefly explained that he had posted about a clown rally online, and that others had taken up the cause and it went viral. He didn’t go into details, or mention Lynn and Jake’s involvement—he didn’t want to implicate them in it, just in case.
Jake picked up on that and said melodramatically, “My God, how could you, Samuel!”
Sam had to fight not to grin. But Reidigger did not look pleased.
“Christ, Asher, you invited them here?” He rubbed the bald spot on the top of his head. “What if they tear this town apart? That’s on you.”
“We couldn’t just keep chasing him around the country. Neither could you.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Reidigger said. “You don’t have enough hands to keep things under control. If things go sideways, you’ll need help. I don’t like it, but I don’t see any other way. We’ll have to work together.”
Sam stared him down. “I’m not so sure about that, Carl.”
“Meet me in the middle here, Asher. We’re off the case; we’re still here to catch this guy. At least let us in on your plan.”
Sam glanced at Jake.
“I’d say our plan is about… half-baked right now,” Jake said.
“Three-quarters baked,” Sam countered.
Reidigger sighed. “Alright, fine. Have your little family reunion, come up with a plan, and call us in the morning. Do not call my phone directly. I saw a hotel on the way into town—I think it was a Hampton. You know it?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll be there. Just call the hotel in the morning and ask for the room of John White. Got it?”
“Sure thing.”
“And, as promised…” Reidigger motioned to Cole, who handed over the tact bag. “Consider it a peace offering.”
Sam took it. “Thank you, Alison.”
She pursed her lips. He sounded genuine; not sarcastic or biting like when he said “Carl.”
“Let’s go, Cole.” She and Reidigger headed back out into the night. They were nearly at the car before Cole remembered that she still had the cheap pay-as-you-go cell phone in her pocket. Reidigger had given it to her on the road, in case Asher called them back.
“One second,” she said, and hurried back into the house. “Your phone.” She handed it over, and at the last second before he grabbed it she flipped it open. She gave him a curt nod and then went back out to the car.
Sam glanced down at the illuminated phone screen, his brow furrowed. An unsent text message was typed out, with no marked recipient.
It said simply: Don’t trust him.
Sam snapped the phone shut, staring pensively at the device.
“That guy,” Jake said, pointing in the direction of outside, “is an ass-hat. I don’t think we should let him in on anything.”
“Hell no,” Sam agreed. “But he might be useful. Maybe we can throw him off our trail, give him something else to do while we find Harlan.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking…” Sam held up a thumb. “First, we’ll need to get our other stuff back.” He held up his index finger. “Then, we’ll need some Halloween supplies.” A third finger. “Last, we’ll need to borrow a kid.”
Jake and Lynn stared blankly at him. Then Jake nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay. That sounds appropriately crazy for about where we’re at right now.”
“Wait, wait,” Sarah said suddenly. “Everybody hold on a second.” She pointed at the door. “Was that the federal agent that questioned us after… you know?”
Jake and Sam exchanged an uneasy glance. Right; Sarah still thought they were working with the police on this. They were in for another scathing lecture if they didn’t play their cards right.
“Maybe you should sit down a minute,” Sam suggested. “There might be a few parts of the story you don’t know.”
CHAPTER 38
* * *
Around ten the next morning, Sam and Jake sat in Lynn’s Corolla across the street from a cheap motel about five miles outside of town. They’d both risen early and left before Sarah was awake. Sam hadn’t called Reidigger yet; in fact, he’d left his flip-phone back at the house. He imagined the agent was fuming right about now. Good. Let him sweat.
Sam had spent the night in the guest room alongside Lynn. He’d popped a couple of Tylenol with codeine and slept peacefully with her arm around him. It was the best sleep he’d gotten since the last night they had spent together.
Jake had been on the sofa in the living room, waking frequently, thinking that police or SWAT were about to burst through the windows at any moment.
It had taken about two hours of driving around, and Jake had been just about ready to give up, but Sam was adamant. Finally, they found it—a pale green VW van parked in the lot of the motel.
“I can’t believe it,” Jake muttered. “They still came to Kingston, even after what went down in Ohio.”
“Yeah, well, they’re nuts.” Sam reached into the tact bag and pulled out the Glock. “You sure you’re alright doing this on your own? Two people would be better than one.”
“No, I’m good. You’re hurt; if one of them g
ets the drop on you, I don’t want to have to save your ass again.” He popped the magazine out, then back in and racked the slide. “Give me the mask, too.” Sam handed over the black balaclava and Jake pulled it down over his head so that only his eyes were exposed. “Man, my hair’s going to be all matted after this. You’re sure they’ll be asleep?”
“Relatively sure.” The kid, Brian, had told Sam that his crew traveled at night, and slept during the day. “But be careful anyway.”
“And you’re sure you can drive with one arm?”
“I’m sure. Let’s just get it done.”
“Alright.”
Jake pulled the car from the lot of the Wendy’s, across the street, and into the motel lot. They both jumped out. Sam got into the driver’s seat and pulled the car out and around the block, while Jake quickly approached the motel room door just beyond the van. He held the Glock tight to his side, hoping that they had parked the van in front of their own room.
He reared back and planted a solid kick to the door, splintering the jamb, and raised the gun as he burst into the room. There were three people in two beds—Biggie in one, and Eric and Janet in the other. All three of them woke suddenly with the noise. Biggie sat bolt upright. Janet gasped and pulled the blankets up to her chin, and Eric propped himself up on an elbow.
“Nobody move!” Jake commanded. “Give me the keys to the van.”
Biggie hesitated. “Aw, man. Don’t steal my van…”
“Give me the keys!”
Eric blinked, still groggy. “Jake? Is that you?”
“Uh… no?”
Eric sat up. “It is you. I recognize your voice.”
“Hey! Don’t move!” Jake took a step further into the room and pointed the gun at him.
He could see that Eric’s face was splotchy and purple, a significant bruise between his eyes.
“See what your idiot brother did to my face?” he said.
