Ted Dekker: The Bride Collector

Twenty feet down the middle of the barn separated them now. Quinton seemed caught in some kind of trance, as if in facing the culmination of his plans he could not find the words to express the import of the moment. He stood with his gun at his side, watching her. No wise words, no gloating, no expression of hatred, no cursing, not even a twitch on his face or a tremble in his hand.

He just stared at her, dumb.

Perhaps he couldn’t believe that she really was stupid enough to come back, knowing what faced her. Yes. Yes, that had to be it. Both he and Quinton saw the same thing. Only someone so raw, so idealistic could have stepped willingly into harm’s way with no hope for survival.

“You’re wondering why I would come back,” she said.

She stepped forward cautiously and stopped ten feet from him. Her face showed no expression, but new tears broke from her eyes.

“It makes no sense to you,” she said. “Does it?”

He answered after a moment. “You’re innocent and foolish,” he said. “That’s what makes you so beautiful. That is why I have to kill you.”

“Then you’ll be killing the one thing you want.”

They watched each other.

“I’ve been thinking about it, Quinton. That’s why you came to me that night seven years ago. You wanted the innocence and beauty that you saw in me.”

“You can’t manipulate me with your words. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and I have been sent to kill you.”

“Because you can’t possess me?” Her voice quivered.

“Because you’re God’s favorite and no one can have you.”

“The truth is, you’re afraid of me, Quinton. I terrify you.”

“I can break you like any doll.”

But she was undeterred. “I terrify you because you’re afraid that you can never be beautiful like me. You’re like a jealous boy, and now you’re throwing a fit.”

Brad stared, caught off guard by the exchange between them. This was the Paradise who had first drawn him with her simple insight and logic, seeing and speaking about what only she could see outside the window. The naive girl who could see ghosts when others could not.

“You were mixed up then and you’re still mixed up now,” she said. “You are a lost, lonely boy who was hurt by his father. Just like I was.”

HER WORDS CAME to him and in an instant the buzzing stopped. The world went silent, as if someone had pulled the plug.

She knew this? It was a guess, of course, anyone could guess that someone had been abused as a boy, hadn’t half the world? But her tone didn’t hold even a hint of question. Her eyes were reaching past him, into the place of secrets. This was hallowed ground, a place so deep and holy that he himself was only rarely allowed to step into it.

And yet she was walking in, trampling his soul underfoot. Quinton felt suddenly and forcefully violated.

The silence between them stretched, and he searched for the buzzing, the voices, the calm, the intelligence that had made him so powerful and such a worthy servant. He hated her for stripping them away.

And then the buzzing was back, screaming in his mind like a swarm of angry hornets. His whole body tensed and his fingers clamped down on the gun by his side.

He’d removed the silencer when he’d replaced the weapon in the case. The discharge thundered through the barn as the gun bucked in his hand and sent a bullet into the ground by his feet.

Paradise did not flinch.

“Your father hurt you just like my father hurt me. That’s what first drew you to me,” she said.

“No.”

“I didn’t have a father to tell me that I was one of God’s favorites,” she said.

He saw something so unnerving that he would have lifted the gun and shot her in her forehead if not for the fact that he had planned so long to drill her. There was empathy in her eyes.

“But that’s one thing you’re right about, Quinton. I am one of God’s favorites.”

“Please, be quiet.”

“My father never told me who I was, just like your father never told you who you were.”

Why didn’t he move? Why didn’t he just shoot her? Why didn’t he grab her and tie her down and drill her full of holes? Why did he feel as if the glue that held him together was melting?

“Because you are one of God’s favorites, too, Quinton.”

BRAD DARED NOT utter a word, not now, not while Paradise was speaking and Quinton was listening. The slightest shift in tension might set him off, as it had discharged his gun moments ago.

Quinton had gone stiff. Sweat beaded his forehead. His hands were balled into fists, and his blood vessels ran like cords down his forearms. At any moment it would all end. Brad knew what Paradise was trying to do, but it wouldn’t work!

The rage in the killer would overtake him and he would crush her. She was naive enough to believe that if she just reached out to him he would understand and change.

But men like Quinton Gauld did not change, not this side of a cosmic shift in their souls far beyond human words or any kind of psychiatric soothing. He might play along. He might even give in to the pain that her words clearly evoked. But in the end the monster would rise up and rip into her.

Even so, Brad dared not utter a single word.

He hopelessly worked to free the ropes that bound his wrists, but there wasn’t a millimeter of play in them. He pulled at the post, but it was anchored deep.

And then in the long silence, something changed. Paradise began to cry. Her small shoulders began to shake in a sob.

She drew a deep breath. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

What was she saying?

“I’ve lived with this pain so long. I can’t do it anymore.” She sobbed and sucked at the air, lips trembling. “I don’t want to hide in the closet anymore. I can’t take the darkness. I can’t take the fear!”

Her words sounded obscenely loud in the barn. She stood shaking, gasping for air, looking now at Brad with pleading eyes, then back at Quinton.

“I can’t do it… I can’t live like this…”

She was crying for herself, he realized. She’d said it in the field and now she was saying it here. Paradise was here as much for her own rescue as for his. She needed to free herself from the claws piercing her heart.

This wasn’t about manipulating the man who’d violated her seven years ago in the hope of destroying him; this was about casting off her own fear so that she could be free.

“I can’t fear you anymore, Quinton. I can’t fear my father. I can’t take the hate and fear that’s trying to kill me.”

Quinton stood on the quilts, eyes wide. His fists were shaking.

“I forgive you, Quinton.” She spoke the confession in a sob and then walked forward, stood in front of him, and reached out her hand slowly.

Pressed her palm against his belly.

The moment her fingers made contact with him, she sucked in a short gasp. But then, she could see ghosts, couldn’t she? She was seeing something now, or was she only shocked at her own audacity?

Quinton was so appalled, so stunned, by her actions that he seemed to forget his options. He looked frightened. Lost.

Now in a soft voice, Paradise pleaded with him through her tears. “He’s trying to kill you. The same monster that’s trying to kill me because I’m God’s favorite is trying to kill you, too.” Then very quietly so that Brad could barely hear her: “You’re like me. He’s trying to kill us both.”

A slight quiver had swept over Quinton’s whole body. Brad didn’t know what to say. He wanted to tell her to run, to claw at Quinton’s eyes and sprint, to dart around him and throw the lamp to the ground and then run for the back door.

Instead she spoke softly, now without tears, like an angel sent here for his sake. “I’m sorry you were hurt by your father, Quinton. But you’re still a favorite. You don’t need to prove yourself to God, or be jealous of his favorites.”