Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

She forced herself to her feet, past her weakness. “You have to find him!”

“We’re trying, ma’am. Trust me, this affects us all.”

“How could he just escape? He just walked in here and took her without being seen?”

“Slow down. He may very well have been seen. I’ll have a team there in three minutes. In the meantime, security is asking around. We still don’t know how he managed to get in much less get her out, but we will. These things take time, Miss Johnson.”

“We don’t have time!” she cried.

His end was silent.

“I’m coming down,” she said.

“I’m not sure what good that will… Hold on.” She could hear his muffled voice off the phone, swearing.

“What is it?” she demanded into the empty phone.

“… down there, Frank. Now!” He swore again and came back on. “Sorry. We have another body.”

“They found her?”

“No. Sorry, no. At the hospital.”

“Okay, I’m coming down to your offices. I’m not just going to sit around as long as he’s out there with Paradise, you hear me?”

“This is an FBI investigation, ma’am. I know you’re upset, but there’s no way you can help us down here.”

“I may not be able to, but Roudy may.”

He paused. “Roudy. This is… one of your patients…”

“This is the man who identified Quinton Gauld. This is the man who helped Agent Raines put this case together while the rest of your team stumbled around in the dark. And I’m bringing him down.”

He remained quiet for a moment.

“If you insist, ma’am, but I really don’t think-”

“I agree.” She looked up at Roudy, who was staring at her with wide eyes. “Yes, he’s invaluable.”

She hung up. Grabbed her purse.

“Let’s go. The FBI is waiting.”

“They’re asking for me at headquarters?” Roudy stammered.

She spun back. “They are begging,” she said, then walked out with Roudy at her heels.

BRAD HAD LOST track of time. Two oil lamps on the table cast yellow light inside, but it was dark outside. He knew this because the winks of white sky in the room had gone black. Twice he’d passed out upon collapsing to the ground after his regimen of slams against the wood pole to his back.

Slam…

Deep breath. Lean forward. Another deep breath…

Slam…

Deep breath. Lean forward. Another deep breath…

Slam…

Deep breath. Lean forward. Another deep breath…

Slam…

Deep breath. Lean forward. Another deep breath…

Slam…

Five slams each time, like a football drill in reverse, ignoring the pain before sliding back to the ground for a rest.

Hours had passed, he knew that much. But he’d stopped trying to keep track of his progress or gauge his hope. He had no hope. The reasoning that had gotten him into this futile escape attempt had long left him.

The exercise had become a simple one. As long as he still had enough strength to stand and throw himself backward, he would. Thinking about whether the strategy was working only weakened his focused resolve. He had no destination now, just the will to place one foot in front of the other. He kept only one thing on his mind.

Paradise.

With each thrust of his body backward, an image of her filled his mind. He didn’t harbor any illusion about saving her, because back when he was thinking things through, he concluded that he’d long ago run out of time.

His exercise became as much a perverse form of penance as an attempt to escape. Even if he did manage to break the post, he had no clue where he was or how far from help. Even if he did get to help, he knew he was too late.

There was always the possibility that Quinton would grab Paradise and bring her back here, but that thought terrified Brad more than any other. The killer would find him alive and awake and would take twisted pleasure in forcing him to watch while he tortured Paradise in new, unthinkable ways fueled by the audience. Her death would be worse because of him.

Brad slammed into the post in bitter protest of his own weakness. For every woman who had ever been told she wasn’t normal or that she was ugly. For every girl who’d been abused by a father, for every man blinded to the true beauty of every Paradise.

What he would give now to sweep her off her feet and rush her to the highest mountain refuge, far away from all the cruelty the world threw at those it judged to be less than extraordinary. Because Quinton Gauld was right about one thing, even Allison would say so.

They were all God’s favorites.

They were all beautiful, exquisite creatures in their own way. Men as well, yes, but this was about women. Every one was a treasure of the highest order, and with the pain of each crash into the post, this truth, no matter how melodramatic it might seem in less pointed circumstances, was driven deep into Brad’s mind.

Crash… crash… crash… crash… crash…

If only he had protected her. How, he didn’t know, but that hardly mattered now. A week ago she was nothing more than a curiosity to him, a monkey in the zoo, as she put it. It didn’t matter that he had only known her a short time, didn’t matter that there was no obligation on his part to love her over any other woman.

Had he ever met a woman as desirable as Paradise? Had he ever connected with such a deep soul, seen such soft eyes light up when he walked into the room?

Forgive me, Paradise… Please, I beg you… Forgive me. I was a fool for not knowing. I wouldn’t do it again. I swear I would sweep you off your feet. I would smother you with kisses and promise to never allow a man to lay a hand of harm on you again.

In Brad’s tortured mind, now stripped of the pretense that distorted the world’s view of beauty, he understood clearly: Paradise was the favorite. The one bride every man would kill for.

And now Quinton Gauld, this demon from hell who strutted about the world in a man’s body and called himself human, would rob Brad of all second chances.

Tears had long ago dried on his dirty cheeks, but now his eyes flooded with them again. He pushed himself to his feet, sliding up the pole, which creaked angrily against his body weight. He leaned forward, body quaking. It was all pointless, but he couldn’t think like that.

He threw himself back, crashed into the post. The loud impact took his breath this time, and he had wait for it to return. If the pole broke and the timber it supported collapsed and crushed Brad, his death would not be wasted.

Brad hurled his weight backward. Crack. This time the collision did not take his breath, because he was falling.

His impact with the earth behind him, however, pounded the air from his lungs. He tried to breathe and blinked up at the splintered end of the post over his head, still hanging from the beam above.

It took him a moment to fully realize that he’d just broken the pole and that the bottom half was lying on the dirt floor beside him.

His breath and his mind returned to him at the same time. Adrenaline flooded his veins, jacking his heart rate up to a steady hammer.

He rolled to his right, desperate to be on his feet, but his hands were still secured behind him, and for an awful second he wondered if Quinton had tied him to a stake in the ground in case he managed to break the post.

He frantically rolled away from the post. In the process his hands came free-the knot apparently having loosened as he fought to free himself. Brad scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain on his right side. If he’d survived this long, he wasn’t in danger of dying from the wound now.

He stood tensed, hands clawed, beside the blanketed stage, at a momentary loss. His freedom had come so unexpectedly that he forgot what it was he’d had in mind.