Clown in the Moonlight by Tom Piccirilli Page B
Authors: Tom Piccirilli
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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She aimed her gaze at the corner where I hid and said, "The Acid King, he's behind you." She smiled and let out a sharp bark of laughter before easing her head back down to the pillow. She watched me closely for thirty seconds, then shut her eyes again. Gwen rushed in and said, "I know you're here."
I make more busts. I lose a partner. I'm under investigation for bribes. I beat the rap.
At dawn, the crows tap at my window and get me moving early. I run through Central Park as the sun fires the horizon. The wind's got my name on it, and I keep turning, looking, knowing it's going to happen again.
Maybe I can stop it. Maybe I don't want to.
As I come around a bend in the trail I see a group of kids hunched over her, a woman dressed in a yellow running suit, now covered in blood. I can see how it'll go down for the world, the headlines, the cultural icon she's about to become, as famous as Ricky. The Central Park Jogger, that has the right ring. I sprint towards them, shouting for them to halt, halt, and then, finally, as I am meant to do, calling Ricky's name. They rise from her, buckling their belts, wiping their mouths. They wag their chins at me and gesture like we're old friends. One of them has taken her eye. It stares. It finds me. It recognizes me. He smiles before he runs off, holding her eye above his head like a trophy, and as he tosses it and catches it, flings it and snatches it, grinning, the trees bend over and bow down to him.
A preview of a few of Tom Piccirilli's other works
"LOTS OF BUZZ AND THE START OF A NEW SERIES."— Library Journal
"PERFECT CRIME FICTION."—Lee Child
Don't miss Tom Piccirilli's highly anticipated new novel
The Last Kind Words
Pre-order now * On sale June 5, 2012
Hardcover: 978-0-553-59248-1
eBook: 978-0-553-90635-6
Audio download: 978-0-307-98960-4
"You don't choose your family. And the Rand clan, a family of thieves, is bad to the bone. But it's a testimony to Tom Piccirilli's stellar writing that you still care about each and every one of them. The Last Kind Words is at once a dark and brooding page-turner and a heartfelt tale about the ties that bind."—LISA UNGER
"For the first time since The Godfather , a family of criminals has stolen my heart. This is a brilliant mix of love and violence, charm and corruption."—NANCY PICKARD
"A stunning story that ranges far afield at times but never truly leaves home, a place where shadows grow in every corner. It's superbly told, with prose that doesn't mess about or flinch from evil."—DANIEL WOODRELL
***** READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK *****
I' d come five years and two thousand miles to stand in the rain while they prepared my brother for his own murder.
He had two weeks to go before they strapped him down and injected poison into his heart. I knew Collie would be divided about it, the way he was divided about everything. A part of him would look forward to stepping off the big ledge. He'd been looking over it his whole life in one way or another.
A different part of him would be full of rage and self- pity and fear. I had no doubt that when the time came he'd be a passive prisoner right up to the moment they tried to buckle him down. Then he'd explode into violence. He was going to hurt whoever was near him, whether it was a priest or the warden or a guard. They'd have to club him down while he laughed. The priest, if he was still capable, would have to raise his voice in prayer to cover my brother's curses.
I was twenty minutes late for my appointment at the prison. The screw at the gate didn't want to let me in because he'd already marked me as a no show. I didn't argue. I didn't want to be there. He saw that I wanted to split and it was enough to compel him to let me stay.
At the prison door, another screw gave me the disgusted once-over. I told him my name, but the sound of it didn't feel right anymore.
"Terry
I make more busts. I lose a partner. I'm under investigation for bribes. I beat the rap.
At dawn, the crows tap at my window and get me moving early. I run through Central Park as the sun fires the horizon. The wind's got my name on it, and I keep turning, looking, knowing it's going to happen again.
Maybe I can stop it. Maybe I don't want to.
As I come around a bend in the trail I see a group of kids hunched over her, a woman dressed in a yellow running suit, now covered in blood. I can see how it'll go down for the world, the headlines, the cultural icon she's about to become, as famous as Ricky. The Central Park Jogger, that has the right ring. I sprint towards them, shouting for them to halt, halt, and then, finally, as I am meant to do, calling Ricky's name. They rise from her, buckling their belts, wiping their mouths. They wag their chins at me and gesture like we're old friends. One of them has taken her eye. It stares. It finds me. It recognizes me. He smiles before he runs off, holding her eye above his head like a trophy, and as he tosses it and catches it, flings it and snatches it, grinning, the trees bend over and bow down to him.
A preview of a few of Tom Piccirilli's other works
"LOTS OF BUZZ AND THE START OF A NEW SERIES."— Library Journal
"PERFECT CRIME FICTION."—Lee Child
Don't miss Tom Piccirilli's highly anticipated new novel
The Last Kind Words
Pre-order now * On sale June 5, 2012
Hardcover: 978-0-553-59248-1
eBook: 978-0-553-90635-6
Audio download: 978-0-307-98960-4
"You don't choose your family. And the Rand clan, a family of thieves, is bad to the bone. But it's a testimony to Tom Piccirilli's stellar writing that you still care about each and every one of them. The Last Kind Words is at once a dark and brooding page-turner and a heartfelt tale about the ties that bind."—LISA UNGER
"For the first time since The Godfather , a family of criminals has stolen my heart. This is a brilliant mix of love and violence, charm and corruption."—NANCY PICKARD
"A stunning story that ranges far afield at times but never truly leaves home, a place where shadows grow in every corner. It's superbly told, with prose that doesn't mess about or flinch from evil."—DANIEL WOODRELL
***** READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK *****
I' d come five years and two thousand miles to stand in the rain while they prepared my brother for his own murder.
He had two weeks to go before they strapped him down and injected poison into his heart. I knew Collie would be divided about it, the way he was divided about everything. A part of him would look forward to stepping off the big ledge. He'd been looking over it his whole life in one way or another.
A different part of him would be full of rage and self- pity and fear. I had no doubt that when the time came he'd be a passive prisoner right up to the moment they tried to buckle him down. Then he'd explode into violence. He was going to hurt whoever was near him, whether it was a priest or the warden or a guard. They'd have to club him down while he laughed. The priest, if he was still capable, would have to raise his voice in prayer to cover my brother's curses.
I was twenty minutes late for my appointment at the prison. The screw at the gate didn't want to let me in because he'd already marked me as a no show. I didn't argue. I didn't want to be there. He saw that I wanted to split and it was enough to compel him to let me stay.
At the prison door, another screw gave me the disgusted once-over. I told him my name, but the sound of it didn't feel right anymore.
"Terry
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