A Fear of Clowns (The Greasepaint Chronicals)

by Power, P. S.

  Greg, who'd been standing back, handed him a slip of paper with the number for the girl written on it, and took his cell back. The man was efficient, but didn't actually leave, even while he was on stage. In fact he stayed with Jason himself, until the FBI got there. They weren't inclined to let him keep working, thinking that a County Sheriff being taken by a serial killing Deputy might be more important. They were right, so he went with them to the security office. They got a room that looked like a nicer version of what the police used for interrogations. Michelson didn't volunteer to leave either.

  That was because he had information for them.

  "We didn't find anything on the tape of a clown coming in. No man matching the description either. What we did find was this, if you'll watch the screen?"

  It wasn't that hard to figure out what he meant, since it was a series of camera shots, following a rather scary looking masked clown in a mainly yellow outfit with bright red shoes in his right hand. He had running shoes on his feet, but it was the same clown that he'd seen before. With Jay's shoes. He pointed to them, gratefully sinking into a chair offered by McNab.

  "That's the man that stole my shoes, officer!" No one even cracked a smile at it. "Did he get in during the blackout then?"

  Greg nodded, "that's my best guess right now. Someone just threw a breaker main, or whatever those things are called, and cut the power to the whole building for ten minutes. There's damage to the door into your room, indicating it was jimmied. Whoever did it knows their stuff, since it's a magnetic lock, and when the power goes out, everyone should have been locked in or out. We got enough complaints that I know it worked on the rest of the rooms."

  It made sense. Mills would want the privacy to get in. Leaving wasn't a problem, since the man... Just didn't care if he were caught? Not as long as he accomplished whatever it was he wanted to do. Why. That part was the answer he needed.

  "Why? Why drug and duct tape me? He isn't averse to killing, so that was some kind of message, I think. Leaving me alive. Maybe even getting me out of the way. He did point out that he felt you two were being a little slow figuring out it was him. He also said that he had bugs on me. I don't know where."

  That got everyone in the room to look at him, like it should have been the first thing he thought to say.

  He understood and did a fake, over exaggerated cringe for them.

  "Well, this is awkward."

  Greg gave him a look that sent a chill down his spine and then left, coming back with a tool box a few minutes later. It was filled with scanning equipment, and he went all over Jay, examining every beep or click the various things made.

  "Nothing on you right now. I'll have the room checked and go over your car. Next time, mention that first, will you?"

  "Sorry. You know how it goes, I'm not used to having serial murderers bug me like this. Normally they just send nasty letters. So I'm playing catch-up. Behind the curve and all that." It hadn't been that big of an issue in academia, surprisingly. Computer files being hacked could come up, to change grades, or to steal sensitive e-mails if you were in climate research, but the History Department didn't really have many problems that way. No one was ever bugged, at least.

  Not that he knew about.

  Daniels nodded.

  "I can see that. Let's go over everything again? You told us on the phone, but we can't sleep without hearing it twenty or thirty times."

  Then, almost as if trying to prove that what he said was true, and not an attempt at humor, the man sat and had him go over everything nearly that many times. It was two in the morning by the time he was done, and he yawned, feeling tired, but knowing that he should go and see about Alexis before he slept. When he said this out loud, the FBI men both blinked at him.

  "Ms. Davies' daughter?"

  He nodded.

  "That's her. Remember, I raised her as my own almost her entire life. She still has my last name even. I can't let her end up in foster care or something now. So, I need to get there. I'm probably not safe to drive. Drugs you know. Horrible habit, being kidnapped by clowns." He considered calling Carlos, but he and Wendy would be there still, in Brickston, and not coming until later in the day.

  For once the government was helpful.

  Daniels looked at his partner and then back at Jay.

  "We can take you. You'll need to get your own ride back, but given the new information, it might be best if we found a safe place for Miss Hadley. We can check into that when we get there."

  It wasn't lost on Jay that the man clearly wasn't assuming that the "not-father" would have custody of the girl. That was probably good thinking. Not that he'd be horrible at the job. At least he used to do pretty well at it, he thought. Before everything had gone sideways on him. She was still his little girl. It sounded horrible to think, but if she'd been a pet, a dog or cat, no one would think twice about him having grown attached to her. She wasn't, so everyone would think that how he felt wouldn't matter.

  That was one of the drawbacks of being a clown. Everyone distrusted you, just a little.

  He dozed on the ride back to Brickston. His plan had been about not coming back, but it was a lot safer, suddenly. Carl wasn't around and Mills couldn't pull him over. That left only two bodies to do that kind of work, and the tracking device had been pulled off his car. Richmond hated him, but that was fine. As long as he didn't have current orders to make his life harder.

  The FBI weren't nearly as paranoid about being pulled over as he was, so drove the distance in about half the time. Pushing the Sedan until it roared down the black strip of road. There was a single yellow line in the middle and very few signs along it. If you didn't need to be there, then you shouldn't be. That seemed like the message. It could have also been him feeling nervous and a bit out of sorts. Being drugged was harsh that way, but he knew enough about the idea to also get that he could have done or said things to Mills and simply not remembered doing it. It probably wouldn't have been sexual, thank God. Still, he'd known Lynn's address. Had he been the one to tell the man that kind of information? If so, he might be responsible for whatever happened to her. That would be a shame.

  Honestly he just wanted that part of his life to finally be over for good. Inside and out. Lynn hadn't bothered with him in years, so it wasn't exactly like she'd been clinging to what they'd had done him. Not even to his wallet. True, that had been empty almost the whole time, since they'd divorced, and she'd gotten almost everything before that, so maybe it was enough in her mind? She'd bled him so dry that even someone like her wouldn't try for more. Regardless, Jay could use being done. Really, if he got a change, he didn't want to stay in Brickston any longer than was needed. As shallow as the reputation of Vegas was, it was a place that people went to forget their own lives. It might be for only a while for most of them, but it was the rule. When you were there, you didn't have to carry the rest of your life with you.

  He settled his behind again in the back seat of the big car, which was firm under him. The seat was black, which was a mistake in the desert, but the feds probably had a reason for why they did it that way. Rules or regulations that mandated what color their ties be and how shiny their shoes were. That was the real purpose of large groups and organizations. To keep their parts, the people involved, in line. It didn't always work, but the organization could afford to lose its parts, most of the time. Unless they were too vital.

  There was a slight spinning sensation in his head, a disorienting thing that reminded him how drugs could impact a body when you weren't used to them. The night moved past through the back window, but he focused toward the front, at the two men who were talking quietly. They were debating calling for reinforcements. McNab was all for it, and so was Daniels, but he didn't have any place to steer them yet. Just a person to target.

  Carl Mills. The name still bugged him. Why? What about it was so off? Was it that link to Carl Morse?

  Not thinking about the fact that he was still dressed like a clown, he asked a question. It was
more academic than anything, just words that didn't feel real to him. Distant and almost like he hadn't spoken them himself.

  "What did Mills do? In those other places? Just kill women?"

  To his shock, after a moment, the senior Special Agent, Daniels, cleared his throat, but didn't look away from the road.

  "No. Men and women. He takes them and tortures them, two at a time. The set-up is elaborate, but always a little different. Like he's learning from each of them. Keeping them alive longer every time, increasing the suffering. He uses abandoned properties, generally isolated ones and keeps them going for days. If he sticks to that pattern we still have one or two left. The looks fit. Kind of. Carl Morse is big, as in chunky, compared to most of the men. He always took bodybuilding types before. Fighters. Strong men. It was one of the things that stood out, other than the costume he wears while doing it. It pretty much means that he's extremely confident in a fight. Some kind of advanced training. We don't have any real paperwork on him. His record is blank for the last ten years. The rest fits, I think. We don't know how he did it exactly, but he was always known, if for only a few months, by the people he took. Integrated into their lives first, so that he could study them and gain their trust, then..."

  Then they died, tortured to death. That didn't sound like a good place to be then. Carl Morse and Lynn... It still didn't really make sense.

  "But... A Sheriff? I guess he might substitute for a robust man or a fighter, but... High risk. Is he thrill seeking? No... If that was the case he wouldn't have spent half a year getting into place with him. So... What does that leave?"

  There was no answer, and Jay wouldn't have expected one. Even if he wasn't a real suspect anymore, he wasn't one of them. Not an FBI man, and not even a detective. These men had a job to do, and didn't need him to figure it out for them. They were smart and had resources. These two men had probably been on that case for a while too, maybe years. They knew what to look for. How to find the victims.

  He tried to settle back, but his mind kept poking into things, prodding and working away. Sure, there was a gear grinding slowness to it all, but he still went on, worrying at it. What did he know? Or think he knew.

  That Mills was a killer. That he hadn't killed him. That the man hadn't been upset about his idea of why Jason had been taken. To find out the why. It wasn't his idea, originally, that was clear, but he'd seemed fine with it, once the words had been spoken. Attracted to the concept of another person getting him.

  Muttering this out loud, Jay nodded.

  "That's it. He wants someone to understand him. To know why he did what he has. To figure that part out. I wonder if he knows the real answer himself? It's probably because the ancient spirits told him to or something like that. He can only get off when someone else is screaming or... Has he left anyone alive before? Like me?"

  There was a long silence, and McNab, up in the passenger's seat, shifted. It was an uneasy thing, but could mean anything. From him needing a rest break to use the bathroom to the man sitting on a secret that had suddenly poked him in the behind. When he spoke there was a guarded tone to it. Probably because it wasn't really classified, but they still weren't sure if Jay was someone they could trust.

  "Not that we know about. That's a wild card. So is killing Margaret Winthrop like that. It's out of pattern. He didn't torture her first. If it wasn't for the footage from the gas station, with him pushing her into his trunk, we wouldn't have known to come. That kind of thing is rare, and he uses the same mask all the time. That creepy one. It makes a good disguise. You can't see his face, and people won't call the police to report even a freaky man dressed like Bozo. It's not blending, but a black ski mask would get ten times the suspicion or more. We have him now. He finally messed up. Taking you and leaving you alive like that. He should have killed you." The man sounded less than personal about that. It wasn't that he was really recommending it, just not understanding why it hadn't happened.

  Jason nodded, his brain trying to shove the pieces together. The real question wasn't even close to answered, was it? Why. The how was easy, most of the time. Reality didn't have convoluted ways to hide itself, and humans were predictable, if you knew enough about them. It always bugged him that he was in the dark so often, as a historian, as to that part. They could tell who won the battle, and work out that the well was poisoned, or the walls collapsed, but had to make up reasons as for why the attack came at a given time, or picked thus and such a target. Normally it wasn't that hard to come up with a guess, of course. A famine would come, so one tribe or kingdom would attack the neighbors, looking for a way to survive. One group would decide that they wanted to crack their eggs on the big end and the little enders next door took exception to it. How often were those the real reasons?

  Most of the time it was probably far more boring, personal and political. The villagers demanded food, and instead of doing what they'd always done in lean times and turn to fishing, harvesting wild plants and sharing, the leader suggests a power move, to consolidate his control. The king wanted to screw the daughter of the ruler two countries over and didn't like being thwarted, so attacked. That sort of thing. There were always hints, but it was the most uncertain part of life.

  Most investigators didn't even try. They got to the end of the facts, and left that part alone. Rapists claimed they were abused children, or drunk, and that was enough. Killers told the investigators that they just loved the feel of a knife on flesh and people used the term psycho liberally, as if that explained it all.

  Why, then, was a thing that very few people cared about. He did however. It was central to this matter, too, he couldn't help but feel. Blinking, one piece started to slide into place.

  "Riiight. So, he left me alive, so that I could figure out why he's doing this, even knowing that it was a risk. That I'd tell you, and that you would have a team of people coming to back you up. That either means he thinks he can't be caught, or he doesn't care. He's smart enough not to be delusional as far as the first one. Maybe." That made sense, but again, why?

  In the driver's seat, subtly and without comment, Daniels pushed the speed up.

  "And the faked up tracking log... Whoever did that, and we have no reason to not think it was him, was all about pointing a finger at Morse. It was his code used, and sloppily enough that it would have been figured out, even if you didn't have a great alibi. Then he leaves you alive. I think you might be on to something there. Any clue? It didn't sound like he explained that to you, but if you know anything, or think you do, fess up now. We have lives to save. If we can."

  That was true. Not his favorite people, but still, did he want them dead for what they'd done to him? It had been so wrong that a lot of people wondered why he hadn't freaked out and killed at least one of them when they heard the tale, but he really didn't want that. It was a fantasy that he'd let himself have, but not on the level that some might. What he wanted was for the thing to be over, and for them to never do it again, to anyone else.

  That had to be enough. It wasn't justice, but it was, in the end, the best that could be done. What had happened to him, well, it wasn't even illegal in most places. It should have been fraud, and punishable, but the fact was that one in five children weren't their father's. That meant men like Carl and women like Lynn probably pulled things like what they had a lot. If it worked, why change the plan? Until someone found out.

  "You know... I know this is stupid, but I think that there's something here. Mills, he killed Maggie to frame Carl, knowing that he hated me and would go after the closest clown around. That was... it..." He tried to think and nothing much came. The men in the front let him do it too, probably bored with the hobo character in the back. Jay hadn't been doing the voice, because he was too tired. Too distracted and out of it

  Right now he was more than his act, and his mind was what was needed, not his ability to hold to expectations.

  Not that it was working for him. He tried again, hoping that running his mouth would let his sub
conscious mind come up with something that he'd been missing. Personally he blamed the drugs. It didn't help him do any better, but was probably true.

  "Hey, um, do we have anything to drink? Water?" A bottle was passed back, over McNab's shoulder.

  That got sipped slowly, since even hours later he felt like crud. A tiny little sip at a time, he got through half the bottle. That was what he needed to do, wasn't it? Take it all in little sips.

  "So, yeah, what do we have? Mills tried to frame me, but really wasn't doing that, which is clever. Most of the time no one would have really gotten that the tracking thing wasn't showing exactly what it said. Nice of you to pretend you'd catch it, but would you really? Except that he knew he'd be seen, and that you two would come. Or at least the FBI. Then he got to me, but that was an alarm, more than anything. I mean, sure, he was impressed that I'd figured out who it had to be, and steered you toward him, but..." He sipped again, the cool water feeling nice at it went down. Jay realized that he was probably badly dehydrated. "Leaving me alive... That means he wants to be caught? Which is stupid. No one really wants that. So... What does that leave?"

  No one spoke, which worked for Jason, since something occurred to him then. It wasn't certain of course, but might just be the case.

  "What if... What if it wasn't that he wants to be caught, but knows it doesn't matter?"

  Daniels snorted a bit, but asked his question politely.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, what if... What if all the other murders weren't about his sick fantasies, or not just that, but were practice? For the main event? Now..." He didn't finish the words. It all fit, but it was still just a guess.

  That didn't keep the car from nudging forward just a little bit faster however.

  Daniels sounded grim, and pleased at the same time.

  "If that's the case, then we can find him. Not bad, Dr. Hadley. And here I thought you were just a clown."

  Jason nodded. Wasn't he? Then again, was anyone only a single thing like that? He just shut up, drank his water, and considered what he needed to do next.