Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

THREE HOURS PASSED, and to Paradise it felt like thirty minutes. Both Roudy and Andrea had thrown themselves into sifting through the data, though Paradise was certain that while Andrea was applying strict method to her search, Roudy was only playing the role of sleuth. He was intelligent, to be sure, and he could connect dots, but he wasn’t able to see patterns in numbers the way Andrea could.

Neither was she or Brad. They were relegated to the cheerleading section, filling in ideas when questions arose, no matter how irregular those ideas might be. There was electricity in the room, a fascination with the investigation as if it were an epic game of charades. The answer was there, just there, hidden in the mounds of evidence and data, waiting to be identified by the jack in the whole.

Allison came in twice to check on them, eyeing Brad and Paradise with particular interest, Paradise thought. Allison was up to something. She wanted Paradise to connect with Brad, clearly. It was the psychologist in her trying to help Paradise climb out of her hole, and although Paradise had no intention of climbing anywhere, she was surprised at how eager she was to play along.

In fact, she was playing him, not the other way around.

“How many words in the first sentence?” Roudy was asking.

“Eleven. Times eleven, times two. Two forty-four, but the last sentence only has eight. Eight words.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?”

Andrea’s eyes darted. “Don’t know. Just there. Like two holes, snake in the hole. Jack in the whole.”

“This is too random!”

Paradise walked around the couch where she’d been watching them. Brad was in the adjacent room connected by an open door, talking quietly on his phone.

“Random to you, Roudy. You know that’s not the way Andrea’s mind works.”

“Eight, thirteen, five,” Andrea said. “But that’s not it, not at all. Does the number of pictures count?”

“No, the photos were taken by the FBI, not the killer. And don’t assume the key he left is mathematical. It could be any pattern.”

Andrea scratched her scalp and started to whimper, then glanced at the corner. She listened and looked back at Paradise. “That’s not what Betty’s saying. It’s a number. Like the number of raindrops. A showerhead, cleaning the world. Maybe it’s about water.”

Paradise ignored the reference to Betty; Andrea’s mind had to run through its own secret labyrinth to find the center. Brad’s voice carried softly through the open doorway. Her skin tingled at that sound. She had no business allowing a man’s voice to make her feel like this, but she had a job to do. She had to play him.

“Let’s go, Andrea!” Roudy said, snapping is fingers. “Work to do, work, work. We’re running out of time!”

“What time?”

“Time, time it’s always about time. They never come to me unless they’re at their rope’s end and the ticker is seconds from blowing. You think the FBI would have brought us all this”-he motioned at the piles of data-“unless they were beyond the limits of their own wits and needed me? I don’t think so. Focus!”

She whimpered again and hurried to a large white wallboard, where she’d written out the last note, then marked and remarked it a dozen ways that could only make sense to Andrea. Next to it, the original photocopy of the Bride Collector’s writing:

They’re trying to kill me, everyone is trying to kill me.

But the advantage of being God is that I get to change my mind. Why did you move my bride? My time. Have you killed Jack lately? The snake waits in the garden, seeking a new bride to join him in the hole. Perfect twice. Me.

Paradise lost. It takes one to know one. To know the insane. When the jack is in the whole. Does jack want me to hide from you? No, I’m not sick, I’m just better than you.

I’m the sunshine and you’re the Rain Man.

Paradise read the note, but her mind wasn’t on the killer’s writing or Andrea or Roudy or the mounds of evidence. Her mind was lost on Brad.

I’m a twenty-four-year-old woman and I have not yet had a single romantic relationship. I am unlovable and I would make a lousy lover. I am the dirt on the bottom of society’s shoes.

For three hours she’d paced around the room, pretending to help them work, but half her mind was running circles around her feelings, justifying, criticizing, accepting, rejecting, a nonstop mess of emotions and reasoning that should have left her exhausted.

Truth be told, she couldn’t wait for Brad to finish his phone call and rejoin them. She had good reason for this. She had to play him for everyone’s sake; this was her contribution. Even knowing that she was in part fooling herself, she was eager to continue. She was pathetic.

The emotions came suddenly, as if she’d been swept away in a flash flood. Any other time she would have fled to her room and buried herself in her novel in the making.

But it was okay, it really was okay, because nothing was happening. There was no flood. She was simply imagining more than what was there. Brad would look at her and she would see soft, imploring eyes, yearning to know her more intimately. Puke.

Brad would speak and she would hear a voice calling to her gently from the darkness, asking if he could stand beside her, telling her that he liked being close to her. Sick.

And that was only the half of it. Her highly imaginative mind, cursed from birth, had already spun off a dozen fully fleshed scenarios, including everything from she and Brad as copilots on a deep-space probe to their attending an extravagant royal ball.

Puke, puke, sick, gag.

It was all a sad joke. In reality, Brad was only doing his job. He was showing kindness to all three of them because he was a kind man who found each of them fascinating and their gifts helpful. That was perfectly reasonable.

What are you looking for, Paradise? A lover?

“Pathetic!” She growled more than said the word, and the others looked at her.

“We are?” Andrea asked.

“No, not you. Keep going, I’ll be right back.”

She had to put an end to this or risk flipping out, because if she did that, Andrea would snap and it would be over.

Paradise marched up to the open doorway and stepped in. Brad was seated on one of three couches that formed a U for group therapy. He saw her and sat up.

“Okay, Frank. Anything else, let me know. I’ll call you when I leave.”

She walked up to the couch and stopped five feet from him as he ended the call.

“Any luck?” he asked, lifting his eyes.

Looking at him now, she was certain that she’d made a complete fool of herself with him, prancing around the room like a filly in heat while the big stallion here strutted back and forth. His face, square and tanned, with neatly combed blond hair. Those eyes searching hers, seeing her stringy hair, her short frame, her stubby fingers with chewed-off nails, her white face, which had not once seen a jar or tube of makeup.

Apes did not marry men, birds did not cohabitate with whales, and men did not like Paradise. Which was okay, because she did not much like men in that way, either.

“I’m sorry, we can’t do this anymore,” she said.

Mr. Raines stood up. “They’re giving up?”

“No. I’m not talking about them.”

“So…” His eyes twitched, one of those slight movements that signaled he had just caught on to something.

She spoke quickly, before he could embarrass her. “I know what you’re doing, Mr. Raines. I know you’re toying with me. And I need to confess that I’ve been playing you as well. But now we have to stop.”

His face drew a blank.

“Please don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.” She stepped over to the adjacent couch and sat, facing him. “You’re trying to earn my trust so that I can help you. Allison has gone along with the idea because she thinks I need to break out of this shell that has me trapped. She thinks you might be able to win my trust, and if so, you would be the first man from the outside to do so.”