Ted Dekker: The Bride Collector

He tapped Joshie on the shoulder. The boy was zipping up, and he spun with a short gasp, swallowing his annoying cry.

“Why are you crying, lad?” Quinton asked.

Joshie got over his initial shock and flattened his mouth. “Mind your own business,” he said. Then he made to walk past Quinton.

Quinton knew it now: The boy was deeply disturbed. Perhaps mentally ill, though more likely just rotten to the core. An intervention was both reasonable and necessary if the boy was to have any hope of entering adulthood well adjusted.

Quinton stuck his hand out and prevented his escape. “Not so fast, young lad. I asked you a question and I do expect an answer.”

He shoved the boy back, gripping his shoulder.

“Ow! Let go!”

“Don’t be a baby,” Quinton said calmly. Then he added, “lad,” because the English word gave the whole sentence a proper ring. And this was a very proper occasion. “Tell me why you thought you had the right to cry. If you give me the right answer, I might let you off with a warning.”

The boy struggled against Quinton’s grip. “Let me go, you freak!” The boy’s mouth twisted. Did he have no sense at all? Did he possess even the faintest awareness of whom he was dealing with?

Quinton squeezed hard and leaned forward so that he wouldn’t have to yell. He spoke in a stern whisper. “Someone’s going to put a bullet in your head one of these days. I would, under different circumstances. You’re not the only snot in the world, and the truth is, most people would rather kill you than listen to your whining little hole.”

The boy stared up at him in shock. A dark circle spread over his groin. Apparently, he hadn’t drained his bladder quite so completely after all.

“Be very careful what you tell them. They won’t believe I hit you anyway, your face is already beet red from acting like a baby. But if you do go out there and tell them I hit you, I might sneak into your room when you’re asleep and pull your tongue out.”

But the boy did what most humans do in times of crisis. He became himself. He started to scream bloody murder.

Quinton’s hand moved with calculated strength, slamming open-palmed against the noisy brat’s jaw. Had he not been gripping the boy’s shoulder, it would have been enough force to send Joshie across the room, but not enough to break his jaw or neck.

Crack!

“Bless you, boy, for you are a sinner.”

It was enough to shut the boy up. And shut him down. He shoved the boy’s limp body into the corner, wedged between the wall and the urinal.

Satisfied that he’d gotten through, Quinton crossed to the mirror, adjusted his collar, tugged each cuff so that his shirt showed just the right measure of white at the cuffs, smoothed his left eyebrow, which had somehow ruffled during the commotion, and left the bathroom.

No one in the noisy restaurant gave him a second glance. The whole room might have stood and cheered to learn that Joshie had fallen asleep at the urinal. If they all kept their fingers crossed long enough, the boy would one day fall asleep at the wheel, crash through a bridge railing, and plummet into a river to meet an icy death.

Quinton felt doubly good with his accomplishment. Although he hadn’t been able to eat every bite of his steak, he had been able to help both Joshie and the rest of the brats in this establishment without so much as raising an eyebrow from one of them. Except Josh, of course. And he’d raised more than an eyebrow on the lad.

Quinton walked between the tables, gathering only the casual looks of appreciation offered to the best looking. So few realized just how many psychotic members of society walked past them at the grocery store or through a restaurant each and every day. What would frighten them even more was how many ordinary people were mentally sick and didn’t know it.

Quinton winked at the waitress on his way out, then thanked Anthony for the wonderful meal. The hostess greeted him kindly at the front door.

“Was everything to your satisfaction?”

“Yes. Yes, Cynthia, it was. Do you happen to have any sanitized toothpicks?”

She glanced at the clear dispenser full of toothpicks, then reached under the counter and pulled out a box in which each toothpick was individually wrapped. She smiled knowingly.

“Thank you.” He counted out seven, then nodded. “For my friends.”

“No problem. Take the whole box if you want.”

“No, I couldn’t do that. I doubt John would appreciate being robbed.”

She laughed. “Oh I doubt that, Mr. Elway is very generous.”

“Well, judging by his choice of steaks, he doesn’t skimp, I can agree to that. Have a great evening, Cynthia.”

“Thank you. Drive safe.”

He stopped at the outer door and looked back. “Oh, I almost forgot, I think a boy fell asleep in the restroom.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know, but he looked asleep to me.” He flipped his hand in a casual salute. “Anyway, thanks again.”

Then he was alone outside, surrounded by the night. He took a deep breath, appreciative of the rich scent of searing steak from the establishment’s kitchen vents.

A man’s choice of car was telling. He once heard that an extremely wealthy man, whose name he’d purposefully forgotten, chose to drive an old pickup truck rather than a Mercedes. Quinton had known at once that the man was either hopelessly insecure, or completely mad. No one comfortable in their own skin would try to hide their wealth unless they supposed that others didn’t approve of wealthy people or of people who wanted to be wealthy, thereby necessitating a disguise.

Quinton did appreciate the need for subtlety, something Josh hadn’t understood until just a few minutes ago. But driving a pickup truck when you’re worth a hundred billion was the farthest thing from subtlety. If the man wasn’t insecure, he was deeply deluded into thinking that pretending to be a common man would make him so. If anything, such eccentric behavior drew more attention than had the man been honest with himself. Perhaps he longed for the extra attention, not willing to be just another rich man in a rich car, and it was insecurity, not madness, that compelled the man.

The circular logic of it all came slamming home with a nauseating thunk. Quinton had spent considerable time mulling over the question and never landed on a definitive answer.

He rounded the restaurant, walked up to his Chrysler 300M, and noted that a BMW M6 had parked next to his ride. At well over a hundred thousand dollars, the M6 was BMW’s most expensive vehicle, an overstatement of any owner’s testosterone. The small M6 symbol was all that told a passerby this car was far more expensive than its lesser, otherwise identical sibling.

Nevertheless, the styling was subtle. A reasonable choice in extravagance. He briefly courted the notion of slashing the tires on the M6, then dismissed the idea as a lesser man’s fantasy.

Quinton found pleasure in the knowledge that he directed no resentment or jealousy toward those who pretended to be more important than he was. Though he felt no compulsion to do so, he could this very moment walk into any bank or down Wall Street and be greeted with the same warmth and respect saved for any successful business executive. Yet he derived no undue pleasure or derision from that fact.

Or he could dress in one of his many identical pairs of gray slacks, don one of his blue short-sleeved shirts, put on a wedding band, take out his older green Chevy pickup, which he preferred to the 300M, and be accepted in any bar or any grocery store checkout line as the respectable guy next door.

Quinton slipped out of his jacket and settled into his car. Before going home, he would drive to Melissa Langdon’s house. She would be arriving in the next half hour. If he hurried, he could arrive before she did.