THE APPLE AND THE TREE III
“… Robert Benjamin, a 63 years old investment banker, was reported missing by his wife yesterday evening. Margaret Benjamin, who has been married to the missing banker for thirty two years, has released a statement to the press soliciting the aid of the general populace to aid in the search of her husband, wishing that he comes home safe and sound. The Chief of Police, in an interview with R8CN reporters this afternoon, assured the citizens of Ontario that Mounted officers would be staging a wide spread search for the missing Benjamin. While investigations are underway, the word on the street is that the kindly man might be another victim in the series of kidnap cases that have yet to be solved…”
Funmilola Quinn was on a high like no other. She sat on a stool at the dining area and impaled her sodden crotch repeatedly on the eight-inch faux phallus that she attached to a stool. The squelching of her juices and slapping of flesh on wood and the gasping moans that were the results of her wantonness blended beautifully with the sounds of the news report on her 47” Sony TV to make for an erotic aphrodisiac that rivaled the PT-141 in Funmi’s mind.
Watching Mr. Benjamin’s widow cry and beg on TV further stoked her overheated furnace. This was the first time her playthings have been linked to each other, and from the looks of it, things were about to get very interesting. She doubled her efforts on the stool as the report showed four of her nine ex-playthings. Funmi groaned and moaned and orgasmed as the families of the missing men cried and begged on national TV. She had lost count of the number of orgasms but it did not matter, for in Funmi’s mind, there was no such thing as too much of a good thing.
She had been studying up on a potential lover when the reports began and now her laptop had been pushed to a corner lest it gets damaged by the gushing fluids that graced more than half the dining table. She would make sure to buy some papers when she was going to see her mother this afternoon.
* * *
Olusola Quinn was staring at the missing persons column of the paper her pretty daughter had brought her that afternoon. The guards had admitted a fondness for Funmi and her charming ways and they sometimes allowed her spend more time with Sola who was getting more worried for her daughter as each day passed. There was a dark sparkle in her eyes that afternoon as they sat and ate a bowl of Spaghetti and Meatballs. The tender and juicy meat was not enough to distract Sola from the perverse pleasure Funmi seemed to be receiving from something as mundane as eating a meal with her mother. Maybe it was just in her mind but Sola was convinced that she saw Funmi grinding on the hard visitors’ bench. Even worse, Funmi was overly concerned about her thoughts on the meal they shared. Sola did not want to believe it but she had this prickly feeling that she would not like to know what manner of meat she was putting in her stomach.
“Six days”, she muttered again as she read through the report about Mr. Benjamin.
It took these idiots six days to admit that the man was missing. Her husband was the devil’s own incarnate and she was beginning to believe her daughter might be worse than he was. She had spent too many minutes bowled over the toilet seat as she puked her guts out. Funmi would not get away with this. She had done too much this time.
“Foolish child!!!” walking the path that led to her father’s demise.
‘Could she not have picked any other hobby?’
‘Why this madness?’
‘Now she had taken to consuming their remains?’
Sola cried as she wondered how many men she must have unwittingly ingested.
Funmi had done enough. She gathered her little bag of sketches and letters and newspaper cut-outs. She would be doing Funmi a world of good by putting her away.
“She would be better for it”, she said to convince herself as she made her way to the Chief Warden’s office.
* * *
Olusola Quinn was afraid and it showed on her face. Sweat poured down her back, soaking her shirt and causing it to stick to her curves. The temperature control in the Warden’s office was turned on as was evident on the smooth and dry faces of the warden and the suit-clad detectives from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS). She looked from one official to the other wondering why she didn’t keep her mouth shut, but then she knew it had to be done.
“Mrs. Olu-show-la Margret Quinn, may I call you Margret? I hope you don’t mind me smoking”, the eldest of the detectives murdered her name as he pulled a stick of cigarette from a pack of California Slims and went through the ceremony of tapping the filter against the plain gold-plated lighter in his hand to ensure the tobacco fillings were hard-packed and then he lit the stick and took a very long drag. To Sola’s eye, this man was a creature of habit and he would rather leave an office than be denied his bi-hourly indulgences.
Sola shook her head in reply as she watched him exhale the fumes from his lungs. She would have laughed at the intense look of pleasure that filled his eyes as he did so. She would have laughed if she was not scared and worried.
“I’m Chief Inspector Nisuba Mark and these men with me are Inspectors Anthony Greaves and James Damascus”, he gestured to the respective detective as he called their names. Not that she took special care to remember their names anyway.
‘Fucking Suits!’ They were all dressed in a varied shades of grey and Sola’s time in prison had instilled in her an intense hate for officers of the law.
“Chief Warden Fontaine called our office this morning with interesting news. She’s of the opinion that you have something to tell us. Well if you wouldn’t mind, we’ll like to hear about this serial kidnapper from you”
Sola knew they had all seen the content of the file that she had given the Chief Warden the day before. She cast her gaze on the full bodied woman looked to have a Native American somewhere in her genes, Chief Fontaine gave her an understanding nod as if to say, “Go on… tell them everything”.
“Can I get a stick of cigarette please?” Sola asked as she turned her sights back on the detectives. She took a healthy drag, unintentionally mirroring Chief Nisuba’s look of pleasure as the dense fumes of carbon monoxide and tar and nicotine burned through her chest and swirled tightly in her lungs.
“What do you want to know?”
“First tell me how you came in contact with such a dangerous person? And why he’s sending you the details of his escapades?”
Sola nervously busied herself by picking out the imaginary flecks of cigarette ash from her prison uniform when Detective Nisuba opened the round of questions.
“Has to be a very trusting fellow”, supplied Detective Damascus in a lilting french accent that was way too light and shrill for his thick build.
And like that, without even letting her speak, they began trashing the suspect, calling her daughter disturbed and psychotic and insane. They hinted that the bastard would be hunted down like vermin; Greaves even said he would gun the fucker down if he attempted to run.
Ordinarily, Sola would not be bothered by their taunting, but her little girl’s life was at risk.
“Tell us everything you know about this person so that we can find this insane piece of shit and put it away for good”
“She’s not…” Sola whispered.
“What was that?” Detective Damascus asked.
“SHE’S NOT INSANE!!!”
Sola’s eyes were heavy and laden with tears. “You don’t know the first thing about her. You don’t know what she’s been through, what she’s seen. You don’t know how much she’s suffered!!!”
Sola was on her feet. Her eyes were wild and she looked like she was about to rip the throats off the three idiots that were spouting shit about her little girl.
A confused Nisuba reached for her file as she was ranting, a quick glance and his bulging eyes told Sola he understood her pain.
“It’s your daughter! She’s the killer, isn’t she?”
Sola fell to her knees in tears. The four officers watched in silence and pity as the woman wept for what was to come.
“Margret, I’m sorry, but I must ask you to tell us everything”, Nisuba said to the crying woman as he handed her a roll of tissue to wipe herself clean.
“It’s not her fault”, Sola said as soon as she could speak without breaking down.
“Not her fault? She’s killed what, six… seven people?” asked Greaves as he thrust a thumb to the file in Nisuba’s hand.
“Nine”, replied a humble Sola.
“Nine! How is she not at fault?”
Chief Fontaine, in a rare burst of tenderness and concern, handed Sola a cup of coffee and rubbed her back as she sipped from the cup. Sola was grateful for this show of kindness and showed her appreciation with a nod of her head.
“It’s because you don’t know about her first victim”
“First victim?” Nisuba asked.
“By her letters, that would be Mr. Jeremiah Cobbler. That’s the oldest letter here. It’s just over a year old”, Damascus said as he shuffled through the letters.
“That’s the second one”
“Then who was the first?” asked Greaves who looked to be losing his patience.
“He was a beast. He had to die!”
“Well, who was he?” Greaves was scowling.
“It still shames me that my own baby could do something I couldn’t do myself”
“Look, Mrs. Quinn, you had better…” Greaves was cut short by a wave of Nisuba’s hand.
“Margret, unless I’m mistaken, you wouldn’t be implying that your daughter’s first victim was your husband, would you?”
“What?!” Greaves and Fontaine exclaimed together.
Sola gazed intently into the cup cradled in her hands like it had, within its content, the answer to poverty and world peace and global warming.
Chief Nisuba stared at the woman. His twenty odd years of experience told him she was about to tell him something he should not take lightly.
“Tell me everything”
To be continued…