Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

“Sorry,” he said. “I think I’m in the wrong house.”

That gave her just enough pause to keep from crying out.

“Sorry. I must have stumbled into the wrong… Is this Twenty-four-thirteen?”

She swallowed and closed her mouth. But she was still too terrified to respond. Her eyes dropped to the rag in his hand.

“Okay, I’ll leave now,” he said, his voice suddenly weak and lame sounding. “I’m terribly sorry for barging in like this. Talk about embarrassing. Though you are really quite a pretty woman.”

He chided himself for sneaking in the last comment.

“Wow, now I’m really embarrassed. If you can show me how to get out.” He looked over his shoulder at the door. Meanwhile, the scent of chloroform wafted through the air. “Do you mind showing me how to get out of here?”

“Get out!” she cried.

He held up his hand. “No, no don’t do that. I’m sorry, I just…” Quinton pointed at her window. “Look!”

She looked. Childish, but it worked.

He dived then, while her eyes were momentarily averted. Coiled and then unleashed every muscle in his body, unswervingly aimed at her. Latched on to her knee and threw his whole 210 pounds on her frail form, hand with rag extended.

But Melissa wasn’t a favorite for her looks alone. She rolled quick, squealing.

He rolled with her but she beat him to the far side of the bed and sprang to her feet. Her flannel pajamas were yellow with small white butterflies. How cute was that?

Quinton threw up both hands. “No, don’t run. You’re the bride. He wants you, you have to…” But she was already running around the bed, headed toward the open bedroom door.

He launched himself for her just as she bolted past the end of the bed. His hand caught a handful of her soft flannel pajama bottoms and pulled her to a ripping stop as the seam split.

She pulled away, grunting, panicked. But now Quinton was on his feet, looming over her. He brought the rag down again and stuffed it upon her mouth, to help her calm down and sleep so this wouldn’t be such a difficult adventure.

Melissa twisted away to her right and let a scream rip from her throat. But as soon as the cry began, it was abruptly cut short by a loud thunk. Her attempt at escape had caused her to slam her head into the corner of her dresser.

The woman dropped like a dead deer. Immediately, blood sprang from a wound at her temple.

“No…” The sight of the blemish made his stomach swim. “What… What did you do?” He felt fury well up and flush his face with heat. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Nausea swept over him as he stared down at the blemish on her otherwise spotless face. She’d ruined it! She’d slammed herself into the dresser and marked her flawless visage. What was he to do now? For a moment, he thought he might actually throw up on her. He pushed back the nausea only to struggle with a very strong urge to punch her in the face.

Slowly, he brought himself back into control. It was a setback, but nothing was lost. With any luck, no one had heard her short scream. Even if they had, more than likely they were already rolling over and going back to sleep, once again confident that nothing threatened their sanctity. Certainly, Melissa was back asleep. To be sure, he pressed the rag over her mouth and counted to ten.

Then he shoved the rag in his pocket, threw the girl over his shoulder, and left through the back door, being sure to lock it behind him.

THE HOURS TICKED relentlessly by, and one day stretched into two.

Brad Raines hovered over the case like a mother hen, knowing that for all he could not see, something was indeed happening. The killer wasn’t curled up in bed, sleeping. His evil harvest was proceeding apace.

The FBI team had scoured the evidence, searching for the elusive lead that would close the gap between hunter and hunted. But nothing new of significance had presented itself.

Brad stood in his office alone, staring out the window at the cars passing by three stories below. He and his team had all they needed, a mantra that Brad lived by. Somewhere in the pages of evidence on his desk hid a key that could unlock the case: a dot, an Easter egg, a word that said more than had been spoken.

Brad had returned from the Center for Wellness and Intelligence haunted by an uneasiness that lodged on the edge of his mind. Associating pattern killing with the likes of a Roudy Sparks or an Andrea Mertz-any of the residents he’d met at CWI-was like pinning a bank robbery on a ten-year-old child. They were capable of outbursts related to delusions, but the cruel illness just wasn’t consistent with calculated patterns of harm.

He’d met victims at CWI, not perpetrators capable of heinous murder. But there had been more, this haunting that was slowly creeping into his mind.

In their eyes, he’d seen a small part of himself.

The revelation came back to what Nikki had said just before they got the call to check out CWI. This notion that each human was truly alone in the world, confronted by the complexity of life. And finding themselves alone, they felt insecure. Not loved the way they should be. Not really wanted. Outcasts. Pretenders on some subtle but profound level.

Whether or not they were willing to admit it, all humans were self-contained and alone. The wisest and hardiest among them managed to acknowledge that fact and surpass it. More experienced adults had found ways to cope, but many if not most felt it still. Younger adults suspected it deep in their bones and cried out for significance. Some retreated from that insecurity as matter of survival.

Sadly, supportive examples flitted through his mind.

A wife who’d been abused as a child, unable to engage her husband in a mutually gratifying sexual relationship because she couldn’t lower the walls of protection she’d built around herself. A man told all his life he didn’t measure up, now safely encased in his own shell, afraid that even those closest to him might learn he really didn’t.

Some covered their insecurity by overcompensating with talk, talk, talk. Or food. Or athletics. Or addictions. Or ridiculous behavior to garner attention.

In the last three days, Brad’s world had become a wasteland of victims on all sides. Everyone-and not only Nikki and Frank and Kim, and Mason in the lobby and Amanda at Maci’s Café-but everyone, was a lonely victim of life’s complexity; Brad wondered what mysteries they hid behind. What secrets and fears secured their loneliness?

You’re a pretty girl, Amanda. Thin and fit. Do you constantly diet to fix yourself? Do you hate yourself? Or do you love yourself and regret that others don’t appreciate you more?

Who was the skateboarder practicing on the rails by his condo, really? A young man who was ready to begin really living because he wasn’t yet satisfied with who he was? Life for him was still practice for some real test, which lay a month or a year or maybe five years away. When he passed it, his peers would truly appreciate him. Cherish him even. He would find his significance.

Problem was, that day would never arrive. Everyone was still either telling themselves it was all just around the corner, or they were living with the haunting suspicion that the pot at the end of the rainbow was all a fantasy. That in reality they were alone in a jungle and the rainbows were just illusions.

So then, life was really just a mind game, wasn’t it? And most people really were handicapped. Mentally.

Ill.

Brad tapped the windowsill with his forefinger. Nonsense, of course. This was simply his way of dealing with his own insecurities. Unlike most, he was at least able to see the truth. Still, he was fated to face the same monsters of inadequacies, insignificance, and isolation everyone faced.