Running Stupid: (Mystery Series)

by James Kipling

  He put Terry’s head back in view of the screen and rested the blade of the machete under his chin. “Do you want me to slit his throat?” Matthew asked. “Is that it? Is that what you want?” he stared deeply into the camera lens with Terry trembling in his grasp. All over the world, thousands of viewers waited in eager anticipation.

  “Well, fuck you!” Matthew spat, throwing Terry to one side and holding up the machete to the camera. “Fadel, Maloney, Chambers, whoever is out there, wherever you are.” He leaned closer to the camera, his mouth enlarged and covering the lens. “I’m going to kill you.” He leaned back. “And that goes for every fucking sick bastard watching. Believe me, I’ll hunt every single one of you down and personally gut all of you.”

  Jester looked down at Toothless Terry Jones. The man was a wreck, distraught and totally defeated, his eyes pleading for his life. Jester turned towards the camera again, gathered a large glob of saliva in his mouth and spat it at the lens.

  The mucus dribbled its way down the screen, obscuring the view. There were four other cameras in that room. All eyes in the control turned to the one in the television set. From there they could see the back of Matthew Jester as he hovered over the crumpled body on the floor.

  They all watched as he mercifully tied up Terry Jones, using a selection of face and bath towels and thick black sticky tape. When he finished, he moved out of the way, allowing his audience to see his act of mercy.

  40

  “Why didn’t he kill him?” Chambers wanted to know.

  “He is merciful,” Ahmad Fadel offered.

  “No,” Maloney disagreed, shaking his head. “He’s not merciful. He doesn’t give a shit either way. He’s just trying to fuck with us.”

  Chambers nodded. On the screen, Matthew Jester had left the hotel room. He was standing just outside of it, looking up and down the corridor.

  “He’s a fucking maniac,” Chambers said. “Did you hear what he said? How the fuck does he know all of our names anyway?”

  “That’s not important,” Maloney said sharply. “What is important is the betting. Nearly all the punters were wrong, which means that that maniac just won us a lot of money.”

  Everyone grinned. Dennis Maloney retired to the back of the room.

  “Are you going to send another one straight in?” Chambers called.

  “It’s too soon,” Fadel said.

  “Agreed,” Maloney nodded. “The bets are still coming in,” he paused to smile broadly. “More than twice as much money has been staked already.”

  “Who’s up next?” Fadel asked.

  Dennis Maloney clicked his way onto the predator screen. Next in line was Lenny ‘the fairy’ Beck. Dennis called the name over his shoulder, answering his superior’s question.

  “Lenny the fairy?” Chambers repeated, laughing softly. “What kind of name is that? Does he kill wearing a tutu and using a little wand?” he laughed.

  “No,” Maloney said bluntly. “He sneaks in through his target’s window, kills them and then leaves all of their teeth underneath their pillow.”

  Chambers exhaled a short puff of cigar smoke, a look of shock descending over his features. “Why?” he questioned.

  “I have no idea. He’s a fucking psycho – served ten years as a royal marine, retired and then spent five years in high security for attempted murder. He’s been clean for six years and he’s been hitting for five and a half.”

  “What’s the betting like?” Chambers said, rising to his feet. He scurried over to the screen to check the odds, watching the server as it streamed live bets from punters worldwide. “They’re still not betting for the kid,” he said softly.

  Dennis Maloney returned to his spot in front of the screens. “They will,” he said surely.

  ***

  Jester left the fifth floor of the hotel battleground, descended the stairs and walked across the corridor on the fourth floor. He decided against using the lift. The thought of it sliding open to reveal another hit man persuaded him to take the stairs.

  The fourth floor was bigger than the fifth, more open and spacious. Instead of one long corridor flanked by doors, it was a large, open area. Rooms lined the East and West walls. The North wall offered itself up to one door only, an age-battered door marked with a red cross and the words ‘staff only.’ To the South was the lift with rooms to its left and right, small, dingy rooms. Either side of which were more storage closets.

  Taking a keen interest in the storage room marked with the red cross, Matthew quickly scuttled over to it. When he tried to turn the door knob, his hand slipped and fell. The knob wouldn’t turn; the door was lock. Taking a step back, he drove the base of his foot hard against the lock. The door broke free from the hinges after three kicks.

  Taking one last look around the fourth floor – checking to see if Fadel and Maloney had sent him more company – Jester scurried into the room and shut the door behind him. The room was almost empty. Its shelves had more or less been wiped clean. A fresh fragrance of sterilisation hung in the air. Alone, sitting on one of the shelves, was a large box packed to the brim.

  Jester heaved it off the shelf, dropped it onto the floor in front of his feet, sat down in front of it and searched inside to see what he could find. He picked out a box of surgical gloves, three boxes of plasters and two unopened packets of knee and elbow bandages. He tossed all the items to one side carelessly.

  Next he found three rolls of white tape and a packaged syringe. He stuffed both in his pocket and continued to search, but he found nothing else of use inside the box. He left the storage room and broke his way into one of the rooms on the fourth floor, heading straight for the bathroom. On his way, he picked up a tablespoon, a bowl and a miniature box of cornflakes from the breakfast bar, and a complimentary box of matches from the sideboard.

  He removed the bottle of codeine phosphate from his pocket, tapped it onto the windowsill and watched as a mound of pills formed on the clean white wood. When he was satisfied with the amount, he placed the bottle to one side, leaving just a few tablets inside.

  He crushed the tablets with the back of the spoon, turning the minuscule pills into fine powder. When all the tablets had been crushed, he picked the bottle up, inspected the contents through the amber plastic and then tipped the remaining pills into his mouth; five bitter tablets dropped onto his tongue and then rolled down his throat. He held the bottle up against the windowsill and quickly scooped the powder back inside.

  ***

  “What the fuck is he doing?” Mark Chambers wondered as he watched Matthew Jester tip a mound of powder onto a tablespoon.

  Dennis Maloney didn’t answer. Instead, he stood and stared at the screen, riveted.

  “What is the crafty fucker up to?” Chambers asked again.

  Maloney turned his head slowly and looked at Mark Chambers. “Shut the fuck up and enjoy the show,” he said placidly, turning his head back to the screen.

  Chambers watched as Jester tore the syringe from its plastic wrapping and flicked the plastic tip from the needle. “He’s filling it with those tablets,” Chambers explained as the syringe slowly sucked up the boiled codeine.

  Maloney nodded solemnly. “Stop the fucking commentary, Chambers,” he said simply. “We can see what he’s doing.”

  “The stuff in the bottle…codeine, right?” Chambers quizzed.

  “That’s what your man said, yes.”

  “What exactly would a syringe full of codeine do to someone?”

  Maloney smiled but ignored the question. He retired to the back of the room. After fiddling with the server and running appraising eyes over the bets, he typed in a few commands, clicked to let his audience know and then turned to Fadel and Chambers. “Beck is on his way.”

  41

  Jester finished boiling the codeine and filled the syringe. He carefully placed the plastic casing back over the needle and then dropped it into his pocket.

  He left the room and headed for the stairs. He descended two floors
before he stopped. A sound disturbed him. He paused on the second stair, looking down at the wall through which he had heard the sound.

  Slowly and with great caution, he descended the stairs and paused outside the door leading to the first floor, the reception, the bar, the foyer and, more importantly, the doors. The door handle spun before he had the chance to reach for it, and before he could think twice, the door was yanked open. On the other side stood a strong, muscular, middle-aged man yielding a cut throat razor.

  Shock hit them both, and they stared at each other.

  Matthew was the first to move. He lunged forward, throwing his entire body at the man. They collided with a thud. Jester’s nose crumpled under the impact. It failed to break, but it started to bleed.

  They hit the floor, and the cut throat blade slid out from underneath them, skidding to an unreachable dark spot underneath a vending machine.

  Jester lay on top of him, but he felt powerless against a man far stronger than him. Without much effort, Lenny Beck rolled Matthew Jester off of him, shrugging him off like a persistent insect.

  Matthew was on his back when the hit man rose. He stood over him with a fierce longing in his eyes. Matthew imagined him lick his lips, excited by the imminent slaughter.

  “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Jester said lightly. “Perhaps we should start again.” He paused to grin and hold up his hand. “I’m Matthew,” he smiled warmly. The sarcasm was thick in his voice but absent on his face.

  Lenny Beck laughed boorishly. “What the fuck are you on, kid?” He kicked out, his right boot thudding into Matthew’s ribs.

  Matthew ignored the pain and grinned widely. “Why?” he said, teasing. “Do you want some?”

  Lenny kicked again, and this time Jester felt the pain. He yelped and clutched his side. Above him, Lenny Beck continued to laugh. His eyes traced the room they were in, the beady orbs searching for the cameras.

  From inside his jacket, the hit man produced a pistol. He paused to check the gun, his eyes scanning it thoroughly. “One gun,” he said slowly. “One bullet, one chance. The guy before me got a clip.” He studied the revolver in his hand. “And a better gun. The rest of us get this, straight out of the wild west, one chambered bullet, one chance, no mistakes.” He broke free from his trance and looked deeply into Matthew’s eyes. “Get on your feet,” he ordered, stepping back. “Walk this way.”

  Jester slowly pushed himself to his feet. His hand fell into his pocket as he did so, and he grasped the tip of the syringe.

  “Over here.” The hit man stood several feet away, leaning against the wall, his attention on an orb-shaped light bulb – currently turned off – embedded in the wall. “Next to the camera,” he ordered, directing Matthew’s attention to the light.

  Matthew nodded and slowly made his way over to the light bulb. On his way, he allowed his right index finger to flick at the plastic cap on the syringe. The top flipped off, exposing the needle. He cupped his palm and pulled the syringe out of his pocket, twisting his wrist and hiding it under his sleeve.

  Lenny Beck’s face was a picture of excitement. Murder to him was a day-to-day occurrence; it needed no special attention or thought. It was murder, pure and simple. He drew his knife, took a life and then continued to live. But this murder was special. This time he was a showman, he was an entertainer, offering a show of carnage and sadism to an audience of thousands.

  The smile on his face and the anticipation clouding his mind caused him to overlook any problems that Matthew Jester might bring. He didn’t see the man as a threat – he saw him as a victim. Jester was the bull and Lenny was the matador. Jester walked in front of the orb – the revolver trained on him all the while – shifted purposefully and then slumped sluggishly.

  “No. No. No!” Lenny shouted. He walked up to him, grabbed both of his shoulders and forced his posture upright, making sure he was in direct sight of the camera.

  Happy with Matthew’s position, Beck looked into the camera – pushing his face close to Matthew’s – and grinned to his audience.

  Matthew quickly stepped back, pushing himself away from the hulking man whose eyes were still on the camera. He lifted his hand and launched himself forward. The needle plunged into Beck’s skin, by-passing his woollen jumper and cotton undershirt and piercing into the flesh on his right shoulder. It sunk deep, and he released a loud scream of agony as the fluid rushed from the vial, down through the needle and into his blood.

  He knocked the needle out of his skin, brushing it away like a mosquito. He was angry, fuming.

  Jester stood and watched, unmoving, unblinking. When nothing happened, his mouth slipped open and mumbled a few curses. Lenny Beck, the convicted criminal, hardened hit man and aspiring television entertainer, growled at Jester, his features like a rabid bulldog.

  He moved forward a step, his anger reaching boiling point. He stopped halfway into his second step, his leading leg hanging in mid-air. His face changed from a growling bulldog to a grimacing picture of horror. The colour drained from his face, and his eyes rolled back into their sockets.

  He fell sideways, the side of his head smashed into the light, shattering the glass and exposing the camera inside. A shard of glass sliced his face from his cheek to his temple, cutting deep and causing heavy bleeding. He didn’t seem to be aware of the pain. He didn’t seem to be aware of anything. His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. He tried to catch a breath, but he couldn’t. With his legs convulsing and the whites of his eyes showing, Lenny ‘the fairy’ Beck sat slumped underneath the broken camera, shaking madly.

  Jester reached forward and ripped out the camera from inside the embedded light. It was wireless with a red blipping dot on its rear. He moved the camera close to his face, grinned widely into the lens, welcoming his many viewers, and then pointed the camera down at the trembling human mess.

  Lenny’s lungs had now filled with fluid. He was breathless, convulsing and coughing blood. “This is what you’ve paid to see,” Matthew explained off-camera. “Enjoy.” He lowered the camera to the floor, its lens still aimed at the dying hit man.

  ***

  “Holy shit,” Chambers spat, a plume of smoke escaped his lips as he spoke. He turned his eyes away from the screen currently offering a close-up encounter of extreme respiratory failure.

  “The boy has guts,” Fadel noted.

  Dennis Maloney was watching the screens intently. Jester had made his way to the front of the building and was trying to break down a wall of steel that blocked him from the main entrance. The steel wall had been specially made. Ruts had been dug in the roof and under the ground, the door operated electronically, closing from the roof to the floor. A team of men operated the wall, and they allowed the hit men in and made sure Matthew Jester couldn’t get out.

  After failing to find an exit, Jester sprinted to the back of the room. The back entrance was also sealed off. Realising he was trapped, Jester ran back into the stairwell and began to ascend the stairs.

  “Send the next one in,” Fadel said. His eyes had been watching Matthew’s futile efforts at escape, as well as the slow demise of the deadly hit man.

  “We need time for people to place their bets, though, sir,” Chambers said. He looked at Fadel, caught the twinkle of indifference in his eyes and then turned away.

  “Actually,” Maloney said, “we don’t. We may miss out on a lot of live betting, but there are still a lot of bets to be won and lost.”

  “Tell the punters,” Fadel ordered. “Warn them, and then send in the next one.”

  Maloney nodded and walked to the back of the room. He returned five minutes later, all three pairs of eyes instantly turned to the camera trained on the entrance.

  The steel door lifted, and light broke through momentarily. When it faded and the door slid back in place, a six-foot man in his late thirties appeared. He was naked from the waist up, his heaving muscles, tattoos and scars exposed.

  Wrapped over his head, covering his thick b
lack hair, he wore a black bandanna, tied in a knot at the base of his skull. The only other item of external clothing he wore was a pair of loose fit blue jeans. But what drew the attention of the three men in the control room, and the eyes of thousands over the world, was not the thick muscles or the violent tattoos, but the huge, petrol-powered chainsaw he cradled in his arms.

  He handled the deathly weapon with great ease and expertise in his huge hands and mighty arms. It looked like a toy. Its razor sharp edges and motorised serrated blades looked a plastic gun wielded by Action Man.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Mark Chambers asked, stressing each syllable.

  “They call him The Lumberjack,” Maloney said.

  “No shit.”

  Maloney turned to Chambers, smiled at him bleakly, and then turned his eyes back towards the screen. Jester was on the second floor, rushing about, hoping to find a glimmer of hope. The Lumberjack was heading for the stairwell.