Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

He paused, adjusting his bow tie. His trousers hung an inch too high, revealing black leather shoes with one shoelace missing. As part of his delusion of grandeur, he’d evidently chosen Sherlock Holmes as his fashion influence. Still, he didn’t strike Brad as the kind who would wander around with a magnifying glass and a pipe.

“Thank you, Roudy.” Nikki glanced at Casanova, who spoke with no further encouragement.

“My name is Enrique Bartholomew, thirty-two-”

“Eight,” Roudy interrupted.

Without a break, he continued: “Or thirty-eight, I forget. They say I’m schizophrenic, but I tell the ladies that all fighters and lovers are schizophrenic. Allison tells me that not all women can appreciate”-he used large hands to draw out his full meaning-“an experienced, fearless lover. But I think she’s wrong. Don’t you, Nikki?” A coy smile.

Brad wondered how many women had slapped Casanova over the years.

“I don’t know, Enrique. But the man I’m interested in is both strong and gentle.”

“Cass tried to date the president’s wife when she was visiting Denver,” Andrea said with a sly grin. “They put him in jail.”

Enrique only smiled back at her. “She wasn’t too bright,” he said. “Hardly a woman at all. I can’t recall what I saw in her. Are you busy this evening?”

“I am. But thank you for asking. What about you, Andrea?”

“Nineteen. I’ve been here a year. Manic depressive. Bipolar. OCD. Prodigious savant, but that part’s wrong.”

“Nonsense,” Roudy said. “She’s the brightest of the batch. Just because you pay attention to your body doesn’t make you their idiot.”

Andrea grinned apologetically. She wiggled her manicured nails, polished in green. “I like to… take care of myself.”

“You like taking showers.”

“Sometimes.”

“How many times?”

“Today?”

“Sure,” Nikki said.

“Two.”

It was ten o’clock in the morning.

“You do your nails and hair each time?”

“Yes.”

“She’s clean and she’s smart as a whip,” Roudy said. “Smartest informant I’ve ever come across.”

Brad looked at Paradise, who seemed content to let them speak without offering an opinion. “How about you, Paradise?”

She glanced at the others, then eyed Brad. He couldn’t tell if she felt awkward or put off. “Um… What’s happening?”

“I’m sorry, I’m Brad Raines with the FBI. This is Nikki Holden, a forensic psychologist. We’re here to see if you can help us uncover information about a killer called the Bride Collector.”

“I’ve never heard of a killer named the Bride Collector,” she said. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“That’s the name we’ve given him.”

“More details,” Roudy said, pacing again. “I need to know all that you know if I’m to help you. Shoe size?”

Brad decided to run with him. “Eleven.”

“Uh-huh. Estimated weight based on impressions?”

“One ninety, two hundred.”

“Secretor?”

“No. No bodily fluids found on any of the scenes. No hair, no skin cells, no prints, nothing.”

“You have the file on you?” He held out his hand.

“No.”

“Paradise didn’t tell you about herself,” Andrea inserted.

“No file? How do you expect me to be of any use?” Roudy demanded.

“What does he do to the women?” Enrique asked.

Brad glanced between them. “He kills them. He makes them up to look beautiful, and then he kills them and leaves their bodies glued to the wall.”

Silence engulfed them.

Andrea’s face twisted up and she started to cry into her hand. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s disturbing, I know. Have any of you known any resident, present or past, who might fit this profile? Roudy, the director told us you remember everyone who’s come through here.”

“I think I should take a shower,” Andrea said. “My skin is itching, you know. Size eleven, he’s six foot one. Big hands, could break their necks pretty easy. We don’t allow anyone like that here. He uses makeup on them?”

Brad hesitated. “Yes.”

Andrea started to cry again, this time accompanied by a gentle pawing at the makeup on her face.

“It’s okay, Dre,” Paradise said. Her voice was light and sweet, but sure and authoritative. “We’re safe here. This is home. We have guards and Miss Allison. And Roudy and Enrique would never let anything happen to us, would you?”

“Never,” Roudy said. Enrique frowned.

Andrea stepped over to Paradise and offered the girl her hand. Paradise took it and rubbed her shoulder. “Don’t let them scare you. Pretend it’s just a story.”

“Paradise writes novels,” Roudy said. “But I have to say, I honestly can’t recall any resident whom I would judge as matching your description-assuming you mean a person who demonstrated a tendency toward this kind of violence. However, if you could get me the file, I could almost certainly shed some light on the case for you.”

“You’re sure you’re busy tonight?” Enrique asked. He was looking at Nikki.

“I am. But thanks again.” She smiled.

Brad took a deep breath, suddenly afflicted with an overpowering sensation of time’s passage. A serial killer was inexorably cycling through to his next murder, yet here Brad sat, whiling away the hours in the company of several mental health patients. It became abundantly clear that, however fascinating and gifted they might be, Roudy and friends weren’t going to help stop the killer.

“Paradise didn’t say what she did,” Andrea said.

Brad nodded, thinking they should leave soon. But Andrea seemed determined. “She’s right. Why don’t you tell us about yourself, Paradise.”

She blushed. “I don’t think I can help you.”

“She sees dead people,” Roudy said.

Psychotic hallucinations, Brad thought. Paradise didn’t attempt any denial.

“And spirits,” Andrea added.

“You mean ghosts?”

She shrugged. “Something like that.”

“If she touched the woman’s body, she would see who killed her,” Andrea said. “Isn’t that right, Paradise?”

“I doubt it. Please, Dre, you’re just talking now.”

“It’s true.”

“How long have you been here, Paradise?”

“Seven years. I arrived when I was seventeen.”

There was something different about the girl. The woman. Unlike the others, she held her secrets close.

“And nothing comes to mind when I describe what we know of this killer? Any men you might have gotten to know?”

She thought a second. “No.”

Andrea clearly wasn’t satisfied. “Paradise doesn’t trust men. She was hurt.” She began to cry again and Paradise comforted her.

Brad wondered what it would be like to be either of these women. What it would be like to live with them. He’d spent the last dozen years of his life mourning the loss of Ruby, an angel from heaven. She’d been ripped from him and he’d crumbled. He’d been searching for Ruby’s replacement ever since, but his memory of her spoiled him for anything less.

But his pain surely couldn’t compare to whatever secret pain Paradise was hiding. What circumstances had brought her here, to this facility for the forgotten? Who loved this lost woman? What hopes steered her journey through life?

Empathy washed over him, joined by a stab of shame. Compared with this one woman, his own life was like a king’s. Yet he spent his life alone in regret. Sorry for himself.

His emotion was so strong that for a moment he thought the others might be picking up on it, despite his best attempts to remain detached. He glanced away.

Nikki took up the slack. “Some say it’s possible to sense things about people, pick up on their… energy, even after they’re dead. Maybe that’s what you mean, Paradise.”