“If she’s still alive,” I said.
“The fuck if she dead,” Ice said. “I ain’t buyin’ it. The family must know somethin’ if they stop you from lookin’. Only one dead right now is my goddamn nephew. You ever think her family might have something to do with that?”
“I have.”
“And what you figure, since you supposed to be so damn smart?”
“That all possibilities remain on the table.”
“Which ain’t sayin’ shit.”
“Someone has been lying to me, and sooner or later I’m gonna figure out who that is. Once I do that, everything will fall into place.”
“You soundin’ mighty damn confident for someone who ain’t got much yet.”
“It’s all coming together,” I said, opening the door. “When you keep shaking the tree, sooner or later something falls out.”
“You better shake it harder,” Ice said. “’Cause if I don’t get some answers soon, I’m gonna blow the whole goddamn tree up.”
“PLEASE! PLEASE! LET ME GO.” Stanton leaned forward plaintively, a broken man. It felt good to see him like that, begging for help.
“You never admitted what you did was wrong,” I said through the mask.
Stanton cried softly. “It was wrong. I was wrong. I never should’ve done it.”
“What did you do?”
“I took advantage of them,” he cried.
I stood there and stared at him.
“I took advantage of them,” he said between whimpers.
“You abused and raped them,” I said.
“Yes, I did. Dear God, forgive me.”
I walked toward him. I could smell the stagnant odor of urine and excrement.
“Thank you, God,” he whispered, convinced that his newfound penance was enough to get him released.
I reached him and pulled a pair of scissors out of my pocket, then grabbed the hem of his shirt.
“What are you doing?” he said.
I didn’t answer. I just started cutting in an upward direction; the undershirt and shirt both easily opened under the sharp blades.
“What’s going on?” he said. “What are you doing right now? Release me.” He squirmed and thrashed violently.
“You keep doing that and your skin will cut like paper between these blades,” I said.
He thought about it for a moment, then let his body relax. I had his shirt off in no time. He was in better shape than I thought he would be. He actually had some noticeable musculature, and the last week of reduced calories had leaned him out even more.
I pulled a pair of gloves from my vest; once they were on, I went to work on his pants. He looked confused and scared as I cut up the inseam and into his crotch. I wanted to cut off his penis, but the pain would be too short. He deserved a slow torture, just like his victims. I cut up through his waistband, then around both legs, pulling everything off until he was naked.
“What are you going to do to me?” he asked. “You’re crazy!”
I walked out the door and picked up a gallon bucket filled with a mixture of peanut butter and chopped bacon bits. When I was next to him again, I pulled the large silicone spatula out of the bucket and lifted a generous portion of peanut-butter-and-bacon mixture. He began licking his dry lips. There was hope in his eyes. I took the mound of peanut butter and dumped it in his lap. He looked up at me, surprised and disappointed. I took another lump and dumped it in his lap also. Then I took the spatula and smeared the peanut butter all over his genitals and crotch, then ran it down his legs all the way to his feet.
“What are you doing?” he screamed. “Have you lost your mind?”
I smeared it around his neck and his chest and shoulders. I kept painting him until he was completely covered, except for his mouth. I didn’t want him to be able to eat it. Once I was done, I tightened the restraints, especially the one around his neck. He had definitely lost weight, and too much space had grown between his skin and the metal. I worked on the metal straps around his arms and legs next. He winced as I squeezed the cinches.
Despair and hopelessness darkened his eyes. I then squirted him with generous amounts of oil to keep the peanut butter fresh. I didn’t want it to dry before it was time. The last thing I saw before turning to leave was the drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. The aroma of the peanut butter and bacon had already triggered a rush of hormones and brain chemicals commanding him to eat. But locked in so tightly, he wouldn’t be able to score even a lick.
40
RAYSHAWN JACKSON GREETED ME at the door of a large room hidden in the basement of St. Paul’s Church at precisely eight in the morning. He was about as wide as he was tall, with dimples big enough to hold marbles. He might’ve been the most optimistic kid I’d ever met. His smile was contagious.
“Lots of bells and whistles in here,” I said, looking around. The place was crawling with a sundry collection of monitors, keyboards, disc towers, and flashing lights. A good plan B if the control tower at O’Hare went down.
“Bishop is a millennial kind of preacher,” he said, his smile growing even wider. “He understands that technology is where you need to be in the evolving world of social media. He spares no expense.”
“And you run all this by yourself?”
“I have a couple of people who help me out on Sunday morning services, but they’re volunteers, so they come in when they can. I get paid a little, but I mostly do it because I like all the equipment, and sometimes I can use it for school projects.”
“A church in a small corner of Englewood needs all this equipment?”
“If you wanna be global, you need this kind of equipment.
