Ted Dekker: The Bride Collector

“None.”

“Other evidence processed?”

“So far he’s clean. The fresh hair, bodily fluids, and fingerprints match the victim. Three other hair samples we’re running now. Could be from anyone messing around in there.”

Temple nodded at Frank and glanced at the others. “Any other ideas?”

Nikki shifted off the wall and paced. “You want to play his way, start with all known cases of mental illness in Colorado.”

“So now he’s a wacko again?”

“You’re not listening. Again, being a genius and mentally ill are not mutually exclusive.”

“But you’re willing to concede that he could be nuts.”

She breathed out slowly. “I think our guy could be deeply disturbed, just not nuts. Maybe psychotic and delusional, maybe suffering from acute schizophrenia, but he doesn’t slobber.”

“Then until we learn differently, we assume he’s both mentally ill and a genius. Fair enough?”

She nodded. “The ones that aren’t complete loners tend to congregate on the Internet, in psychiatrists’ offices, psychiatric wards. It’s a starting point.”

“As of now we start looking for records of any anomalies or patterns in mental health facilities, residential care homes, whatever.” Temple turned quickly to Brad. “Pull whatever resources you need, cross-check what we know of the Bride Collector against the files of every known psycho released from any facility in the last”-he looked at Nikki-“ten years?”

“Too many cases. Mental illness is more widespread than you think. Nearly seven hundred thousand mentally ill are jailed each year in this country. Start with a year.”

Temple looked stunned. Brad found it odd that the man wasn’t already familiar with this statistic. “God help us all.” He glanced up at the wall clock, which was closing in on ten. “A year then. I have to go.”

Brad spoke before the man could move. “We should also assume he intends to kill seven women. The seventh and most beautiful may refer to his final target.”

That brought a pause.

“Unless he’s killed three others without anyone’s knowledge,” Frank said.

“As long as we’re assuming the worst, he has three more to go.” Eyes on Nikki. “And being the smartest mind in the room, he knows that we know that. He wants us to know that he’s going to kill three more women.”

“It fits.”

Brad pushed on quickly. “He’s going to go again in a few days. If it takes him a few days to kill, then he’s likely already engaged. It’s a short cycle for a pattern killer who kills to satisfy compulsion. But our guy’s method is based on reason, not raw compulsion.”

They stared at him, arms crossed.

“Okay. I gotta go.” Temple grabbed his cell phone and walked toward the door. “We assume our guy’s out there now, outwitting us morons, stalking a beautiful woman he intends to kill in the next few days.” He turned back at the door. “For the love of all that is holy, stop him.”

QUINTON GAULD WAS his name, and at the moment he was preparing to enjoy a thick, juicy, prime-cut rib eye at Elway’s steak house at the corner of 19th and Curtis, just one block from the FBI building on Stout Street, downtown Denver, Colorado, USA, North America, World, Universe, Infinity.

The thought of being so close to the only humans capable of ruining things put him in a calculating mood. It was a time for reflection and self-examination, soaking in the fluids of truth.

And upon such introspection, Quinton was feeling abundantly satisfied.

The waiter, a tall blond man with a slightly protruding belly and sharp elbows, set a ceramic plate down using a cream-colored hot pad folded over the dish’s rim to protect his palm and fingers from being seared like the steak. His name was Anthony.

“Be careful, it’s hot.”

“Thank you, Anthony.”

“Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“I’ll let you know in a moment.”

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else? Vegetables? Bread?”

“I am all set, Anthony.”

“No drink?”

“I have water, Anthony. Water washes steak down quite nicely after so much bloodletting.”

The waiter offered a coy smile, signifying his appreciation for Quinton’s choice of words to describe a cow’s being slaughtered. But Quinton was speaking of Caroline, not the cow. Caroline wasn’t a cow, and she hadn’t been slaughtered.

She was one of God’s favorites, and she’d been drilled. And then bled.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Quinton picked up his fork and held it in his large, bony hand. He paused for a moment, staring at the gold cuff link that buttoned the sleeve of his shirt. An inch of white, and then the blue Armani suit, reserved for special occasions.

He never worked in a suit and tie because he found them too constraining, preferring instead nakedness encumbered only by black briefs.

He was momentarily fascinated by the chrome fork in his fingers. Larger than many forks. A real man’s fork. His own fingers were larger than most by as much as an inch in length. By his hands alone, one might guess him to be nearly seven feet tall. In reality, he stood only six foot four.

He twisted his wrist, caught up in the sight of flesh against metal, such a harsh surface in the embrace of soft flesh. He’d once considered his hands too large and gangly, alien appendages on the end of long bones. So he’d decided to take special care of his hands and in the process had come to truly appreciate them. They had a unique beauty, a subject about which he knew far more than most. He’d allowed various women from Asia to give him manicures and pedicures twice a week for nearly a year now, and the results were impressive.

Quinton moved his forefinger. Then he did it again, trying to trace the messages that spread across neurons in his brain at a rate of six hundred per second before being shot down his nerves to the muscles in his hand. Little bundles of energy were racing from his brain to his hand with clear, precise directions at this very moment, yet he was completely unaware of how or when his brain began or ended the cycle. How decision became instruction. How instruction became movement.

The brain was a mystery for most humans, and as of yet for Quinton Gauld.

It occurred to him that his moment of exploration into the finer things of life had stretched on a full minute or more. Not a bad thing, for after all, he was here to enjoy himself. No enjoyment could exceed the power of the mind to amuse itself.

And the whole time he had been contemplating his hand and the utensil in that hand, he was in perfect tune with all else in Elway’s place of feeding.

The bartender with silver earrings who had apologized after spilling beer on a customer’s hands. He offered the woman a free drink. She declined, but she despised him for his carelessness. She was a real cow who’d been convinced by inner delusional voices that her black polyester slacks were not too tight despite the fact that she had gained ten pounds in the last three months, thanks to her meds. He would say depression was her demon.

The two new customers, one with bratty kids, who’d entered the premises since he’d picked up his fork.

The husband and wife two booths over, arguing over the price of a new minivan and whether the van should be blue or gray. Black got too dirty. No, white got too dirty. Quinton briefly entertained the thought of helping them gain a more expansive understanding of the word dirty.

The pretty waitress wearing a white halter top who smiled as she passed his table. She found him interesting. Handsome. A real gentleman, judging by his appearance and his posture. He knew this not only by her look, but because women always commented on these admirable traits. This particular woman, whose name tag identified her as Karen with a C, or Caren, was also likely attracted to his tall frame. They said size didn’t matter, but most women had preferences when it came to size. Caren liked large men.