Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

The body disappeared inside. Quinton quieted and stared for another ten minutes, begging God to grace him with another sighting; just one more glimpse of her body. But none came.

He lowered the glasses, squatted on his heels, and began to rock. He knew it was behavior favored by unstable nutcases seeking cadence for their offbeat thoughts, but no one could see him, so he gave in to the comforting motion.

This changed everything. No it didn’t. But it did. Everything. Nothing, in the task at hand. But everything in terms of how that task might be fulfilled. As with any great objective, there were major forces in opposition, and for the first time Quinton had seen them face-to-face. Having been drawn out in the open, the murderous enemy would now undoubtedly play a role.

He’d tested Raines, tempted him with a simple note. Be careful who you love, because I will sin. The FBI agent had latched on like a snake. Why? Why had Quinton felt so compelled to draw the man in? Because the snake needed a garden; even God needed an audience.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. After a few minutes, his heart rate started to decrease.

Okay then, Mr. Raines, I accept your challenge. Okay, Rain Man. I take up your gauntlet. Stop me if you can, you heathen witch doctor. Because I fully intend on stopping you.

ROUDY SAT IN the corner of his room, hugging his knees close to his chest. His hair looked like a twister had passed through it overnight, his face was as blank as a bleached sheet, his lips moved in a rapid inaudible whisper. Paradise stood at his doorway, doorknob in hand, momentarily frozen by the change in him. It wasn’t often that this kind of depression overtook Roudy, but when it did he spiraled to the lowest of lows.

“Oh, no.” Andrea stared at the tossed room from behind Paradise. Roudy’s white bedsheets lay in a heap next to three books spread open where they’d been dumped. A bowl of uneaten Cheerios sat on the desk, surrounded by spilled cereal from a tipped yellow box.

“Oh, no, oh no…” Andrea had woken in a state of terrible anxiety herself, and seeing Roudy in this state would likely push her even deeper into her own fear and misery.

“It’s okay, Andrea,” Paradise said softly, stepping into the room.

“No, no, no.” She rushed past Paradise and flew to the corner, where she dropped to her knees and threw her arms around Roudy, weeping. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Roudy mumbled softly, but otherwise gave no indication he was even aware they’d entered his room.

Paradise walked halfway to them and stopped. She’d come to inform Roudy that the FBI needed her. That she, Paradise Founder, the simple twenty-four-year-old girl who’d supposedly suffered a psychotic break at age seventeen, was finally valued by someone on the outside. The world needed her.

The FBI had brought a body for her.

It was exhilarating! Downright terrifying. They were looking to her, Paradise. Special Agent Brad Raines, a real man who pressed his clothes and wore cologne and who was a star in the real world, needed her.

She’d come for Roudy’s enthusiastic support or maybe a bit of his jealousy, honestly she didn’t know which. Instead, she’d found this-a shell of a man stripped of his sense of worth. He would have nothing for her, and for a moment she resented him, sitting there so helpless and feeble, whimpering with grief.

To make matters worse, Andrea would join him, leaving Paradise to glory in her small spotlight alone, which made it no spotlight at all.

When Roudy didn’t respond to Andrea’s weeping, the girl sank to the floor, curled up in a ball, and continued crying softly.

“The FBI are bringing me a body, Roudy,” Paradise said. “They want my help. Maybe you could help, too.”

At any other time, Sherlock would be consumed by his own delusions of grandeur, pacing, jabbing the air, insisting that he join her. That without his help all would be lost. That not to include him would be criminal, prosecutable.

Andrea would be snapping at him, telling him to mind his own business. That this was Paradise’s time for a little attention, although they all knew that Mr. Raines only had one thing on his mind. Still, it was something.

Instead they were both ravaged by the monsters inside them.

Paradise’s empathy for Roudy washed away her own need for attention. Dark depression was a beast that visited many here, a debilitating illness that could be managed by drugs at times, but never at the expense of human touch and love.

The FBI could wait.

Paradise walked up to Roudy, settled to her knees, and gently rubbed his back. The only time she could hold a man was when he was broken and in need of comfort.

“It’s okay, Roudy. It’s going to be okay. This will pass.”

In response he just moaned.

“You have to get better quickly, Sherlock. They’re going to need you. They’re at their wits’ end and they’re going to need the best.”

He began to relax, then slowly he turned his wide eyes to look at her. She believed his mind was working, screaming for him to acknowledge her wisdom, but his emotions had shut him down for now.

She kissed him on the forehead and gently placed both arms around his shoulders. “This is the price we pay for being so good at what we do, right? But it’s okay, because you help so many people, Roudy. I’m very proud of you. We all are.”

He went limp, and she let him lean into her. Andrea was looking up from the floor like a puppy who wanted some attention as well. Paradise stroked her hair. “We’re so proud of both of you.”

They remained on the floor for several long minutes, letting the pain work its course, and for a while Paradise forgot that she had been on her way to the front office. Her ability to bring comfort to a few here at CWI had become the greater part of her identity. The attention from the FBI, however flattering, was only a recent and likely passing distraction in her world.

But they were waiting. Brad was waiting.

“I have to go, but I’ll be back,” she finally said. “This will pass, Roudy. And when it does, we’re going to need you.”

Andrea pushed herself to her knees, then stood and walked out of the room like a zombie. Headed to her own room for a shower, undoubtedly.

“I’m the best,” Roudy mumbled.

Paradise returned her attention to the man who was staring at the wall. “Yes, you are. You always have been.”

He looked at her, lips quivering. “Tell them I’m sorry. I’m not so good right now. I’m very sorry, maybe later.”

“I will.”

She stood, patted him twice on his shoulder, and left. She closed his door behind her, slipped down the hall, and hurried through the hub. Francie Horner stood in the middle of the floor with her hair teased up into an Afro, staring. Flower sat next to the wall tracing something on the window, watching Paradise along with half a dozen other residents. Was her reputation getting out?

For a moment she was tempted to run back to the room and stay with Roudy where she belonged. What did she think she was going to do, anyway? Touch the dead and give them the name of the killer? She was almost certain she couldn’t help them. Truth be told, she’d gone along with all of this because of him.

Because of Brad Raines. The first man in her memory who had shown the remotest interest in her beyond the kind Casanova routinely offered.

But they were waiting for her. She’d put herself in a predicament, and now she had to finish what she had started.

She walked down the path and entered the front reception area. The nurse, Jonathan, was waiting for her. “Hey, Paradise. They went to the kitchen.”

“Behind the hub?”

“Something about refrigeration. Allison said she’d meet you there.”