Ted Dekker: The Bride Collector

It took him a full twenty-five minutes to navigate his way south on I-25 to C470, then north on Santa Fe Drive to Miss Langdon’s neighborhood. He eased the car to a stop on the street adjacent to Peakview, far enough away to avoid suspicion from the blue house, but close enough for him to view her coming and going.

The night was still, and no streetlights compromised the darkness. Most of the homes in this track had two-car garages, which could only effectively house one car, forcing many residents to park their second cars either in their driveways or on the street. His black 300M rested among a dozen similar vehicles bedded down for the night.

He checked his mirrors, first the right, then the left, then the right again and the left again. Each time his vision acquired more information, scanning farther down the street, taking in the white Mustang, the fire hydrant, the intersection, the row of junipers two houses back, the cat that scampered across past the stop sign a block behind.

But no people. No threats.

After searching his mirrors seven times, Quinton turned off the ignition and let silence filter into the cockpit. He withdrew one of the toothpicks and stripped off the plastic wrapping, careful not to touch the sharp wood tip he would insert into his mouth, and began to methodically clean the spaces between his teeth.

Ahead, Melissa Langdon’s blue home waited quietly, lit only by a single porch light. A ranch house, roughly sixteen hundred square feet. Seven windows facing the street, including the bathroom off the master bedroom. The backyard was large, but she was too busy right now, serving drinks and crackers thirty thousand feet above sea level, to care about lot dimensions.

The last time Quinton had walked behind the house, the weeds had been calf-high. A cat had rushed from the brush and caused him to fall backward. He’d strangled the cat that very night, suffering several nasty cuts in the process. Funny how dispatching a witless animal had proven more perilous than bleeding several grown human beings. After the act, he had laid it under his front tire to make it look like the cat had been accidentally run over on the street. He didn’t need the pet’s owner finding and reporting their strangled cat in the back of Melissa Langdon’s house.

Some might wonder why God had chosen Melissa. She was beautiful, any man could see that, though not even Quinton had recognized the flight attendant the first time she’d walked down the aisle and asked him if he would like something to drink. But by the end of that flight, he knew. God had made his choice through Quinton.

Melissa was sweet and her smile was genuine, unlike most of the whores who flew the friendly skies. She had a round, kind face framed by straight blond hair that hung to her shoulders. Her blue skirt draped seamlessly over her narrow hips. She kept her ruby fingernails short but carefully manicured, and her fingers moved with grace, caressing every object she touched. She used disinfecting towelettes frequently during the flight.

But the ultimate truth shone in her green eyes. Unblemished innocence. Deep, like a jungle pool. Melissa was one of the favorites.

Unable to keep his own eyes off her, he’d finally had to slip on his sunglasses. By the time the plane landed, his shirt was soaked in sweat and his left hand was trembling. He’d received a nod and a friendly smile from her as he deplaned, and he’d offered his hand in a gesture of appreciation.

She’d taken it. Her cool dry skin had sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. He’d been so distracted by that single contact that he took a wrong turn and exited the security area before remembering that he had a connecting flight. Forced to go back through security, he missed the connection.

Quinton knew from the schedule he’d taken from her dresser last week that, barring any delays, her plane from New York had landed at DIA roughly one hour ago. Hopefully, she wouldn’t make any diversions before coming home.

He could smell the meat on his breath as it deflected off his hand. When he’d asked the last one, Caroline, if she liked the way his breath smelled, she had given him a tearful nod. He’d switched to Crest three days ago after using Colgate for as long as he could remember and…

Lights brightened the street. Melissa’s blue Civic rolled past his 300M.

Quinton felt himself weaken, something inside him quailing before the prospect of an impending thrill. “Bless me, Father. Bless me.” He swallowed deep and sat perfectly still, watching her pull into the driveway. The garage door opened, then closed behind her car.

His bride was home.

OCTOBER IN DENVER. It could be cold one day and hot the next. Like working a case, Brad thought. The trail could turn at any moment. Usually due to fairly basic investigative work, collecting mounds of evidence and carefully sifting through them.

Someone once told him that good doctoring was a process of eliminating potential diseases until a physician was left with the most likely ailment to explain the symptoms. Detective work was the same.

As long as you were eliminating suspects in the investigative process, you were moving forward. It was sometimes Brad’s only consolation in the face of relentless pressure.

In the case of a serial killer like the Bride Collector, knowing that the suspect would continue turned the work from a simple elimination process into a chess match. Success wasn’t just a matter of sifting through the evidence from the past, but of trying to anticipate the future.

Anticipating a killer’s next move meant climbing into his mind. Not out of desire, of course. No one with any skill or a sane mind would ever relish that journey. It was only ever launched out of necessity.

Brad had settled himself with a late-night drink at McKenzie’s Pub, a block from his downtown condo, then spent the balance of the night alone, tossing and turning, climbing inside the Bride Collector’s mind.

He’d woken early and headed to the bathroom to shower, eager to return to the crime scene, before seeing that it was only three in the morning. He slipped back under the covers, pulled his second pillow tight, and thought about madness.

Insanity. The mentally ill.

The Bride Collector.

It was seven now-he’d slept in after missing sleep in the wee hours. Showered, shaved, and dressed in blue slacks and white shirt, he poured his half-finished cup of coffee down the drain, chased it with a squirt of lemon fresh, and rinsed it away.

Buttoning his shirt, he wandered over to the window and gazed out at the city.

His condo was on the fifth floor of a ten-story building off Colfax, a two-bedroom affair with floor-to-ceiling one-way glass for walls. Even with the lights on at night, there was no way to see inside, but from where Brad stood at the sink, he could look past the breakfast bar over an expansive view of downtown Denver.

Against the horizon, a row of Rocky Mountain summits wove in and out of view, knitted between the outlines of a crowded, gleaming skyline. To the south, he could imagine the summit of Pikes Peak in the distance. Turning right toward the north, he could also glimpse the massive slopes of Longs Peak, crown of Rocky Mountain National Park and rough northernmost boundary of the massive mountain chain.

He sighed. Somewhere between the two boundaries and within the urban sprawl before him, the killer was probably waking up as well.

Tragically, so was his next victim.

I see you but you can’t see me. Fitting for an investigator. Fitting for a killer. How many hours, days, had the killer hid behind the darkened glass of his car or van, watching others, potential victims, women who warranted his attention because they fit a certain profile? Beautiful, weak, trusting, innocent.