Ted Dekker - The Bride Collector

Who are you watching now? Whose peaceful world of hope will you soon crush?

He turned the water off and quickly scanned the kitchen. Spotless. As was the entire condo. The living room furniture was built around chrome frames with clean lines and black velvet coverings. Glass tables, but not the cheap kind available at any Rooms To Go. Brad’s tastes ran rich. A generous inheritance allowed him the opportunity to satisfy those tastes.

Two large urns sat against the far wall, filled with colored reeds. Nothing extravagant, but well made, well placed, and well kept. It was the way he liked his life. In order, so that he could maintain perspective in a disorganized and chaotic world.

He checked the tap, making sure it was firmly off. Glanced at the Movado on his wrist, saw that he had time, and called Nikki’s cell. He left a message asking her to meet him at the crime scene at nine, then strode to his bedroom for shoes. A spot of orange cloth caught his attention as he bent for the third pair of black leather loafers.

A woman’s top. He recognized it immediately. This was Lauren’s orange tankini, left from her visit three weeks ago. How it had found its way behind his hanging slacks and remained there without attracting his attention sooner was a mystery.

He picked up the top, recalling the specifics of that night. He’d known Lauren for nearly a year, a stunning woman who lived on the floor beneath him. She worked as a fashion consultant at Nordstrom, downtown. Lighthearted, carefree, and smothered in sensuality. Their relationship was casual, not intimate, and he had no ambition to ruin a strong friendship.

That night, however… Things got interesting that night. He had managed to avoid calling her since the following morning.

He checked his watch again: still plenty of time. He folded the article of clothing, placed it into a manila envelope, and wrote a note to Lauren with a Sharpie. Let’s talk soon.

Retrieving the soft leather briefcase he’d packed last night, he took the stairs to Lauren’s condo, wedged the package under her door, then rode the elevator to the ground floor.

The killer more than likely lived in an apartment or house out of the way, where his comings and goings at odd hours would be undetected. Or was he the kind that turned heads, a Ted Bundy of sorts, adapting to a suburban or city environment where he was greeted warmly by unsuspecting neighbors and clerks?

“Morning, Mr. Raines.” Mason, one of half a dozen guards who rotated duty from the counter, nodded.

Brad glanced out at the blue sky. “Looks like a nice one.”

“That it is. Sure’s got Miami beat. But come January you’ll be wishing you were back in Florida.”

“You forget I’ve already lived through winter here.”

“True. Beats Minneapolis.” Mason grinned.

Brad left the parking garage beneath the building and wound his way to Maci’s, a breakfast-and-lunch café. He glanced at his watch again: seven twenty-three. In no hurry to battle traffic, he grabbed a paper at the front door and let Becky, the proprietor, seat him at a street window near the back. “Amanda will be right with you, Brad.”

“Thanks, Becky.”

Amanda approached wearing the same yellow dress and white apron all the waitresses wore, a cute cut that was supposed to convey a faint country motif but looked a little more candy striper on Amanda, twenty-eight and divorced.

“Coffee with stevia,” she said, setting down a cup and bowl of the sweetener.

“Thanks for remembering.”

“You may be good looking, sweetie, but that doesn’t mean I swoon at first sight like the rest of the ladies you string along.”

She grinned and he laughed to cover his blush. “I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a slap on the wrist.”

“Uh-huh. I don’t see a ring on your finger yet.”

“I guess I’m not one to rush into a relationship.”

“I don’t blame you for a second.” Her flirting came from a place of familiarity. The safety she offered him was one reason he was attracted to Maci’s Café. But she’d never been quite this flirtatious.

“I’ll have your eggs right out. Over easy with two pieces of whole-grain toast, half an orange, peeled. Like clockwork.”

He offered her a smile and thanked her. She strode away, wearing an amused grin. This was home. Although he’d only been in Denver one year, his living habits had returned him to the same restaurants, stores, and gas stations so often that he’d become a fixture in their worlds.

If the Bride Collector was psychotic, truly mentally ill, he would have a harder time fitting into normal social contexts. Unless his intelligence compensated for the instability of his mind.

Brad left Maci’s Café at seven forty-four, headed north on the Denver-Boulder Turnpike, and arrived at the scene off 96th at eight twenty-nine. He parked his BMW next to a patrol car, gathered his briefcase, and approached the officer on duty beside a yellow-tape perimeter.

“Morning, Officer.” He flashed his identification. “Brad Raines, FBI.”

“Morning, sir.”

“All quiet?”

“Since I took over at six. We’re a ways out.”

“I want some time. No one comes in but Nikki, okay?”

“You got it.”

He stepped over the yellow tape and walked up to the shed, thinking the sound of his feet on the gravel would have been similar to the sound the killer had heard on his approach. But he’d had Caroline with him. Had she walked willingly? Had he carried her? There were no fibers on her person to indicate she’d been wrapped. No bruises on her wrists to suggest she’d struggled against restraints. Drugged, but enough for such complete compliance?

What do you tell them? How do you win their submission?

The room was as he’d last seen it, minus the body, the rough shape of which was now outlined in chalk.

He scooted the single chair to the table, withdrew several books on mental illness, his laptop, a drill. On the wall next to the outline, he posted eight-by-ten photographs of each victim, placing the image of Caroline where her body had been. Surrounding each photograph, he pinned a dozen more, detailing their angelic forms and drilled feet.

The drill went on the table.

He wrote the Bride Collector’s confession on the adjacent wall using a fresh piece of chalk.

The Beauty Eden id Lost

Where intelligence does centered

I came do her and she smashed da Serpent head

I searched and find the seventh and beautiful

She will rest in my Serpent’s hole

And I will live again

Brad set the chalk on the table, stepped back, gently pressed his palms together in front of his chin, and stared at his approximation of the Bride Collector’s work. The shed, the women, the drill. The confession.

What had crossed through his mind, taking the drill for the first time, pressing the bit against flesh, feeling it hit bone? Like a dentist drilling for his goal.

In this case, blood. He took a deep breath and settled. The roof creaked as it expanded under the sun’s heat. He let himself sink into the scene, in no rush to coax truth from what could not yet be seen.

From his own mind.

For a few moments, Brad felt himself become, however faintly, the Bride Collector. Or at the very least, he felt himself stepping first one foot, then another foot into the Bride Collector’s shoes.

“I’m psychotic,” he whispered aloud. “No one knows I’m psychotic-why?”

“Because you appear normal,” Nikki’s voice said softly behind him.

She was early.

He spoke without turning. “Good morning, Nikki.”

“Morning. Sleep well?”

“Not really, no.”

“Me neither.”

He’d wanted to be alone, but he felt comforted by her response.