Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

Andrea whimpered and scratched her head. She fled the room, crying.

Allison stood in stunned disbelief. Could this have happened right under her nose? They’d hired Quinton Gauld because he understood schizophrenia like so few therapists, having suffered and recovered from a bout with the illness in his twenties himself. He’d gone on to acquire a master’s degree in psychology. But after only six months at CWI, he’d confessed that being in proximity to so many mentally ill people didn’t sit as comfortably as he’d hoped. They’d mutually agreed that he should move on.

But he’d shown no signs of a psychotic break on his part.

She saw it now, staring at the drawing: the slope of his cheeks, the nose, the hair. It was him, wasn’t it?

“Are you sure, Roudy? Are you absolutely certain that this drawing is Quinton Gauld?”

“Of course I am. Show the FBI a photograph from his employment file and I think they will agree. Our killer is, without doubt, Quinton Gauld.”

So then, she was right about Paradise. She did see ghosts!

Allison started to run.

“Where are you going?”

“We need to get his picture on the air. We have to get both of their pictures on the air as soon as possible!”

“I will not take a press conference yet!” he cried down the hall. “Not until we have this villain behind lock and key where he belongs!”

BY THE TIME the officers arrived at the hospital, Paradise had managed to accomplish three things in her favor, and therefore in Brad’s favor.

First, she’d managed to stop her moaning and wailing, which she knew only reinforced their perception of her as a nutcase.

Second, she’d climbed into a place of relative security in her mind. A closet, like the one in which she’d hidden from her father. Or, as she knew it better, a fog of comfort that hid all the demons trying to grab her ankles. In this place she could find some peace.

And third, she’d managed to develop a plan of sorts. The only way she had any hope of saving Brad was to survive herself. The hospital wasn’t hell-she knew that-and the doctors weren’t demons, although she was quite certain that demons, however or wherever they manifested, were after her. She had to stay in the closet-the fog-so that she wouldn’t start thinking the hospital was hell. And she had to get at least one person on her side, believing in her. Someone besides Brad.

This meant she could not act like a loon. Even though she was going through something that probably appeared to be a psychotic break, she would not, could not, must not give any indication that she was anything but completely sound. The only way to do that was to focus.

As a result, she ignored her surroundings until she was in the emergency ward itself. She stood perfectly still, arms still handcuffed behind her back, for her own safety they said, and focused on appearing completely casual as the officer spoke to a pleasant-looking man in a pale blue smock. The man nodded and called over another man, bald and tall, strong enough to deal with three of her.

The next thing she knew, her hands were free, and the attendant was leading her past the stations to one of a dozen spaces separated only by gray drapes.

“Have a seat on the bed, the nurse will be along soon. And please don’t try anything stupid. The police are still outside for now.”

Don’t try anything stupid? Like jump on your back, you big gorilla, and beat the demon out of you? But he looked kind and his nose was like a huge green pear on his face. A green Ronald McDonald without the ’fro.

Focus, Paradise. Focus.

“I won’t,” she said in a small voice that made her sound like a mouse. She sat on the edge of the hospital bed and put her hands in her lap. She felt nearly naked in these jean shorts. The three hours she’d spent being made to look beautiful seemed like a lifetime away.

But maybe looking like a whore would be a good thing just now. Who was she kidding? She looked nothing like a whore! That was just her, pathetic little Paradise, talking. She looked more normal now than she ever had in her entire life.

Her mind swirled. She was an angel dancing on the tip of a needle, and if she didn’t dance just right, they were going to impale her and the demon would get Brad. She had to save him!

“Do you want to dance?” she asked, looking up at the attendant.

He smiled. “I’m afraid I have to pass. Don’t worry, we’ll get you back on your medication as soon as the doctor gets a look at you.”

His mention of medication brought back her urgency. She could not, under any circumstances, let them force any antipsychotic drugs down her throat. Under their influence she would become a drowned rat and lose all her capacity to imagine her way out of this.

“Do you think I’m beautiful?” she asked, standing. “Like a ballerina on the head of a needle?”

Sit down, Paradise.

“Please sit down.”

She stared at him.

“Look, you’re very pretty. You are, trust me. But this is a hospital, not the beach, and you’re ill. I’m going to have to ask you to sit down. Now. As soon as you take your medicine, you’ll feel better.”

“No, you can’t let them do that.”

“Sit… down!”

“Okay.” She lifted both hands in resignation and sat back down. She realized that she had to make him understand.

“I’ll sit down, but that won’t stop him.”

“It won’t stop who?”

“The man who’s trying to kill me.”

The curtain parted and a gray-haired female nurse with a round face and beady eyes walked in with a clipboard. A demon? “Okay, what do we have here?”

The bald demon smiled. “She thinks someone’s trying to kill her.”

“Don’t they all? Okay, honey, what’s your full name? Samantha who?”

“I’m not like everyone else!” Paradise snapped, standing once again. “He’s trying to kill me and my boyfriend, and that’s why he made me do this! You have to listen to me!”

“No, honey, you’re safe here.”

Paradise felt her pulse pound. Her thoughts fought through the thick fog now suffocating her. It took all of her self-control to stand still.

“Do you know what kind of medication you’re on now?” the gray-haired demon asked.

“I told you, I’m not schizophrenic. I’m not any kind of psychotic. I have to get back to the park, and if I don’t get there he’s going to kill him. Aren’t you listening?”

The nurse sighed and plopped the clipboard on the counter. She filled a small paper cup with water from a cooler and dug into her pocket. “Okay, Samantha, have it your way.” She pulled out a bottle of pills.

This was what had happened last time. The memories came at her like guided missiles, pounding home. Something terrible had happened at home when she was locked in the closet, and now the demons were trying to finish the job.

The phone in her pocket vibrated and she gasped. She’d forgotten his instructions to wait for his phone call. It buzzed again, and Paradise didn’t know what to do. The demons were buzzing through, trying to make contact.

It had all gone wrong! She couldn’t help Brad in here. She had to escape these demons.

“Take these,” the nurse instructed, shaking out two pills. “It will help you calm down.”

“No.” Her head felt like it was going to explode. She backed up. “I can’t.”

The nurse glanced at the bald attendant, who moved closer, boxing her in. “Don’t make this difficult. Either you take it or we give it to you. Do you want to go back with the police? They’ll throw you in jail, is that what you want?”

“I can’t,” Paradise whimpered. “I can’t.”

The attendant reached for her and Paradise bolted for the gap between them. The bald demon’s thick arm shot out, caught her around the waist, lifted her up, and slammed her back onto the hospital bed. She grunted and kicked her legs, gasping for breath.