Ted Dekker: The Bride Collector

Brad didn’t necessarily need to kill the man here. A burning barn would make a signal fire visible for miles, and the road out of this place took a considerable amount of time to navigate.

They were all long odds, but allowing a sociopathic monster of Quinton Gauld’s intelligence to escape offered even longer odds for Paradise’s survival.

The night was quiet. He eased to his right and peered through a half-inch crack. The truck’s green paint looked dark by the flame’s light. Both lamps sat on wooden barrels on either side of the makeshift wall, untouched. Hay bales rested everywhere. But Brad’s view of the table was blocked by the bales.

No sign of the man. He had to determine the killer’s location, track him, wait for the right opportunity, create his distraction at the back, then run around to the front and enter the barn with the truck between him and Quinton, who would have been drawn to the rear by the distraction.

Then and only then would he go after the nearest lamp, and then the truck.

But there was no sign of Quinton. From this angle he could only see part of the barn, the bed of the truck, the blankets, but little else. The man could be anywhere.

Thinking about it now, Brad feared something would go terribly wrong. Quinton Gauld wasn’t the kind of man who made many mistakes, and having made one or two that allowed Brad and Paradise to escape, he would be prepared.

Breathing deep to calm himself, Brad slipped along the wall, keeping low. He had to get to the far side to get a clear view of the table. As soon as he could track the man, a simple bang on the wall would draw his attention while Brad hurried around to the main entrance.

The details drummed through his mind, rehearsing the unknown, ears tingling with tension.

The rear door was cracked open. He stopped and considered this. But it made sense-Quinton would have searched at least the perimeter before retreating, perhaps through this door. That was fifteen or twenty minutes ago. So what had he been doing since? Why all so quiet?

Brad moved forward on the balls of his feet. He had to make visual contact. He had to locate the man first.

A three-inch gap separated the door from the old rotting frame, filled now with orange light, like a monster’s eye just barely open while it slept. Brad reached it, thought about looking inside, but decided that the door’s slightest movement might betray him.

Just beyond the door, there was a gap between two boards, he would…

The blow on the back of his head came out of nowhere, like a giant cobra strike on his skull. Pain raged down his spine. He knew then, as he collapsed to the ground, why he hadn’t seen Quinton on the inside of the barn.

The killer was out here with him.

IT WAS FASCINATING and immensely satisfying, and now Quinton knew why his subconscious had allowed him to make the small mistakes that had allowed Rain Man his short-lived freedom. Having faced defeat and overcome it by recapturing the fox, he was now able to relish the man’s demise with unsurpassed satisfaction.

This is what Quinton Gauld told himself as he gazed at the scene he’d reconstructed. There sat Brad Raines, the man who would steal his bride, tied to the same post he’d escaped from, albeit only the stub.

Quinton had snuck up behind the man with supreme confidence, gun aimed at the back of his head just in case he turned, in which case Quinton would have shot him before hauling him inside. As it turned out, the man’s pounding heart had likely prevented him from hearing the footfall of Quinton’s feather-light feet on the soft ground.

One blow to the back of his head had incapacitated the man, and Quinton had dragged him through the door and secured him to the post. Blood trailed down the man’s neck from the fresh cut on his scalp. He was finally waking to play his role. The scene was intoxicating. Beautiful.

This is what Quinton told himself, but the buzzing in his brain kept him from truly relishing his victory in the way he was meant to.

He paced around Rain Man, absorbing his suffering, curious as to why this man would risk so much for a woman whom society had sequestered away in an institution.

He looked down at the slumped form lying on his side. “Please sit up.” He nudged the man with his foot. “Up, up, we don’t have all night. It takes more time than you realize to drill and drain a human body.”

Rain Man groaned. Because his hands were tied behind his back, he struggled to get his legs under his body and sit. The man mumbled a curse.

“Please, we’re beyond that, aren’t we? Hmm? Cursing, shouting, spitting, pulling against the ropes-all behaviors that only undermine people like you and me.”

Rain Man stared up at him with dark eyes as if he was trying to explode Quinton’s head with this bitter stare.

“And stop looking at me as if I’m some kind of monster. True, I am a monster, but then neither cursing, shouting, spitting, struggling against the ropes, nor harsh stares will help you any more than they helped Nikki. So let’s be civilized for a moment, shall we?”

The man’s glare did not soften. “What kind of men are we, Quinton?”

“Real men. Stripped of the facade social conditioning paints on the masses. We see the truth, you and me. I am the hound from hell and you are the crafty fox out to steal my prize. We both recognize beauty and we are both in love with Paradise.”

“But that’s wrong, isn’t it? I love Paradise. You hate her. Remember?”

“Well then, I love to hate her. Either way, we both know how to love.” He frowned at his begging carcass of an adversary. “This is the part where you begin to utter bitter protests, attempting to set me straight. One or two would be okay, get them out of your system.”

The man didn’t, but then Quinton didn’t expect that he would. Rain Man’s resolve began to melt from his face, replaced by a sagging look of defeat. It was a bit pathetic, really. Watching such a worthy mind reduced to this defeated slab of flesh… Quinton had to hold back a sudden urge to kick him in the jaw. Wake up, wake up, you holy ghost! Don’t let me walk all over you like this!

“You look pathetic,” he said.

A tear broke from Rain Man’s right eye. His weakness was intolerable! Quinton considered changing his plan on the spot. He should put this shallow shell of a ghost out of his misery with a single blow to his head. Seeing a weak man beg for his life was expected and therefore acceptable. Seeing a frail woman cry for mercy was satisfying because she was only playing a role that reflected the greater weakness of the world.

But watching this fox of a ghost crumble was beyond the pale. Like the boy whom he’d slapped in Elway’s eating establishment, Brad Raines needed a good blow to his head.

“Disgusting,” Quinton said.

“You’ll never catch her,” Rain Man said. His tone was strong and laced with conviction.

It occurred to Quinton then that the fox wasn’t crying for himself. His tears were for Paradise. This wasn’t a picture of a shriveling mouse accepting his defeat. It was, in fact, the very opposite.

Rain Man was uncaring of his own life, crushed by the prospect of harm to the one he loved. His tears were for Paradise, not for himself. This was not cowardice but nobility.

Quinton was so upset by the realization that for a few moments he couldn’t speak. But even in such a frayed state he had to ask himself why. And even as he asked himself why, his buzzing intelligence gave him the answer.

He was jealous of Rain Man.

Insanely jealous. He was, in fact, as jealous of Rain Man’s love and nobility as he was of the beauty in Paradise, God’s favorite.

It occurred to him that his hands were shaking badly. He looked down at them, mesmerized. This, then, was his greatest test. Not abducting seven brides, not draining their blood to present them unblemished, not realizing his true purpose, not manipulating Rain Man for his purpose, not even luring Paradise in with Rain Man’s screams of pain.