Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

“Get the restraints!”

The word triggered a scream that ripped through the air over her head. Her scream. And she knew then that it was all over. They had her, and now the only thing she could do was protest for Brad’s sake. Paradise flailed and beat at the air and kicked like a cat caught on her back. And all the while her mind was seeing Brad.

They strapped her down. From there things got foggy. Voices yelling, her own cries of outrage, hands squeezing her arms and legs, the bite of a needle on her arm. She couldn’t think straight, but she understood that they were killing Brad, and for that she hated them more than she hated her own father, who had tried to kill her.

She was screaming for Brad’s sake. “He’s going to kill him, he’s going to kill him!” She was his lone savior and now these demons were trying to kill her.

“Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me!”

The world started to fade and her voice got lost in it. She heard and felt and saw snippets, like bits of an old memory, and maybe this was just that, a memory from the past. From hell.

“… to General until we can get her to West Pines…”

She was rolling under long lights.

“… stronger than she looks.”

Chuckling.

“Who woulda thought? Just Samantha?”

“For now, just Samantha…”

Darkness.

Silence.

Brad? Brad are you in here?

Silence.

I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I just… I lost it.

“It’s okay, Paradise. I love you, Paradise. You’re beautiful, Paradise.”

You don’t think I look like a whore?

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” A breath. “Be careful, Paradise. He’s coming for you. His name is Quinton Gauld and he’s coming for you tonight.”

THAT BRAD HAD survived this long was a clear indication that the bullet hadn’t punctured his lung. It had struck his right side and been deflected around and out his back. He was pinning his hopes on it.

But this hope was quickly being diminished by the fact that the wound was still bleeding. Ironic, that he would bleed to death at this killer’s hand. He had to stop the bleeding and get to the black medical bag Quinton had left on the table, intended for use on his victims. Plugging their heels, fixing their wounds… At the moment, Quinton’s sickness was Brad’s greatest hope.

Then again, all of these hopes were dashed if he couldn’t break the support post he’d been tied to.

He pushed himself back to his feet, alarmed by the dizziness spinning his world. He couldn’t pass out. The whole case had changed shape in these last twenty-four hours, and the stakes were now both personal and terrifying.

Paradise. Everything had always been about Paradise.

The thought made him sick with rage.

He leaned forward, stretching his restraints and arms as far as he could, took a deep breath, then threw himself backward into the post.

The beam shook with a dull thud. Debilitating pain ran down his side and he shuddered. Dust and debris from the ceiling rained down on him.

Thirty-two.

With any luck at all, age had rotted the wood. Brad clenched his jaw against the pain, straightened, leaned forward again, and threw himself back. Another deep slice of pain. Another rain of debris. Another groan.

Thirty-three.

He repeated the procedure twice more before sagging back to his rump to rest.

The killer’s name was Quinton Gauld and he had become the demon. Brad was responsible for the transformation.

His success was now his greatest problem. With no more need for the bleeding ritual designed to deliver the most beautiful to God without blemish, Quinton was now playing the part of killer. Rather than bring Paradise here, he might kill Paradise where he found her.

In any other situation, Brad might have reacted with a renewed urgency to find the killer before he could strike again. Instead he reacted with raw outrage. He couldn’t seem to stop the desperation. Not for his own life.

For her life. For Paradise.

He didn’t know what to call the feelings he had for her, but staring his own death in the face had made the emotions razor-sharp. He knew they were the most powerful he’d felt since he first learned that Ruby had taken her life.

Brad grunted, fought off nausea, and struggled back to his feet. The pole didn’t seem to be weakening, but he had to keep trying. Even if he did manage to break it, the whole roof might cave in and end his life.

For some reason, that possibility meant nothing to him.

He held his breath and threw himself back into the pole.

Thirty-four.

QUINTON PULLED THE 300M off I-70 and headed into the Texaco station. The trip back to Denver had taken him just over two and a half hours at top speeds and consumed 90 percent of his fuel. He had too much to do now and would need plenty of gas.

Gas ’em, gas ’em all, the sky is raining gas.

The game had changed once again, but as he slowly worked his mind around that change, he came to realize that there was no change at all. Seven years of planning and growing and learning had delivered him to the final and greatest understanding. No longer satisfied with the milk that made babes fat and kept the devout stupid, he’d finally moved on to the meat of the matter.

Rain Man had rained the truth upon him and then died, having satisfied the purpose of his life. Quinton was not an angel of mercy sent by God to find and deliver his favorites to him, bloodless and pure. Rather he was an angel of death, sent to kill those very same brides.

The realization had disturbed him at first, naturally. As Nikki had said, with insight he had not appreciated at the time, even demons know the truth and tremble. So, yes, he’d spent half of the last two hours trembling.

Once he’d taken firm hold of this new realization, he’d quickly brought his superior intelligence to bear. He was who he was, and he must do what he was meant to do. Really, it changed very little.

Humans were still mostly stupid, particularly the ones who thought they were not.

Despite this fact, God did indeed love them with an unfathomable love. They were all his favorites.

And Quinton, in service of the other master, hated them with more steel and fire than he’d ever loved them. In hindsight, he’d always hated the females. They were sick and weak and deserved a far more brutal slaying than he’d ever administered. The fact that he’d been led by his master to think he was in the service of the Almighty was a useful deception that he couldn’t help but respect.

He had evolved, however, and rather than fume with bitterness, he embraced his new knowledge and committed to carrying out his mission with ruthless haste and purpose.

Who was this female Paradise but a worm who deserved to be tramped underfoot and pissed upon? Thinking clearly now, he realized that he’d never before met a woman as sick and infuriating as her.

He’d received the picture she’d taken of herself. He was surprised at how transformed she looked. The sight of her looking frightened but undeniably beautiful had frozen him for a moment. His loins had become a beehive.

And then his hatred for her had reared so large and so terrible that he’d broken from his usual calm and ended up on the shoulder of I-70, weeping with bitter fury. And gratitude. Today he was finally mature enough to put an end to her life.

He’d called her then. But she hadn’t answered his call.

He placed his phone under the tires of the 300M and squished it flat in the event her phone had been compromised.

Quinton finished filling up the gas tank with premium petrol and decided to leave his urine in the bathroom here. He strode toward the sign of the stick figures that indicated outdoor bathrooms.