Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

She was crouched in a closet peeking through the cracks, and her father was out there, pointing a gun at his head, pacing around her dead mother.

She was hiding in her bathroom with the lights off at CWI, after clawing at the beast who tried to rip her clothes off while holding her mouth with his large hand.

That psychologist who’d befriended her. Then tried to rape her. That man with a beard and large glasses whose breath smelled like mothballs. The memory presented itself to her like a déjà vu, fresh for the first time, yet she had been there. It was a memory set free. She could remember it as if it had happened only…

Familiarity flashed, as if two live wires in her brain had brushed up against each other, and she gasped. Without the beard, without the glasses, this man was Quinton Gauld!

She threw herself into a crouch and whimpered. No, no, she couldn’t do this! She couldn’t not do anything! She couldn’t let the memories incapacitate her as they always had, because this time her fear alone would result in her death, and in Brad’s death.

But the memories flogged her. Darkness, closets, mothball breath, grunts, and big strong hands. And in this closet that smelled like mothballs was his phone that had only one number in it.

Paradise straightened and stared at the blue phone. She didn’t know any phone numbers except her sister’s and the last time she’d called her sister she wasn’t home. But she had to try something, so she grabbed it. Turned it on. Pressed the illuminated numbers with a rattled finger.

Send.

It rang once. Twice.

“Come on, Angie, pick up, pick up, pick up!”

She spun to the side window. Quinton Gauld had finished his business inside and was walking toward the door.

A voice came over the phone’s small speaker. Her sister’s, asking the caller to leave a message.

Paradise began to hyperventilate. Four-one-one, she thought. I have to call 411.

“THE FILES,” ROUDY announced, swishing into Temple’s office in his pajamas and slippers. “I need to see them all.”

“Excuse me?”

They’d been in the office for half an hour, and Allison insisted they give Roudy his nose, let him sniff around. He’d been in and out of every office asking obtuse questions, giving strange advice. The staff watched him with lost and often amused expressions. All but Temple, who had no clue how to deal with a man of Roudy’s temperament.

“You have your unsolved cases in the basement under lock and key, I presume?” Roudy asked, pacing.

“Yes, that’s-”

“Then bring them to the conference room, lay them out in order beginning with the oldest case and working up to the newest, and I will make an attempt to solve all of them for you. You really should have brought these to my offices much sooner. It’s hardly excusable.”

Temple glanced at Allison, who allowed herself a small grin despite the cloud of fear that had settled over her. The minutes had ticked by without any word on either Paradise or Brad.

Law enforcement was out in full force, and four other FBI field offices were helping sift through leads that had poured in since they’d gone public. It went on and on, but not one concrete lead led them closer to finding her Paradise.

This was her fault. She should have known that something was wrong with Quinton Gauld when he left. If only she’d been more sensitive, more in tune, listened more closely. He’d come and gone like any employee who came and went without any incident that might raise a brow. But shouldn’t she have been able to look at a man who would do the things Quinton Gauld had done these past few weeks and know, just know, that there was something wrong with him?

Apparently not.

If that monster put one finger on Paradise, she personally would pull the trigger and send him to be with his God.

“We don’t have all day,” Roudy was saying.

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t have enough hours in your lifetime to work through all those files. Either way, you don’t have the credentials-”

“Nonsense. Talk to your superiors. Have them shipped to my office.”

Temple’s phone rang and he picked it up, saved from his own awkwardness.

“Temple.”

Roudy turned to Allison and spoke in a soft if urgent tone. “You must speak to these people. Don’t you just love this place? It’s fantastic. Makes me consider moving my own office.”

Temple tensed and with him, Allison. He grabbed a pencil. “Put it through.”

Silence. Even Roudy remained frozen. Temple pressed the speaker phone button and the sound of fast breathing crackled over the speaker.

“This is Special Agent-”

“Hello?”

Allison’s veins turned cold. It was a whisper but she was certain…

“Hello?”

“Yes, ma’am, we’re here, please identify-”

“Paradise?” Allison stepped forward. “Is that-”

She was interrupted by Paradise’s terrified rambling. “He’s coming, he’s coming now, walking toward the truck! You have to help me, Allison! He’s got me.”

She was alive!

Temple sat and snatched up a pencil. “Try to calm down. Can you tell us where you are? What kind of truck, what do you see outside?”

“Green…” came the panicked voice. “He’s coming, he’s…” Her voice softened to a bare whisper. “He’s coming…”

PARADISE WAS CROUCHED, peering just over the door frame as he approached. Her mind spun with a hundred options but none was much different from the other and they all ended badly.

The side windows were tinted, so he couldn’t see in yet. But the front window was much clearer and he would cross the front of the truck to get in on the driver’s side.

“Green,” she whispered into the phone. “He’s coming, he’s…” She lowered her voice, swimming in fear. “He’s coming.”

“Tell us what you see, Paradise. We have to know where you are. Look outside.”

“St. Francis Gas and Go,” she whispered. “In a green pickup truck that’s clean inside. A gas station.” She didn’t know what else to say. “It’s Quinton, Allison. It’s him. He’s here to kill me.”

Allison spoke with a tone that demanded calm and strength. “Stay strong, Paradise. I’m not going to let him kill you. You hear me? I’m going to save you, Paradise. Just stay calm and do what you need to do.”

The killer was ten feet away. She couldn’t let him know she had used the phone.

“Paradise? Paradise, are you there?”

She didn’t have time to say more. She didn’t dare. She had to do what she had to do.

She clicked the phone off, set it in the cup holder, pulled the blanket over her head, slouched back in the same position she’d woken in, and tried her very best not to tremble or breathe too hard.

Back in her closet. Back to safety. Back into the fog.

The driver’s door opened. Then shut.

Quinton coughed. He pulled the blanket down off her head and, evidently satisfied by her sleeping form, replaced it with a soft grunt.

“I’m sorry about this, Paradise,” he said in a very normal voice. “I really am.” The engine rumbled to life. “And for the record, although you won’t ever hear me admit this, I really did love you. I think I was a little mixed up back then. My father hurt me, too.” A pause. “Maybe I still am mixed up.” Another pause. “You’re every bit as beautiful as I remember. I can see why God loves you. I should probably just kill you now.”

And then he didn’t say anything for a while.

THE DIRT ROAD ran straight south, that much Brad Raines could tell by the position of the stars in the night sky. What he couldn’t know was how far south the road went before meeting up with any sign of civilization.