Jack had seen true crime shows, had read articles; he knew that these kinds of people never stopped. He was certain that there’d been other victims. Being in the circus was the ideal job. The clown was always in different cities. Who knew how many murders he’d committed?

  The plane landed at the Tampa-St. Pete airport. Jack rented a car and began driving north. It was ninety degrees outside. He turned on the car’s air conditioner. The cool breeze felt good against his skin.

  He drove past fast food places, cheap motels, gas stations, used car lots, farm stands selling oranges, and souvenir huts peddling t-shirts, plastic alligators, and snow globes filled with miniature imitation palm trees. It was if he’d entered another world. Yet, there was something about the shabby kitschyness of the place that made him feel oddly serene. He was David in the land of the Philistines.

  Two hours later, Jack saw a sign that read “Tibbsville next exit.” He turned off and drove down a two lane road. He went by houses that had brightly painted trailers parked on their front lawns. One had iron bars on it and a live lion inside. He drove past a man walking on a wire that had been strung between two trees.

  A couple of minutes later, Jack saw a white-haired woman who looked like she was in her seventies, wearing a gold sequined dress and a silver cowboy hat. He stopped and asked her for directions. She told Jack where to find the street he was looking for, then asked him if he was going to the fund raiser. When he told her that he was a tourist and didn’t know about it, she explained that once a year the town put on a circus for a week to raise funds for itself; everyone in town participated, and he was in luck, as it was going on right now. Jack thanked her and drove off.

  Ten minutes later, Jack found the street he was looking for and then located the house. He parked across the street. It was a ranch style house. The paint was chipping and the grass on the front lawn was overgrown. Under some weeds was a rusted bicycle. Jack wondered how he’d recognize the man. He’d seen him in dreams for years, and in the regression in the hypnotist’s office, but never without his make-up.

  Jack’s thoughts were interrupted by the front door of the house opening.

  A half a dozen clowns, in full make up and costume, walked out. There was a tall one, a short one, a fat one, a skinny one, a sad one, and one with blue hair. They walked to an old sedan, got in, and pulled out of the driveway. Jack waited for a few seconds, then followed.

  The sedan went past quiet residential neighborhoods and then through the main street. Jack kept pace with it, but hung far enough back so as not to be seen. Five minutes later the clown’s car came to a wide open field outside of town. There was a huge circus tent, with a banner across it that read “Tibbsville Circus.” There were at least two hundred cars parked on the grass near the tent. The sedan pulled up, the clowns got out and walked into the tent.

  Jack pulled up a few cars away from the sedan, parked, and got out. He asked a man selling tickets when the clowns went on. The man told him that there were clowns throughout the show. Jack bought a ticket and went inside. During the next two hours, he watched acrobats, lion tamers, jugglers, elephants, human cannon balls, horses, and clowns. The crowd applauded and cheered constantly. Jack left before the final act and went back to his car. A short time later, the clowns walked out of the tent, got into the sedan and drove away. Jack followed them. A few minutes later they pulled up to a roadside bar. Jack watched the clowns get out of their car and go into the bar. He waited a few minutes, then left his car and headed to the bar.

  The place was packed with circus people, including a bearded lady, a ringmaster, acrobats, and lots of clowns. There were framed circus posters on the walls, and country music blaring from an old jukebox. Jack sat at the bar where he could watch the blue-haired clown. The clown sat at a table with his friends, drinking, laughing, and grabbing every woman who went by.

  Three hours later, the clowns paid their bill and stood up. Jack went to his car, got inside and waited. He watched the clowns stumble out of the bar and over to their car. They got inside, swerved onto the road, and drove off. Jack tailed behind. A few minutes later, the sedan stopped in front of the house where they’d come from. The clowns got out, said their goodbyes, and walked off in different directions. The blue-haired clown went into his house and shut the door.

  Jack sat in his car and waited. A few minutes went by, and then he saw the lights in the house go off. He let another twenty minutes pass, then quietly got out of his car and went around to the side of the house. He took a pencil flashlight from his pocket and used it to guide himself through the darkness. He checked a couple of windows, but found that they were closed and locked, however, in the back of the house he saw a sliding door and noticed that it was slightly ajar.

  He slid the door open and stepped into the living room. There was ugly brown wall-to-wall carpeting on the floor, an old couch, and a few worn chairs. On the walls were some paintings of crying clowns. Jack crept through the hallway and found the bedroom. The door was open and he heard snoring coming from inside. Jack saw the man passed out on the bed, still in his costume and makeup. His blue wig was on a nearby night table. He was bald. Jack felt nauseous as he stared at the man and inhaled the stench of cheap wine that permeated the air. At that moment he wanted to hack him to bits with an ax, but this feeling immediately gave way to a sense of calm and purpose. This was not about emotion, he assured himself: he was there as an instrument of justice.

  Jack went over to the bed, noticed a pillow on the floor and picked it up. He held it for a minute, then slowly moved it to the man’s face and pushed it down hard. He felt the man struggle, but he continued to hold the pillow firmly. The man flailed like a drowning insect then went limp. Jack gave it a few more seconds before pulling the pillow away. The man now stared at him, glassy-eyed and motionless. Jack looked him over for another minute, making sure there was no further movement. Satisfied, he left the bedroom, walked through the living room, opened the sliding glass door and went back outside. He felt a sense of accomplishment. His mission was complete.

  Jack felt his hands quivering as walked around the house and his legs were weak and unsteady. A few wars ago it would have been called battle shakes. He bumped into a garbage can, sending it crashing to the ground. Bottles and beer cans skittered onto the cement. A man walking a dog saw him and yelled, “Hey rube!”

  Jack tried to cross the street to get back to his car, but the man was already on him, grabbing him.

  “What’re you doing around here?” he asked.

  “I was just taking a walk,” said Jack.

  “Is that so?” replied the man.

  The noise had attracted other men from nearby houses who came out to see what was the matter.

  “I caught this guy on Morty’s property,” said the man who held onto Jack.

  “I’ll go see if Morty is okay,” said another.

  The second man went around the back, then quickly came out of the house through the front door. “Morty’s dead,” he said.

  Jack broke free of the man’s grip and ran.

  “After him!” yelled one of the men.

  “He’s getting away!” yelled another.

  Jack bolted through the clown’s backyard, jumped over some hedges and sprinted down an incline into a wooded area. He heard the men yelling in the distance behind him. He went deeper into the forest, past gnarled, twisted trees. Somewhere in the darkness an owl hooted. Dead leaves crunched under his feet. He came to a clearing and in the misty moonlight saw a cemetery. The gravestones were weathered, cracked, and the grass around them was tall and yellowed.

  He heard the men getting closer. Jack saw a mausoleum the size of a one-car garage in the distance. He ran to it, sweating and panting, and with all his strength pushed against the structure’s heavy stone door. It slowly creaked open and he went inside the dark chamber. Then using his full weight, he managed to push the door shut behind him.

  The place was pitch black and smelled dry and musty. He crouched down against the cold stone wall and listened. He heard the men’s muffled voices outside.

  “He must be around here someplace,” said one.

  “Spread out,” said another.

  “We’ll get him,” said a third.

  After a few minutes Jack heard them come back again.

  “Well, he’s not here,” said one of the men.

  “Let’s go that way.”

  “He can’t have gotten far.”

  Then their voices faded. Jack waited a couple of minutes, and switched on his tiny flashlight. He saw a stone wall with square compartments from floor to ceiling. Each one had a name etched into it. He went over and read them:

  Arthur Barnes, 1925-2000, a great clown

  Ferd Barnes, 1900-1960, a clown for the ages

  Brian Barnes, 1897-1952, a clown’s clown

  Jack walked to the door of the mausoleum and shined his light on it. There were no handles or knobs. He ran his fingers along each side, hoping to find a latch or something that would allow him to pull or push it open, but found nothing. In fact it now looked and felt as solid and unmoving as the other three walls that surrounded him. It was as if there had never been a door there at all.

  Jack sat down on the marble floor and took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He’d gotten a text. It was from his friend Mike. It read:

  “I’ve looked into the stories of the children who died of asphyxiation in Beachton, when you were seven. The articles you read were only preliminary findings, written during the summer. According to follow up articles that were published a few months later, the local coroner concluded that the first child did die due to asphyxiation caused by strangulation, but a subsequent police investigation found that it happened accidentally, during rough play with another child his own age. The second child, it was determined, died as the result of a severe allergic reaction to a new asthma medication that only mimicked the signs of strangulation.”

  Jack stared at the text message without moving. After a few minutes he dialed Mike’s number. The call wouldn’t go through. He tapped the wall in horror, realizing that it was too thick to get a signal. He put the phone back into his pocket. Then he heard a low guttural laugh. It got louder and louder as it echoed through the small chamber. Jack frantically covered his ears with his hands to try to block out the awful noise. He pressed his palms against his ears harder hoping to dull the high pitched hysterical shrieking. It took him a very long time to realize that the sound was coming from inside his own throat.

  d

  Marc Bilgrey has written short stories that have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines. He is the author of two humorous fantasy novels, And Don’t Forget To Rescue The Princess, as well as the next in the series, And Don’t Forget To Rescue The OTHER Princess. Both are available as ebooks from Amazon Kindle.

  His website is www.marcbilgrey.com

  CRAFTY OLD BAGS

  by Laird Long

  The Crafts Connection and International Sisterhood of Tatters was an organization given over to the promotion and retail of crafts and spangled sweaterwear. Or so the promotional brochure claimed. The promotional brochure that lay crumpled in a dirty ball on the floor next to my size twelve body-holders. If you believed everything you read, you might as well return your brain for a refund and rent out the vacant space for National Enquirer back-issues storage. I live by the question mark and I’ll die by the exclamation point.

  Those thoughts, and other random images plundered from dog-eared skin mags, revolved through my steel-trap mind like Nietzsche’s rolodex, as I packed my audit bag with various and sundry accounting and auditing weapons, and prepared to barge out the door for the one week audit of the above-mentioned guild. I checked my bag again: paper, calculator, pencils—mechanical and otherwise—hole-punch, stapler, file covers, jerky, bannock, pocket knife, Bible, brass-knuckles, etc., etc. …. Everything but an eraser and a drum of Wite-Out—those I wouldn’t need. When I went out on an audit, the only time off I allowed myself was for bowel evacuation and the occasional recreational fist-fight.

  Spud bellied up to my carrel that lay deep within the office maze. If he was expecting any cheese, he’d be cutting it himself. I held my breath. “Should be a fairly straightforward job, eh Clintsky? I’ll handle the accounting work and you do the audit?” He rakishly waggled what he called a mustache and others called the world’s smallest curling broom.

  “Straightforward, huh?” I retorted.

  “Aw, c’mon, Clint. Don’t get started with all that—”

  “What do we know about these crafters, Spud? What do we really know that they haven’t told us? And if they haven’t told us, what the hell are they hiding? And why? And for whom? And where? You see, Spud, the questions keep piling up like corpses at a CNIB rifle range. And where’s it gonna end? Who’s gonna stop it?”

  Spud sighed, chewed his cud, blew the sediment off his glasses. “You?”

  “No!” I yammered, and held up my concrete-cast fist. “Us,” I challenged.

  I was about to expound further on the benefits of audit teamwork, as Spud found a soft spot on the duct-taped carpet and prepared to grab a hearty handful of Z’s, when Vanya tucked her streamlined physique into my airspace. She was leading the charge at the Crafts Connection.

  “You guys coming?” she asked, sprinkling Spud and me with a double entendre as sticky as a pan-sized cinnamon bun.

  “For you, sure,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “I gotta go to the can,” Spud said, again with the obvious.

  * * * *

  I drove us the two downtown blocks to the Crafts Connection corporate head office. The log edifice had been hand-carved by a long-defunct tribe of one-armed chainsaw sculptors, and the morning gloom gave it a distinctly sinister cast. It squatted on a postage-stamp-sized lot amidst steel and glass skyscrapers, and glowered out at a pre-packaged, machine-manufactured world like a constipated senior on a poop chute. I kicked in the revolving door and ushered Spud and Vanya inside. Methuselah’s sister greeted us from behind a Depression-era cash register.

  “Are you folks from Twinkle & Winkle?” she crowed, a frowsy smile on her trembling, blue lips.

  “Expecting someone else?” I queried roughly.

  Vanya handled the small talk from there on in, and we set up our auditing operation in a renovated storage shed in back of the office-shop complex.

  “Would anyone like some tea and Animal Crackers?” the old lady, whose name was Grace Goode, asked. She’d been peppering us with questions like we were strips of prime chuck ever since we’d elbowed into her set-up. She was the CEO, CFO, COO, and spokesmodel for the whole shebang.

  “How about a tour of the dump, tomb raider?” I asked. Her lack of hearing kept the smile glued to her wrinkled face.

  I translated my request into hand signals and she assented and showed us around the musty confines. The front part was the store—shelves and shelves of dolls, baskets, dried flower arrangements, wooden toys, and Boer-War-surplus armaments—while the back part held a meeting room, her office, and a lunch room that had been the kitchen set on “The Waltons.” It was a cozy scene all right, with enough dried fruit to keep Truman Capote in clover, but my senses were sharpened to the cutting point by an odor other than potpourri in the air.

  “You’re not growing weed anywhere here, are you, Grandma Moses?” I asked. “You got a tea head to go with your bags?” I grabbed her lace collar and shook until her teeth rattled and rouge broke off her weathered face in glacier chunks.

  “Oops! It’s time to empty my colostomy bag,” she bleated.

  I let her go about her dirty business.

  * * * *

  Two days later and all clear. The audit was proving as dull as a CBC Canada Day special. Spud had scored a date with a sixty-year-old brooch, locket, and cameo saleswoman, but other than that the work had been proceeding with the monotonous regularity of a dumpster diver in back of a bran muffin plant.

  “You taking the night shift?” Spud asked me, when Minnie Mouse spread her legs and showed six o’clock on his Disneyland watch.

  “Yeah. I’ve still got some review notes I gotta clean up from my last two audits,” I grumbled justifiably. Auditing, true auditing, was a process that could stretch on longer than Willie Horton’s rap sheet.

  Spud nodded, downed the final donut from his twenty-four case, and headed home.

  I slammed a thick file down on the King James table and got to work. The file consisted of three pages of my audit work and forty-seven pages of review notes—queries and questions and requests for clarification from the senior and partner on the job. The very idea of someone else questioning my work further curled my short ’n’ curlies, but the stupidity of the questions and follow-up points is what really set the jelly in my brain to boil. “Why the profanity on page A2?” “Why the sketch of the Last Supper on page A3?” “What do you mean by: ‘after popping Mr. Johnson in the groin, he confirmed that internal controls were as per the prior year’?” “After tracing fifty bills of lading to the shipping ledger, then to the unbilled revenue subledger, then to the billed receivables ledger, and then matching the receivables with the order input system printouts and the master logs, and the month-following cash receipts sub-subledger, why did you not trace back fifty sample items from the revenue masterfile to the bank reconciliation, to the cash receipts sub-subledger, and vice versa?”

  My mind cocooned into a semi-comatose state as I flipped through the endless pages of nitpicking drivel. To say that some accountants were a little anal retentive was like saying a man wearing an industrial-sized butt-plug wasn’t full of crap.