The Bride Collector (29 page)

There was a growing suggestion among scientists that psychosis was a sign of evolutionary progress, the brain’s way of growing
brighter, at least in some cases. Like Quinton’s.

In truth, being “out of touch with reality” could only occur when one understood reality itself. Quinton’s superior mind was
indeed out of touch with the world’s understanding of reality, yet supremely in touch with a higher reality, largely misunderstood
by the world.

Namely, the spiritual reality, which gave him purpose and destiny. The smooth texture of peanut butter combined with sweet
popping orange—such a perfect snack, it should be called a food group all by itself. Some probably would think peanut butter
with oranges strange. What they failed to see was that from another perspective,
they
were strange.

The world had once been determined to be flat, and the belief that it was round was considered to be out of touch with that
reality. But which was true reality?

In the same way, many believed that God did not exist. One day they would all know the truth. There was a terrible battle
raging between good and evil, and few were as aware of this battle as Quinton.

He took his last bite of orange smothered in peanut butter, wiped his fingers on a napkin, and threw the napkin in his self-sealing
waste can under the sink. The perfect snack indeed. His only regret was that he himself, a human, was not perfect, as much
as he tried to be perfect. Instead he had the buzzing at the base of his brain to mar his perfection.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. And I will sin again
.

Now, to the matter of Rain Man. The agent couldn’t possibly know that he was already on a course to bring him the beautiful
sister. The seventh and most perfect bride.

It was fantastically ironic that Angie Founder’s real name was Angel. That sicko father who’d killed his family and taken
his own life had named his two daughters Paradise and Angel. A religious nutcase.

Either way, the father had played his role by bringing into the world a beautiful daughter who would now present herself as
a spotless bride. God indeed worked in mysterious ways.

Quinton left his house at noon, slid behind the wheel of his black 300M, and headed out to complete a few errands before he
drove into downtown Denver, where he would drop the hatchet. So to speak.

God willing.

NIKKI WAS IRISH
. The sound of bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace” at her and her mother’s funerals earlier in the day haunted Brad. The last
two days had drifted by like a vessel lost in a white fog. Nothing could have been worse for the FBI, for the case, for him.

And Nikki…

Brad still had trouble accepting the fact that she was gone, much less that he had played a central role in her fate. She
was dead. She was dead because of him. She wasn’t Ruby, no, but she was a beautiful woman with a spirit that had touched thousands
of people. The sudden end to her life left him as shocked as he’d been since Ruby’s death.

The Denver office had slipped into a terrible morass, rage and grief all rolled into one. The assistant director in charge
had flown in for the funeral and spent two hours in the office, reinforcing the sense of failure they all shared.

Temple had been the first SAC to lose an agent to a ritualistic killing in the history of the FBI. He wasn’t taking it well.

Details of the case were finally beginning to leak to the press—far too many people knew and loved both Nikki and Michelle
Holden to be satisfied with anything but the truth surrounding their deaths. Most of the truth, anyway. To date, they knew
that a crazed killer had broken into the house, killed Michelle, then taken Nikki to his apartment and killed her there in
a ritualistic fashion. It would only be a matter of time, a day at most, before the fact that Nikki had been the Bride Collector’s
sixth ritualistic killing made the news.

The fact that the Bride Collector was not only out there but homing in on his seventh victim deepened the desperation that
had pulled the investigation into its jaws. They couldn’t take time to mourn. Brad had hurled himself back into the dark murky
waters like a man who’d jumped overboard, knowing that the killer was in the deepest part of the ocean.

But there was nothing new out there, and in the end the waves had washed him up back here. At the Center for Wellness and
Intelligence.

Allison sat at her small wood desk in front of a wide bookcase filled with psychiatric and psychology books. She leaned back
in her chair, studying him like a mother who knew more than she let on. “It’s not your fault, Brad.”

“I could have stopped it. It feels like my fault.”

“Of course it would. And now you’re terrified to take the next step because you’re afraid that you’ll be at fault again.”

She was speaking about Paradise. Her insistence that Paradise might hold the key had whispered through his mind, drawn him
back. Without Allison’s encouragement, he wouldn’t be here. And even now he was torn.

“Help me out here, Brad. You have a lead in a case—”

“We have a girl…”

“A woman.”

“… a woman who forgot what she saw when she made contact with one of the killer’s victims. Is that a lead?”

“Isn’t your obligation to fully explore every lead in a case like this?”

“She can’t remember.”

Allison nodded, then winked at him. “Not yet.”

In Brad’s world what she suggested made no sense whatsoever. Then again, neither had her suggestion to turn the evidence over
to the “team,” and that had yielded the jack in the whole, hadn’t it?

Allison leaned forward and put her elbows on her desk. “Do you know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think you’re afraid. Not of violating any protocol. You’re afraid of Paradise herself.”

“No, that’s not—”

“I think you feel for her and you’re afraid of hurting her. It’s the same reason you probably have difficulty committing to
any relationship. You’re wounded by a monster called guilt and you just can’t go there again because of the pain.”

She’d hinted at this already, but hearing it so clearly put Brad back on his seat. He didn’t know how to respond.

“I think you’re falling in love with her,” Allison said.

“What? No…” He crossed his legs and folded his hands, uneasy. “Listen, I know you think all of this is good for her, but you
can’t just push an absurd relationship like this… This is crazy.”

“No, she’s crazy, and that’s the real problem, isn’t it? Any other witness and you wouldn’t be sitting here like a small boy,
feeling sorry for yourself. Well, let me tell you something, FBI, the last thing you need to worry about is whether Paradise
will or won’t get hurt. Stop treating her like she’s subhuman.”

“So now I’m wrong for not leading her on?”

“I’m not suggesting you lead her on. I’m only saying that she deserves to be treated like any other woman her age. With complete
honesty.”

“She’s
not
any other human being!”

“She is!” Allison cried. “Do you think God loves her any less because of her condition?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

She sighed and leaned back again. “Fine, FBI. I’ll be straight then. I hope you find this killer and put an end to what he’s
doing before he hurts another woman. He’s clearly psychotic, and it’s the few like this maniac who give my children a bad
name. Despite the vast majority of wonderful people learning to cope with their psychosis, there’s always the one Michael
Laudor who’ll graduate from Yale, then snap and kill his fiancée. On account of those few, the world treats them all as if
they have leprosy, and that makes me sick. You have six dead women on your hands, and that’s a terrible thing. But I have
dozens living in my care who face a kind of death every day because they are made to feel like the dirt on the bottom of your
feet. Less than human. Dead already.”

Point taken.

“You cannot hurt Paradise more than she’s already been hurt. You can only help her. Don’t let your fears and insecurities
stop you from treating her like any other woman.”

“Okay.” Brad stood and walked to the window. “Fine, I won’t. But you’re wrong about one thing.” He turned and walked to the
back of his chair. “I’m not falling in love with her. Maybe I am wounded and maybe I’m afraid to let a woman love me, all
that psychobabble. I like Paradise very much. She’s… precious. But, please, I’m not falling in love with her.”

The idea of it…

Allison’s eyes twinkled. “Fine. Then you’ll treat her like a human being. Like a woman.”

“I said I would.”

“Because if you do, she’ll trust you. She might let her guard down and tell you what’s hidden inside her. And she’ll probably
fall in love with you, if she hasn’t already.”

He couldn’t believe she was saying this.

“And I’m telling you that’s okay,” Allison said, standing. “Let her fall in love with you. It will do her wonders.”

“I refuse to lead her on—”

“I didn’t say lead her on. I said treat her like any woman. Just don’t penalize her. There’s a difference.”

Allison walked around her desk and headed toward the door. “And this bit about God’s favorite, from the killer’s note.”

“‘I’ve taken God’s favorite back to him,’” Brad quoted.

She gripped the doorknob and turned back. “You realize that’s theologically sound. In God’s infinite love, he loves no one
more than another. We are all, therefore, God’s favorite. Each soul is immeasurably valuable, no less than the value of a
single bride loved by her suitor. Few humans understand their relative value to God.”

“And you’re saying the Bride Collector does,” Brad said.

“Whoever this man is, he thinks he’s doing God a favor, finding the bride of Christ for him. What he doesn’t realize is that
he’s actually killing God’s favorites. He’s got it backward, you see? He’s not an angel, he’s the devil. Someone needs to
correct his thinking.”

“Yes, well, he’s delusional.”

“Yes. But he’s not the only one who’s got it backward.” She opened the door and stepped out. “Now we should go. Paradise is
waiting.”

“She is?”

“She’s been waiting for an hour.”

“THEY’RE COMING!”
Andrea cried. She whipped back from the window overlooking the park, eyes wide. “Quick, they’re coming!”

Paradise was hanging back, pacing by the couch, determined not to give in to all of their antics, but hearing the announcement
she rushed forward with Casanova and Roudy for a look.

“Who’s coming?” a voice shouted from behind. “Zeus?”

They spun and faced a goggle-eyed Flower in a pink dress. “Out,” Roudy snapped.

“But my sculpture isn’t ready for Zeus! It’s going to be majestic.”

“The room is reserved for a meeting with Allison. You have to leave.”

“But…” Then Flower turned and fled, uttering something about the gods.

Paradise was already homed in on Allison and Brad crossing the lawn toward her. She was suddenly unsure she could go through
with this. Worse, she wasn’t entirely sure what
this
was.

“Now, remember what I told you,” Cass said, straightening his shirt. He was feeling better, full of vim and vigor, he said.
“I know I tend to be straightforward, but it doesn’t always work so well. Trust me. Try not to stampede. Try to be subtle.”

“Subtle?” Andrea said. “Is that what
you
are?”

“I said it depends. You have to know how women think!” He held up a finger authoritatively.

“I still think we should accompany you,” Roudy said. “Why on earth would he want to meet with you alone?”

“Don’t be a fool, man,” Cass quipped. “Three’s a crowd.”

“Thus speaks the man who was sleeping when we found the jack.”

“This is about Jill, not Jack,” Cass said.

Paradise couldn’t bear their nonsense a moment longer. “Stop being ridiculous! All of you! We don’t know who he wants to meet
with, or why. This has nothing to do with anything you’re talking about!” Her voice rang through the atrium in the women’s
wing. “Andrea, tell them, for heaven’s sake.”

“It’s true, Paradise wants me to flirt with him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s the spirit,” Cass said. “But go slow, Andrea.”

“You didn’t?” Andrea asked with a look of confusion. “Sorry, sorry. I thought…”

“I said you
could
for all I care,” Paradise snapped. “That doesn’t mean I
want
you to.”

The door burst open and Bartholomew, a skinny resident who suffered from delusions, pulled up sharply. “They’re coming, Paradise!
And he looks good today. Handsome devil.”

Paradise faced Casanova. “You told the whole center?”

He shrugged. “Just a few.”

Bartholomew spun back. “Sorry. My lips are sealed.” He set off toward the hub, where he would likely tell every living soul,
assuming they weren’t lined up at the window already.

“Out,” Paradise said, seething now. “I want all of you out!”

“We can’t, Paradise,” Roudy protested. “Like you said, he might want to talk to all of us.”