Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

“I don’t know how I see it, I just do. My doctors say they’re visual hallucinations. That I’m psychotic, suffering from schizophrenia. I see an image and I can’t tell whether it’s a memory or an imagination.”

“That’s right, that’s what they would say. But you disagree?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. I only know what I see.”

“Are you on medication?”

“No.”

“I am,” Andrea said. Her pretty face twisted up again, once more threatening to burst in tears.

“She’s just come off a short manic cycle,” Paradise said without a trace of weariness or disdain. Turning to Andrea, she asked with a note of real concern, “Do you want to take a shower now?”

“I have to, Paradise. I should go now. Sorry. Sorry, sorry.”

She hurried from the room, finally allowing herself to sob.

“Does this mean we aren’t getting the one thousand two hundred dollars?” Roudy asked. “Bring me the file and lay out all the evidence. Trust me, it will be the cheapest one thousand two hundred dollars the FBI ever spent.”

“You, my lady,” Enrique said taking Nikki’s hand, “are welcome back at any time. I will wait for you and show you heaven.”

This time, Nikki hooked her hand in Brad’s elbow. “But I have a lover, Enrique. Still, it’s a nice gesture.”

His grin did not falter. Undeterred. Brad wanted to slip the unflappable resident a hidden high-five.

He looked at Paradise and saw that she was staring at him. Eyes bright, brown. Mystery caressed her face as if she were one of those ghosts she supposedly saw. The ambiguity instantly haunted him.

What was she thinking?

Nikki excused them and they made their way back to the reception area, where they found Allison. She had already prepared a list of all CWI’s residents dating back seven years, complete with diagnosis, medication, prognosis at time of departure, and all follow-up.

“So. Did our investigative team offer any help?”

“It was enlightening,” Brad said. “But no. No breakthrough, I’m afraid. Paradise is an interesting one. She claims to see ghosts?”

Allison lit up. “You met Paradise? Delightful! One touch of your victims and she might tell you how they died.” She looked away, catching herself. “But then that would be impossible. She could never work up the courage.”

“I doubt the FBI would agree to that.”

“To what? To such foolishness? That’s not the point, FBI. The point is, she suffers from two severe phobias, agoraphobia being one of them. Her fear of leaving her home here has confined her behind our gates for seven years.”

He was familiar with the debilitating fear. In fact, it was surprisingly common-he recalled a case in Miami involving a woman who had starved to death in her apartment for fear of going out for any reason, even to buy food. He’d experienced patches of it himself, immediately following Ruby’s death. The mere thought of dealing with the outside world, even the onslaught of sunshine, became oppressive. The fear dissipated after a few weeks, but it had left him with a healthy sympathy for those it afflicted.

“It’s not unheard of among our residents. They’ve been banished by the world, ostracized and made to feel so odd that they’re only comfortable alone or in a community of their own. Not unlike the devout in any religion. They stick to their churches for fear of being chastised.”

“What’s her story?”

Allison looked at him with a raised brow. “You should ask her.”

“She’s schizophrenic?”

“Truthfully, I’m still not sure. Before we got temporary custody, the psychiatrist in the state hospital diagnosed her with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. Besides the agoraphobia, she also suffers from a deeply rooted distrust of men-those are her primary challenges.”

“And her delusions? These ghosts she sees?”

“Delusions?” Allison turned and led them to the door. “That’s the question, isn’t it, Mr. Raines?” She tapped her head. “Whether or not it’s just up in here.”

Flower was too engrossed in her unfinished sculpture of Brad to notice when they drove past her.

QUINTON GAULD HAD come to accept the fundamental rules of life only recently, in the last year to be exact. And being only forty-one years of age, he still had time to perfect his enforcement of those rules.

This soothing realization had brought him more happiness and relief than he’d felt for seven years, since he’d been so soundly rejected by the first woman he’d chosen and loved. He still couldn’t comprehend her failure of reasoning.

Did a bird reject its own fluffy feathers?

Did a car throw away its growling engine?

Did a woman cut off her own beautiful head?

And yet, despite those unshakable truths, she had rejected Quinton. Thrown him off. Cut off her own head when he’d actually offered to be her head. His only consolation had come from his conclusion that she must be mentally ill. Worse, her soul was sick, for she’d rejected God’s choice.

Which brought his mind to the first rule. He turned to face the mirrored wall in his bedroom and said it aloud, so the three wigless mannequins to his right could hear it clearly.

“Beauty is not defined by man, but by God, who determines the most beautiful.”

He glanced at the seven ceramic dolls on his dresser, each watching him with rapt interest, dressed in the pink dress, the blue dress, the green, the black (which was his favorite), the lavender, the yellow, and the white. Seeing their vacant stares, he expounded on the rule lest they not comprehend its full meaning.

“Not dirty politicians. Not slimy preachers. Not stupid with a capital S neighbors. Not Holly-weird. Not me. Not you. Not mother. Not sister. Not brother. Not teacher, student, pimp, or rock star. God and God alone, who forgives all who have sinned if they follow his rules, defines beauty.”

A pause for effect.

“Even the most beautiful, that one called Lucifer. He forgives him as well.”

Quinton walked into his closet, slipped out of the black bathrobe, and hung it on the hook behind his door. His preparations for the work ahead of him had proven both refreshing and encouraging. As always, he’d fasted that day and given himself a colonic. It was important that his body be clean, inside and out.

Though he could taste the steak he would consume in a few days, he would hold off until then, feeding only on the milk and beans he found so adequate and nutritious for his needs. Afterward, he might go back to John Elway’s place again-on balance, the experience had been satisfying.

He stepped into a pair of black Armani Exchange underwear, the only kind he owned. The brand cradled him firmly, but didn’t cut off his circulation like the Tabitha brand, which he’d burned in disgust after a single hour. It was no wonder he hadn’t been sexually satisfied for so long. Society was conspiring to strip him of his huMANity.

He slipped into white socks, his customary gray slacks, and a light blue button-down shirt. At times like this, it was important to look respectable without attracting attention. Brown Skechers shoes. Though the clothes made him feel at ease with himself, he felt at ease with himself wherever he went. It was undoubtedly one of the chief reasons why God favored him. He could adapt and feel at home anywhere.

Unless, of course, there were bratty kids about. Or when his nails were dirty. Or when it was too hot or too cold, or when the carpet wasn’t clean, or for that matter when a hundred other imperfections disturbed his satisfaction. In fact, to be perfectly honest (something he insisted on being at all times), he was only at ease with himself when all rested in the perfect order God had originally intended.