Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

“Have I? What if I had an entirely different purpose in this”-he looked about the room, then settled back on Quinton-“this mad shambles of a world? More specifically, a different purpose for being here today, with you, before you deliver God’s bride to him for eternal bliss?”

Quinton’s face twitched again, but he wasn’t buying it. An unbelieving smile twisted his mouth.

“What if I could prove it to you?” Brad asked.

“Prove what?”

“That I’m not who you think I am.”

The man looked slightly amused.

“Would you listen to me?” Brad asked.

Quinton hesitated, then pulled out his cell phone and checked the time.

“Okay. So what’s your point?”

PARADISE STOOD IN the middle of her room for long minutes, trembling. The cold sweats had started immediately after she’d hung up the phone. Her fear made no sense to her. How could a person fear something that clearly didn’t bother most people? Like a fear of the ground, whoever heard of such thing? Or a fear of air.

Agoraphobia was like that, and she knew she should be able to stop it. But she couldn’t.

The panic attack came so fast and so hard that she couldn’t think, much less get to the medicine cabinet for a Xanax. The antianxiety medication was supposed to work quickly, but in her case it did nothing but take the edge off. Still, Allison allowed her to keep a small supply in exception to house rules.

She stood here while the world spun around her, and she was sure that this time her heart would finally tear loose and get stuck in her throat, and she would suffocate.

She was so disoriented that she forgot how she got here. But then it all came back, like a flood. The phone call. The killer wanted her to climb into the red truck and go to the beauty salon. If she didn’t, he was going to kill Brad.

An image she’d never seen before, of her father pounding on the door of the closet she’d locked herself in, crashed through her mind and she gasped. Then it was gone. Now the panic was back, stronger, and she knew that she was going to at least fall down.

She staggered to the bathroom, desperate for a pill, water, anything that might keep her from dying. She’d just had a new memory. But she couldn’t think about that now.

He has Brad and you have to get into the red truck.

She shook a couple of Xanax from the bottle; all five came out. She picked two out of the sink, pressed them into her mouth with trembling fingers, and gulped some water, spilling down her flannel top.

She knew she had to do what the killer wanted. As far as she was concerned, she didn’t have a choice. Because no matter how much she told herself that she didn’t love Brad, she did.

She loved him more than she loved anything. Much more. Because Brad undid everything her father had done.

In thirty minutes the gardener will climb into his red pickup truck…

Paradise looked at the clock on the bathroom wall. How much time had passed? But she had to get to the truck before Smitty did, and without anyone noticing.

She spun from the bathroom and ran to the door, grabbed the knob. Then stopped. Her breathing whooshed around her like a jet engine. She wasn’t dressed to go out.

She was still in the flannel pants she’d slept in!

What does it matter, Paradise?

It mattered a lot. She didn’t fit out there. To her, stepping past the gate was like stepping out onto a platform in a huge stadium with the world’s worst case of stage fright. They would all be watching, and she would be standing in her pajamas!

But she had to get to the red truck. If she could somehow get under the tarp, then she might be safe.

Tears flooded her eyes again. No, no she wouldn’t be safe out there!

But neither was Brad. And she loved Brad more than she loved herself. What would Brad think about her looking like this? How could she say she loved him and go to him looking like a skank? The thoughts flew around her mind, one on top of the other.

She tore over to her dresser and yanked out the first pair of jeans she could get her hands on. Quick, quick, she had to get into the red truck.

Paradise pulled the jeans on and ran halfway back to the door before realizing she’d forgotten a shirt. She hurried back, clawed into a yellow T-shirt, then rushed back to the door. The first thing you’re going to do is keep your mouth shut. She had to go quietly. No one could know.

So she slipped into the hall and snuck toward the stairs as quickly and quietly as she could in her flip-flops. Her panic attack was back, thumping, spinning, gasping, but she kept her mouth shut and went before anyone could see her.

Smitty usually parked his red truck by the toolshed beyond the men’s wing. Paradise made it to the back door and ran out into the hot sun. She turned left, running on the gravel back there without stopping to see if anyone was watching. She should, she knew. This wasn’t the way not to get noticed, but she was too terrified to stop.

She saw the red truck next to the shed when she tore around the corner. A green tarp was stretched over a mound of something in the back, she didn’t know what. The idea of climbing underneath…

She couldn’t do that. They would see the lump and know someone was hiding, intending to sneak out, which was strictly prohibited.

But there was a lump of something under there already. Another dead body. A pile of dead fish. A dead cow. Manure for the garden. So they might not notice another lump.

Paradise bent down and hurried up to the truck. Without waiting for her nerves to fail her completely, she slung her leg up over the opened truck bed and threw herself in, expecting a yell from someone who’d seen her.

But no yell came.

She scrambled to the edge, yanked back the tarp making a terrible ruckus, and rolled under it as if it were a blanket. Then she pulled it back down over her head and lay still, panting into the green plastic.

The acidic stench of manure filled her nostrils. She was right. The fertilizer felt soft and mushy against her back. Breathing hard, she thought the smell might poison her.

They would plant her in the ground, dead from asphyxiation. Bringing all her willpower to bear, she lay as still as she could, praying that no one would notice the green tarp moving as she panted.

With each passing minute she was tempted again to throw the tarp off because she knew she couldn’t do this. She could not go beyond the gate!

The sound of footsteps prevented her from fleeing. The door opened and slammed. The truck growled to life and, with a grinding of gears, it rolled forward.

Please, God, please save me. Please, please…

She was suddenly in a closet, and a fist was pounding on the door. “If you don’t come out here right now, I’m going to blow your mother’s head off.”

The new black memory slammed into her mind and she started to scream. But she clamped her hand over her mouth. She’d been here before, seven years ago.

“If you don’t come out of there, I swear I will kill her!”

Everything went dark and quiet.

Pop.

It was the first time she remembered hearing the gunshot that killed her mother, and she knew now that it was because she hadn’t come out of the closet she’d barricaded herself in.

Her father was swearing.

Pop. Silence.

That was him? He’d shot her and himself. She could barely breathe, barely cry, barely whisper. “Sorry, Mommy. I’m so…”

Then darkness lovingly took her away.

WHEN PARADISE OPENED her eyes, she was surprised to see that the sky had turned green. Or she was lying on her back, staring up at green leaves. She’d been dreaming of a prince on a white stallion, sweeping in from the desert with the heroine hanging on for dear life behind him. They plunged into the trees and then into a meadow, where the white bats had joined with a thousand warriors in eager…