Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

Mounting Paradise above his mantel was no longer an option.

But it didn’t matter. As much as he was tempted to think he was in the Most High’s angelic service, he knew that Rain Man had been right. His head was buzzing and the buzzards were dropping demons and he was one of them. And now he resolved to accept himself without giving any further space to Rain Man and his demented thinking.

BRAD LAY PERFECTLY still in the empty, ribbed truck bed, facing the sky, ready to throw himself over the edge the moment it stopped.

He’d managed to slip over the tailgate and duck low as the truck bounced over the corner. For ten minutes he’d thought through his options, wondering whether Paradise was with Quinton. But the back window was tinted and he couldn’t see inside the cab.

So he lay still, dogged by insecurity and questions and pain from the wound.

He methodically rehearsed his course of action at the end of this road. His chances of incapacitating the killer were nearly nonexistent. But he would have an opportunity to slip out while the man was distracted by the scene in the barn.

And if Paradise was in the cab? Dear God, he hoped she was and was alive. As long as she was still alive and he was in the same vicinity, there was hope for her. How he could save her, he didn’t know. He would have to deal with events as they played out.

A thousand thoughts strung through his mind as the truck rumbled north, back to the barn. Thinking more clearly, Brad estimated that Quinton had left him in the barn seven or eight hours earlier, give or take an hour. He would have needed time to take Paradise and switch out vehicles. The round trip had likely taken him five or six hours.

He was in a green Chevy pickup roughly three hours east of Denver. Not west in the mountains, not south in the dry country, but east. Near the Kansas border. How many large abandoned barns were there in this vicinity?

Quinton likely had the cell phone he’d used earlier. If Brad could get his hands on that phone, place a call to Temple, and tell him to get every law enforcement agency in the region to canvas farmers, cops, residents-anyone who knew the area-to identify all large barns in wheat fields two to three hours east of Denver, they might be able to find him.

No. Even then, it would be too late. His first order of business must be to ascertain if Paradise was alive and in the cab. His second, if she was, would be to get her out. If she wasn’t, he would assume she was dead and kill the demon in his own barn.

It took fifteen minutes at a steady clip to reach the barn. Brad knew they were close when the truck made a turn into the driveway, and he would have rolled out then if not for the possibility that Paradise was in the cab. He was unwilling to squander a chance to act quickly for her sake.

So he lay still against every impulse that demanded he roll out now, while he was still shrouded in darkness.

He’d left the barn door open, and Quinton drove the truck straight in. Yellow light flickered off the rafters from the still-flaming oil lamps. This was it. Quinton Gauld now knew that Brad had escaped. He was surely staring at the broken post already, even as he brought the truck to a stop.

Brad felt naked in the back of the truck, exposed and hopeless. The end would come now. He would rise with cramps, fall out of the bed, and Quinton Gauld would shoot him before he could stand. He should have gotten out as they rolled down the driveway, made a run for it, returned in stealth.

But, no, he’d reasoned this through. Paradise was his first priority.

The truck lurched to a stop. For a count of ten, nothing.

The driver’s door opened. The killer stepped out.

RAIN MAN HAD survived. The man had taken up superhuman power, survived the gunshot, and snapped the post like a twig before fleeing. Quinton cursed himself for not having taken more certain measures.

He took the keys from the ignition but left the lights on to illuminate the scene. He stared at the broken post for a few seconds, flooded with respect and some concern. This was the first time he’d ever been bested by any adversary, and he wondered if it was because Rain Man’s God was stronger than the devil.

A thousand crickets screamed in his head.

He silenced them and stepped out of the truck, bringing a calm reason to bear upon the situation. He surveyed the barn quickly. No sign of the man. No, of course not, Rain Man wouldn’t just stand out in the open like an idiot.

But perhaps he was not superhuman, either. In all likelihood he had only recently escaped and then only after repeated bashing back into the post. He would be too exhausted from the effort to travel far, too smart to stumble out into fields to die. He was likely nearby, passed out in a ditch or crouching in fear.

Yes, Quinton preferred that scenario. The truth was, Quinton hadn’t been bested by Agent Raines because the game was not yet finished. This was only one more test, an opportunity for him to demonstrate to all those looking on that their selection of him as their servant was a wise one indeed. He’d switched sides and now they wanted to know if he was up to the task.

He stepped in front of the truck’s powerful beams and scanned the scene from right to left, methodically surveying everything, making calculations and decisions as his senses absorbed details.

The amount of blood on the ground told him Rain Man was seriously weakened. The post was also smeared with blood. A lesser man would be dead, he was sure of it. Unless he’d misjudged, and the dark stains on the dirt were from other bodily fluids as well as from blood. He could smell no urine, nothing but blood and sweat.

The medical bag had been moved, meaning Rain Man had taken what he needed to stanch his wound. He might be armed with either a knife, a scalpel, or the hammer, all of which were missing from the table.

So then, Rain Man was a worthy adversary after all. This, the final hour, came down to the beast’s attempts to consume the bride and the man on the white horse’s attempt to rescue her.

But whose shadow was larger now? Cast by the truck’s light, his loomed monstrous and dark on the far wall. His veins were full of blood, and he was at full strength. Furthermore, he had guns. He had his buzzing mind.

And he had Paradise.

Quinton knew then that Rain Man would be back.

BRAD SLIPPED OUT on the passenger side like an escapee going over a fence. He lowered himself silently to the ground, thankful that the barn had a dirt floor. The killer stood in front of the truck’s large hood, obscured from view. He’d left the truck’s lights on-if he turned back, his eyesight would be blinded.

Brad crawled to the passenger door, reached up, and tried the handle. Locked. Okay. Okay, maybe that was better, anyway.

He quickly backed away, remained crouched, rounded the back of the truck, then snuck up on the driver’s side, blocked by the open door. The killer could not have suspected that Brad had come back in on the truck and was already moving.

Wasting no time, he hurried to the driver’s door on the balls of his feet. Looked inside. There, with a light blue blanket covering all but the top of her head, and round eyes staring over the dash at the scene before her, slouched Paradise.

Alive.

Alive, awake, and by all appearances unhurt. Relief and panic jolted Brad’s heart. At any moment the killer could turn back.

And what if she yelped in surprise at seeing Brad?

He looked at the ignition. Quinton had removed the keys. Brad tapped on the seat. She spun her head, blinked, and jerked with recognition. He frantically motioned silence. Reaching in, he slid a Dr Pepper can out of the cup holder and set it on the floor. The other cup holder was empty.