Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

Each time she’d fought through the haze and gone to work on the strips of cloth that fastened her arms and ankles to the gurney.

Her first sliver of hope had come when the killer left the fingernail clippers on the edge of the mattress after he manicured her nails and painted them with a ruby-red polish. She’d managed to snake her fingers over them and tuck them under her back.

She’d spent desperate minutes unsure if the clippers would prove any use at all. Then he’d turned his attention to his tools, and she’d cut away at the cloth that tied her right wrist to the aluminum frame. She’d nearly cut through the strip before stopping and considering her intentions. She couldn’t sit up and cut her legs free without being found out.

Armed with the knowledge that she had the capacity to cut herself free, she bided her time.

Then he’d left the room. She’d sat up and frantically went to work on her ankles, sure he would walk back in at any second. And she couldn’t cut all the way through. Not yet, he would see it! Not until she knew she had a path out, when he least expected it.

He had to be in the room, unprepared, when she made her break.

And now that moment had come.

For the first time in half an hour, Quinton turned his back to her and walked back to the table of tools. To get the drill, she thought. He was going to get the drill and go to work. This was it. She had to get out now.

The only problem was the lock. He’d fixed a padlock to the door, and the key was in his right pocket, she’d watched him use it twice now. Unless she disabled him and broke out with force or using the key, she didn’t stand a chance.

But it was now. She had to go now, before the drugs wiped her out completely.

Nikki turned her head and saw that he was plugging an orange extension cord into the wall while humming softly. She jerked both feet up toward herself, tearing them free with a soft ripping sound. The haunting violins in the music he’d played over and over helped to mask the tear, but she quickly straightened her legs so he couldn’t see what she’d done.

Quinton glanced back. “You’re a strong one,” he said. “I’m going to have to numb your legs. I don’t want you to feel any pain. It’s all going to be okay.” He bent over a black case for the Novocain and a syringe.

Head swimming in whirlpool of fear and drugs, Nikki took a deep breath, rolled out of the gurney, took two steps to the table, snatched up the hammer that lay there and, with her final reserves of strength, she threw herself at him.

THE LIGHT TURNED green but the truck was taking its time and Brad was starting to lose perspective.

The car on his right was a Lincoln Continental, and its driver apparently felt no need to teach him the same lesson the truck driver had. The moment the Lincoln surged forward, Brad lay on his horn and whipped the BMW into the right lane, before the Honda behind the Continental could close the gap.

He squeezed into the vacant spot without being hit, shoved the accelerator to the floor, and shot past a cursing truck driver on his left.

He clamped his mouth shut, letting the heat of frustration wash over his face. None of this mattered at the moment. What did matter was that he was able to veer back to his left in front of the stalled eighteen-wheeler, accelerate the BMW to full speed without a single car to slow his progress, and whip into the apartment complex’s gated entrance without being held up again.

He flashed his badge at the guard. “FBI, you got the call?”

“Yes, sir.”

The gate was opening already. Thank you, Temple.

He gunned through, heard his tires squeal, and immediately backed down. The killer might hear beyond her walls. Brad had made it clear that the police should not use sirens. His greatest advantage, maybe his only advantage, was coming in unexpected. The Bride Collector wasn’t ready for him, not this soon after the call.

He took the BMW down the side street fast, ignoring the speed bumps. Two police cruisers sped past, headed north on Simms-backup was here.

Hold on… Hold on, Nikki.

THE BLOW CAME from behind, glancing off the side of his head with such force that Quinton wondered if he might be dying. He’d heard her grunt and started to turn when it landed, otherwise he might have taken the blow full on his skull.

Surprised, he leaped to one side as the favorite’s naked form flew by him and slammed into the wall. Other than her underwear, she wore only four strips of cloth, one tied to each wrist and one on each ankle.

Quinton knew immediately what had happened. She’d pulled herself off the gurney and come at him like a plucked goose. And she’d hit him on the head with his own hammer, the one with a fiberglass head that he never used but brought in the interest of being prepared for every eventuality.

She spun around, hammer still in hand, eyes fired like stars.

She’d smeared more of her makeup! “What are you doing?” he demanded.

The favorite swung again, but Quinton blocked her arm with his own. The hammer hit her own leg and she cried into her tape.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, angry now. “I had you nearly perfect and you’re messing this all up! Stop this!” He snatched the hammer from her hands and tossed it into the corner. “You’re acting like a child.”

She sagged against the wall, sobbing under the influence of drugs and hopelessness. A glance back at the gurney and he saw the fingernail clippers on the mattress. He’d been careless. He deserved the extra work she was forcing upon him.

Nikki slipped down to her seat, pulling the extension cord free, then she drew quiet. It was amazing that she’d managed an escape attempt despite being drugged. None of the others had tried to resist like this. Perhaps that was why she was so luckily chosen. She was a strong one, physically and mentally, even if she was a bit of an idiot. The tough, stubborn type of woman, blessed also with true beauty.

This was the kind of woman who did well on Wall Street, he thought. The executives of the world. Beautiful and strong. He understood why God loved them so much.

Quinton hauled her up, carried her to the gurney, and flopped her facedown. He would drill her now, apply the glue to her back, and place her on the wall. Then he would redo her makeup as she gave up her ghost and became his bride.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have caused a real mess.

Quinton had decided to use the new Black and Decker electric drill he’d bought for this occasion. He wanted to see how it compared with his previous choices.

He plugged the orange extension cord back into the wall, picked up the drill and approached Nikki, God’s favorite.

BRAD LEFT HIS BMW parked two buildings south of Nikki’s second-floor apartment and ran under the causeway. A car squealing up to the front door would alert anyone keeping an eye out.

He took the outdoor stairs two at a time, checked to see the police cars pulling in behind his, and swung onto the landing. Brass numbers above the door: 7289. A stained panel door with a one-foot square beveled glass panel at eye level. The tenants had their own locks, he’d checked already. Management didn’t have access. The only way in was to break down the door.

Shoot out the deadbolt.

He slipped out his FBI-issued Glock, chambered a round, and approached the door on the balls of his feet. Shoes padded up the stairs behind him.

Brad swung around, gun in both hands trained on the deadbolt, fighting the urge to go in on his own now because every second felt like an hour and Nikki might have seconds or minutes but not hours. Now. Now!

He waited. The two uniformed police were by his side in seven seconds, sidearms ready. They’d been briefed, and if they hadn’t he didn’t have time to do it now.