Smile No More
Page 25
She closed her eyes, rolled toward her lover and watched her sleep. In the back of her mind she heard a distant song, a lullaby that meant nothing to her, sung in a voice that was unfamiliar. It was old fashioned and oddly comforting.
When sleep finally came, she dreamed that she was a different woman, a dancer, who lived alone and often spoke with her grandmother.
***
Carver looked at the mirror in the hospital bathroom and grimaced. His skin was too pale, his face too thin. He stared at the lines of stitches on either side of his mouth and contemplated whether or not to try shaving his face.
“Fuck it. Let it grow.” He reached for his toothbrush instead and took care of cleaning his chompers, but he did it carefully. The cuts were mending, but every time he opened his mouth too far he risked ripping the stitches or starting the bleeding again.
Booker had cut his face into a smile before he left. The scars didn’t quite match up with the paint on the clown’s face, but they came close enough. Plastic surgery had already been scheduled for the start of next month. The doctors claimed he was luckier than he knew, that the injuries would be almost unnoticeable when they were finished. He hoped so. He didn’t want to remember anything about the last month.
King and Cantrell were the ones who found him on the ground, beaten down with a few concussions and a green stick fracture of his right wrist. The wrist had been fixed up and put in a cast. If he was careful he could even move it a little without wanting to cry like a baby.
The two agents dropped by the day after everything went down. Both of them looked like they’d been anally raped with barbed wire covered posts. Verbally speaking, of course. Their bodies were fine, but their posture and expression spoke of their epic reaming from the powers that be.
You stand around on the stage and let a few hundred people get electrocuted and things tend to go poorly for you. It was possible that they would eventually recover from the shit-storm their careers had become, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He told them both that he could work out gigs for them with his boss and he meant it. He wouldn’t be too surprised if he heard from them in the future.
When he was done scrubbing his gums to the point of bleeding he spit out the toothpaste and rinsed. That was as much of a morning constitutional as he felt like dealing with.
Back in the main hospital room—he had to share, because the insurance wasn’t going to foot the bill for a private room—his roommate was snoring noisily enough to make him consider murder again. He decided against it. So far his attempts at ending lives were going poorly, with a score of 0 and 2 working against him. He had just flopped down on his bed and cranked the volume on his TV as high at it would go—not enough to silence the snores, but at least they’d been beaten down to tolerable levels—when Cantrell came into the room. The woman smiled brightly and set down a vase of flowers next to the ones that had been left by the department the day before.
“You look like shit.” She smiled as she said it.
“Thanks. I feel like shit, too. Nice when the body and mind work together, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.” She fidgeted and so did he. There wasn’t a case to talk about anymore and neither of them really wanted to discuss it much.
“So, looks like there really is a Mitchell Winkler.”
He had to think about that for a moment. “Yeah? Any luck finding him?”
“Oh yes. He died of a massive coronary about nine months ago.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “He’d just picked up an escort for the night. Died in her arms so to speak.”
Carver looked at the agent and did his best not to smile, but eventually the grin broke through. She snorted laughter in a very unpleasant way. Still, she was cute enough to forgive having a bad laugh.
“So Rufo the Clown failed to get his man then?” He felt a savage flash of satisfaction that was completely inappropriate.
“Well, the grave was robbed yesterday. King is looking into it to see if there might be a connection.”
He nodded his head and scowled just a bit. He’d rather find out that Booker had nothing to do with it. In a perfect world the clown would have been roasting in Hell.
“How’s things on the home front?”
“Looking up a bit. Every member of the troupe verified the same story we gave. No one remembers much of anything. It was like coming out of a deep sleep.”
He held up a hand and crossed the middle and index fingers for her to see. She smiled a quick thanks.
“When are they letting you out?”
“Later today. I’m just waiting for the official dismissal papers. I get to come back later for the facial work.”
Cantrell gave him the strangest look, but kept her comments to herself.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s stupid.” Her voice was defensive.
“Tell me anyway.”
“I’ve just been wondering if he’ll show up again.”
“He will.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“This isn’t the first time he’s killed and I don’t think it’ll be the last. I don’t think he has the self control to stay away from killing.”
“But what makes you so sure?”
“He told me he likes to have an audience. He’ll do it again when he wants attention.”
“That’s some scary shit.” She hugged herself for warmth.
“So, wanna give me a ride home?” He really didn’t want to take a cab.
“Yeah. I’ve been wondering what sort of place you have.”
“Oh, really?”
She nodded, a grin playing at her lips. He refused to play into it. She was too young for him and he didn’t much like getting his hopes up. The last time he got optimistic it ended in a divorce.
“Yeah. I mean, from the outside it looks like a house, but inside, I figure you’ve got a collection of survival magazines and about a thousand guns in an arsenal.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
“Anyone that goes after the bad guy without back up is bound to be a weapon freak.” She was teasing and he made himself remember that. She was the one who found his pistol and gave it back to him when no one was looking. King was the one who managed to collect the casings and the both of them lied about him shooting Booker repeatedly. Mass murderer or not, most of the brass frowned on trying to kill unarmed suspects.
“Yeah, well, I guess you’ll just have to come inside and find out.”
She stood up walked over to the next bed, shaking the man’s leg until he grunted and rolled over. The lack of snoring was an unexpected bliss.
“I guess I will.” Cantrell sat down again and waited with him. Suddenly going home didn’t seem like such a scary notion and he thought maybe he could avoid dreaming of clowns again. The dreams had been coming too often already and it had only been a few days.
Life on the Road
So that’s it, really. That’s my story. Not much else to say for now.
I found Mitch and took him with me. Albert Miles can make a person suffer even after they’ve died and I want Mitch to scream for a long time. I want to hear it, know he’s in agony and then record the sounds so I can make them my own little lullaby.
What? You thought I’d be forgiving? Not a chance.
Albert and I came to an arrangement. He gave me the power to make my last show something memorable and in exchange I decided to forgive him for screwing over my troupe back in Serenity Falls.
He asked me to go to work for him again and I suppose I will for a while. I have nothing else planned and I don’t see myself settling down to life on the farm if you catch my meaning.
First though, I have a little unfinished business in Serenity Falls. According to Albert, there’s a boy back there who’s a little upset that I killed his entire family and he’d like to settle the score.
Seems only fair to let him try. Besides, I only carved up one side of Davey’s face. I think
I kind of like the idea of matching scars.
There’s a great big world out there, and it’s populated by rubes. I want to meet them. I want to get to know them and make some kids smile and if it suits me, I might even teach a few people to laugh now and then.
I like laughter.
It really is the best medicine to get you past a bad case of the blues.
About the Author
James Arthur Moore is an American horror novelist and short story writer. In 2003, he was nominated for a Bram Stoker Award for “Best Novel” for his book Serenity Falls. In 2006, the novella Bloodstained Oz (co-authored by Christopher Golden) was nominated for a Bram Stoker Award for “Best Long Fiction.” He wrote the novelization of Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s Chaos Bleeds (based on the video game written by Christopher Golden). Many of his books have been released by small press publishers.