Clown in a Cornfield

by Adam Cesare

We called it the Kettle Springs Improvement Society. Didn’t tell them everything at once and didn’t tell everyone everything, but why

do that? You’d scare them off. Even as we did it, it scared off Dr. Weller. He was one of our most vocal supporters, early on, but he threatened to turn rat.

“If it makes you feel any better, think of yourself as a phoenix. Your death becomes a rebirth. Baypen reopened. Kettle Springs saved.” “Frendo wins,” Cole said softly.

Under the curtain, Quinn managed to get Ronnie’s gun pointed away from her, but couldn’t see exactly what Ronnie was doing, if she were ready to attack from another angle. But Quinn could discern where Ronnie’s head was. Quinn brought the cleaver down, making a sharp, soft sound she wasn’t expecting.

Madness. Hate. Insecurity. Tradition. The American Dream.

For another thing: around 20 percent of the population of Kettle Springs, Missouri, was either dead, headed to prison, or had moved away.

Her hands would occasionally shake, and she kept lights on around the house all the time. Little things, but not insignificant. You didn’t get over killer clowns quickly. Her dreams were terrible, but her dreams had been terrible since Mom. But then she’d lived through something terrible. No one expected that she wouldn’t be changed by the experience.

Arthur Hill and George Dunne’s plan had worked. The two of them and their twelve (that the FBI knew of) conspirators had saved Kettle Springs. Though not in the way they’d intended or anticipated.

Shortly after the arrival of the FBI, there had been a round of questionings and arrests. Arthur Hill’s phone records, the sheriff’s office emails, GPS of any phones that had been pinged as attending Kettle Springs Improvement Society meetings: no accomplice was able to hide. Not that there were many living accomplices. Ironic, Quinn thought, that it was the phones they hated so much that had gotten them caught.

A few things had become clear to Arthur Hill, in the wake of his failure. First, he realized that money wasn’t everything. But that it was enough to keep you alive and out of jail. If you kept cash on hand. Second, he realized that failure was temporary. If you were determined enough to see your plans through to the end. Third, and this one was important: he realized that if you wanted a job done right, you had to do it yourself.

He’d been responsible for dozens of deaths. But not the one he truly wanted. And that was because . . . If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.