Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

“But at least they’re stable, right? Better.”

“Depends what you mean by stable. Depends on the person. For some, the meds are lifesavers. For others, their overall health is worse off. A recent major study found that out of fifteen hundred schizophrenic patients, only about twenty-five percent found the side effects tolerable over the long haul.”

“What kind of side effects?”

“You name it. Seizures, severe weight gain, cardiac problems, gastrointestinal complications, paralysis of the bowels, sexual dysfunction, facial hair, skin rashes, eye disorders, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” He sounded like a medical dictionary. Then again, despite the odd clothing he was a nurse. Or at least claimed to be.

And he wasn’t finished. “But the worst may actually be the emotional problems that often present. Toxic psychosis, delirium, confusion, disorientation, hallucinations, depression, delusions. Point is, neuroleptic drugs inhibit the neural processes like sleep inhibits activity. But a person’s gotta live. They can’t sleep away their lives.” He pointed to a glass door. “In here.”

“Thank you.”

“So we use drugs, but we do so with a watchful eye, pray for better options to emerge quickly, and provide an environment that helps each feel wanted and special.”

Jonathan stopped at the door. “Interesting fact that no one seems to know what to do with: In less industrialized countries, like Colombia and India for example, over sixty percent of schizophrenic patients recover fully within two years. They depend on family nurturing, religion, and other nonmedical treatment. No drugs. In America, the recovery rate is much less than a third, and that’s using antipsychotic drugs. What does that tell you?”

“Hm.”

“She’ll meet you inside. Have a great day, sir.”

Brad thanked him again and walked into a small lobby, now vacant.

Allison walked out of a side door. “Hello, FBI.” She wore a blue dress today. Silver jewelry and cork wedges. She’d fixed her hair differently, tied back in a ponytail but not haphazardly. Same contagious smile. An angel in her own right, in the service of wounded souls.

“Well, well, well, isn’t this your lucky day?” she asked.

“Is it? I wish the same could be said for Melissa.”

Allison’s brow arched in question. “Oh?”

“The girl we found this morning.”

“Oh. Terrible. Awful. I suggest you say nothing of it to Paradise.”

“So she’s agreed?”

“She has. But it took some coaxing on my part. You have as much time as she will give you. Unfortunately I’m a bit shorter on time and I’ll have to wait here while you talk to her. So why don’t we say fifteen minutes?”

“Half an hour.”

“What exactly do you plan on asking her?”

“You said she had a gift.”

Allison thought about that.

“Let’s just say I’m running out of options and time.”

She nodded. “Okay, FBI. Half an hour.”

Brad stepped through the door and entered a room with a large window, Coca-Cola and snack machines, and a sofa grouping that faced a wall-mounted flat-screen television.

Paradise stood by a counter with a sink, watching him as he shut the door behind him. She wore the same too-short jeans and canvas tennis shoes she’d had on the last time he’d seen her. A gray sweatshirt hung on her slight, five-foot frame. Her dark hair still looked stringy-he suspected she looked the same every day of the week. Not unclean, but certainly not very attentive to hygiene.

“Hello, Paradise. Good to see you again.”

“Hello.” Her voice was tight. Nervous.

He stood still for a moment, caught up in the little he knew about her history. Something in her childhood had broken her. She was bipolar, but Allison had said that her initial diagnosis of schizophrenia could be wrong. That she might not suffer from hallucinations but actually saw these ghosts. The notion seemed ridiculous now. Paradise didn’t look like anything more than a damaged young woman who needed to be told when to shower.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” he said. “Do you mind if we sit?”

“Sure. Have a seat.”

He walked around the couch and sat down. She made no sign of joining him.

“Would you like to sit?”

“Not really,” she said.

“Okay. So you’re probably wondering why I want to talk to you.” The moment the words came out, he wanted to pull them back. “Not that people wouldn’t want to talk to you, of course. It’s just that I’m an FBI agent and I’ve come back here asking specifically to speak to you. I’m sure that’s a bit unnerving.”

“It’s okay, sir. I-”

“Call me Brad. My name is Brad Raines.”

She hesitated. “Well, then, Mr. Raines. It’s understandable why you think I’d be uncomfortable with your request to speak with me. Or with any of us. Most people would rather we didn’t exist. It’s hard for us to trust people who don’t like us, I’m sure you can understand that.”

He was surprised by how well spoken she was. Sounded a bit like Allison, clearly her mentor.

“I can understand that. Are you uncomfortable?”

“Yes. But I wouldn’t go as far as Andrea or Roudy.”

“Really? What did they say?”

“Roudy thinks you’re a conniving weasel who’s trying to cut him out. After all, he offered to help first, and everyone knows he’s pretty good at what he does.”

“What does he do?”

“Connect dots that most people miss.”

Astute. Maybe he should talk to Roudy again.

“And what did Andrea say?”

Paradise crossed her arms. “She said you’re a handsome devil and that your only interest for wanting to see me alone is to get into my pants.”

Brad failed to suppress a sharp chuckle. “Well, you can tell Andrea that I appreciate her flattery, but it won’t help her get into mine.”

Again he wanted to take the words back. But a hint of a smile registered on Paradise’s face, so rather than pull back, he pushed forward.

“On the other hand, if I wasn’t sworn off women, I might find either of you-”

“Don’t say it,” she snapped.

He blinked.

“The comment about Andrea was funny. Leave it at that. Now, please tell me what I can do for you. I’ll be as helpful as I can be.”

“Well, dear, whatever you think I meant, you were likely wrong. I’m not here to take advantage of anybody, mind, body, or spirit. I’m just trying to break the ice.”

She looked at him for a long while, and for a brief moment he wondered if she was seeing one of her hallucinations.

He let her stare. She finally lowered her arms and eased herself down onto the arm of a stuffed chair opposite him. “Sorry for that. I’m not normally so”-she waved a limp hand-“edgy. Whatever you might think, Mr. Raines, I’m not like some of the others here. Not that I’m proud of that. I wouldn’t mind having some of their gifts, schizophrenic or not. But the fact of the matter is, I’m not schizophrenic. I do, however, struggle with bipolar disorder. I assume you know the difference.”

“I do. For the most part.”

“Bipolar disorder, once called manic-depressive illness, is a mood disorder that presents with quick onsets of manic highs that yield to usually longer-lasting depressive lows. It’s inherited. Medication helps, but I hate the way the stuff messes with me, so I avoid it and work through the cycles. Some people can’t cope. Fortunately, I can.”

“That’s good.”

“Clearly. Schizophrenia, on the other hand, is a thought disorder. A form of psychosis that typically presents itself in the late teens and early twenties. It’s thought to be linked to the way dopamine and serotonin work in the brain, but no one really knows whether it’s more about chemical imbalance or the receptors in the brain.”