The Bride Collector (8 page)

“Two hundred seventy-three thousand,” he said. “Plus or minus three hundred.”

“Wonderful.”

“Fewer leaves today. The wind. Yes, good, I’m good, Allison Johnson.”

Allison sighed. “Not that I didn’t wish we could take them all. Those considered mentally ill have been treated like refuse
for far too long. First incarcerated in asylums, then in prisons. Reduced to shells of humanity through Thorazine in the fifties,
now refused medication and left to fend for themselves until they prove a danger to others. In which case, they’re thrown
behind bars. They say at least one-third of all people in prison today are so-called mentally ill. I’m not talking about early-onset
disorders like autism or retardation. Strictly psychosis, which presents itself later. It’s quite widespread. Do you know
what percentage of the world’s population suffers from some form of schizophrenia?”

“Nearly one out of a hundred,” Nikki said.

“Point seven percent, to be precise. In our country, nearly three million people suffer from chronic mental illness of some
kind. In Colorado alone, we estimate seventy thousand untreated cases at any given time. Caring for the mentally ill is far
too expensive and in the opinion of most, the illness is untreatable anyway. You can load them up with dopamine suppressors
and send them away in a fog, but you can’t treat the illness. It’s like blinding the person who sees too much, or putting
the person with a broken leg to sleep so they don’t stumble and fall. To date, only the mind itself can treat the mind. And
that, FBI, is where we come in.”

“Their intelligence offsets their illness,” Nikki offered.

“Close, but not quite. Take Flower, whom you met outside. She has been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder—both bipolar
and psychotic, a thought disorder that sometimes presents in the flight of ideas you heard. Sometimes amusing, always fascinating.
If Flower had typical intelligence, her gifting, as we like to call it, would make life very difficult for her. Without drugs
and a caring family she might end up on the street, homeless like so many others in similar straits. But she is extremely
intelligent, and her mind has the capacity to deal with her unusual skills. We coach her, help her deal with her gifting so
that she not only copes, but can share her gift with the world.”

“Sculpting hedges.”

“Oh, that’s the least of Flower’s many talents. Many of the world’s greatest contributors find themselves in this group. John
Nash, the schizophrenic professor from the movie
A Beautiful Mind,
is well known. But many have had mental illnesses. Abraham Lincoln, Virginia Woolf, Beethoven, Leo Tolstoy, Isaac Newton,
Ernest Hemingway, Charles Dickens… you get the idea. At the Center for Wellness and Intelligence, we provide an environment
that allows the John Nashes of the world to be themselves. Acceptance, facilitation, and very carefully regulated medication
on a case-by-case basis.”

Brad took another appraising glance about him. The whole thing seemed too good to be true.

“I understand this used to be a convent,” Nikki said. “Are you still religious?”

“Religious? We do receive some supplemental funding from the Catholic Church, if that’s what you mean. But we’re not officially
tied to any organization. The center is privately owned and run. The brainchild of Morton Anderson, a wealthy businessman.
His son, Ethan, was thrown in prison at age twenty-one after a psychotic break compelled him to enter a home of a congressman
and dress up in his wife’s clothes. They found him eating a candlelight dinner by himself, dressed as a woman. Before the
episode, he was preparing to graduate summa cum laude from the University of Colorado. As they say, there is a fine line between
insanity and genius.”

“And you’re suggesting that in some cases, no line,” Brad said.

“Of course. Unfortunately, the world has taken some of the greatest minds God has given us and locked them up in cages. Most
very brilliant or creative people seem strange to ordinary people. Geniuses are almost always outcasts. The intelligent are
bullied on the playground. They see the world differently and are shunned for it. They nearly all turn out to be lonely at
the least, locked up at the worst. It’s human nature to encourage the status quo and shun those who see life differently.”

Allison sat on a bench and folded her hands on her lap. “That being said, several of our staff, including myself, were once
nuns. So, back to your killer. How can I be of assistance?”

Brad eased down beside her, leaving Nikki to study the residents, who’d become bored with them and resumed their prior activities.
A man in a blue-striped bathrobe was playing some sort of hopscotch game, enunciating each hop with a “Hup.” Hop. “Hup.” Hop.
“Hup.”

The man stopped and pointed at the sky. “And that’s what I’m saying, you bunkered, commonwealth moron! I know when the sky
is falling and I know how high I can jump!” Then a hop and a “Hup.” This was the man they’d heard from the parking lot.

“Assuming we’re dealing with an intelligent serial killer who is mentally ill,” Brad said, “and considering his choice of
wording, we need to look at the possibility that he is somehow connected to the center.”

“You’re looking for a resident who may have left us and gone off to commit these brutal acts.”

“Something like that.”

“A psychotic male who suffers from delusions of grandeur. Someone with a propensity for violence, is that it?”

“Yes.”

Allison frowned, thinking. Brad noticed that even with a frown, she seemed to be smiling. “Hundreds have come and gone in
our seven years here. Most residents leave within six months. Some have stayed longer. A handful have been here since the
beginning. I can think of only seven or eight who ever showed any violent tendencies.”

“What about those who might have demonstrated a tendency for regression?” Nikki said.

“Well, that’s just it. Follow-up is voluntary, naturally, and the illness can grow over time. It’s difficult to predict without…”

She blinked and faced Brad, eyes bright.

“Detective work, huh? I think you might like to meet Roudy.”

“I’m sorry, Roudy?”

Allison stood, delighted by her own idea. “Of course! Roudy is one of our residents. He is quite the detective. And he’s been
here since the beginning. He remembers everything about every resident who’s entered our gates.”

Nikki caught his eye and nodded. “Okay. Sounds promising.”

Brad wasn’t sure just
how
promising, for Allison seemed more fascinated with subjects in her field of study than in cracking the case. But he could
see no harm in the notion.

“Or even better, Paradise,” Allison said, now fully engaged in the notion.

“Paradise?”

“Paradise. If you’re fortunate, she might even talk to you. Now, there’s a special one, my friends. She can see what many
can’t.” Allison started for the round community building between both wings, glancing back as she walked. “You’re going to
love them, I can promise you that. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

THE HUB,
as Allison had referred to the central gathering place, was an atrium with couches, stuffed chairs, snack machines, floral
paintings on the wall, and two flat plasma televisions glowing manically on opposite walls. Round tables with wooden chairs
sat in groupings about the large room. A central gas fireplace that, according to Allison, never really got hot, and two snack
stands completed the area.

On one end, a sign over an arched door indicated that a cafeteria lay beyond. A wide hallway ran into the other end of the
building. Out back in the sunlight, a gleaming fishpond was sealed off for the residents’ safety.

A dozen residents hung around the main room at the round tables, near the televisions—which were both playing
I Love Lucy
reruns—and at a long snack bar. Half turned and stared at Brad and Nikki as they entered. The rest were too engrossed to
pay attention.

“People, say hello to our guests,” Allison called out.

As one, clearly rehearsed, they all spoke in unison. “Hello, guests.”

A black man larger than most football players looked up from where he sat hunched over a chess match at one of the round tables.
“Hello, guests.” His voice rumbled like a bass guitar. Several snickered.

“Way to go, Goliath,” a thin man called out from the group collected around the television. “Way to greet the guests three
and a half seconds after they wanted to be greeted.”

“That’ll do, Nick,” Allison said. “You don’t think Goliath is stupid, do you?”

“I didn’t say he was stupid.”

“You looking for a rematch?”

Silence.

“He’s not so bad himself,” Goliath said. He faced Nick and broke out into a wide grin. “But I got you right, Nick. You was
the best and I beat you ten straight games.”

A woman howled with laughter at the television, provoking Nick to whirl around to see what he’d missed. Goliath hunched back
over his chess game; moved a pawn.

“Anyone see Roudy or Paradise?” Allison asked.

“Roudy is in his office,” someone said.

Allison led them across the room toward the hallway. An older woman, whose dark hair looked as if it doubled for a rat’s nest
at night, followed Brad with her eyes.

Brad searched within himself and finally realized what about the place unnerved him the most. Somehow, the center’s oddity
didn’t arise from the residents’ strangeness, but from the lack of it. Each person’s behavior plucked at a well-worn string
in his own mind and resonated in countless familiar strains. He could call them childish or loud or quirky or obnoxious or
a hundred other things, but these were all tendencies he recognized in himself.

“He’s good?” Brad asked.

“Goliath? World-class. He plays chess ten hours a day on a slow day. Our challenge is helping him apply his skill to other
pursuits.”

“And how’s that going?”

She chuckled. “He’s been communicating with a lab doing cancer research. Turns out some parts of medicine aren’t unlike a
chess game. Go figure.”

“Where are all the staff?” Nikki asked.

“Everywhere. They fit in. Here we are.”

They entered a small classroom with a whiteboard and ten desks. A couch sat beneath a window that looked out to the fountain
on the lawn. Three people sat in the room: a middle-aged man lounging on the couch, dressed in a black silk bathrobe and fluffy
white slippers. A young blond woman, hardly twenty, pacing by the whiteboard and biting her nails. And a goateed man dressed
in corduroy pants and a bow tie, sitting back against the teacher’s desk.

The three clearly had not expected to be interrupted. For a moment, the trio stared at Allison and her two guests as though
they were spotting aliens who’d landed the mother ship. The two men slowly straightened. The girl grinned.

“Hello, friends,” Allison said. “I’d like you to meet our guests.”

“Hello, guests.”

“Any concern of ours?” The one with the goatee stroked his beard.

“Why, yes, Roudy. They would like to speak to you.”

“They would? But of course they would. Did you hear that, Cass? They’ve come to speak to me.”

Cass, the man in the silk bathrobe, stood and smoothed his robe, eyes on Nikki. “She’s more interested in what I have to say.”
He stepped forward, eyeing Nikki with a raised brow and crooked grin.

“This isn’t about you, Cass,” Roudy chided. “Step back, man. Show some respect. About what? Speak to me about what? Are you
saying this fine gentleman and woman are with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

The girl by the whiteboard giggled, then lifted a hand to her mouth to cover the sound. “I’m Andrea,” she said sweetly.

“We call her Brains,” Roudy said. “But I don’t suppose that plays any factor in your judgment, now does it? You’ve come to
speak to me and I will decide if you interest me enough to offer my assistance.”

“What’s the matter, Sherlock?” Allison asked, entering their flow of speech as if it was wholly to her liking. “You no longer
trust me? I wouldn’t have brought them if I didn’t think they would interest you.”

“True. I do trust you, madam. And they do interest me.” He toyed with his bow tie. “It was merely a figure of speech, a delaying
tactic to put them on guard while I sought to ascertain whether my deduction was correct. So was it?”

Brad found it difficult to suppress a grin, but he managed. “How did you know?”

“Aha!” Roudy snapped his fingers. “I knew it! The FBI has come calling yet again. And how could I not guess? You come every
day, begging for my opinion. Are we British really so clever? Is there something missing from the American mind that compels
you to look across the pond?”

The man in the silk robe was interested only in Nikki, and he’d approached her while Roudy said his piece. He now took her
hand, lifted it while his eyes remained fixed on hers, and kissed it.

“My name is Enrique Bartholomew. They call me Casanova. Have you heard of Casanova?”

“Cass is a ladies’ man,” Andrea said in a voice dripping with irony. She was jittery, twisting slightly like a Valley girl
who needed to use the bathroom. Brains, they called her. A savant?

Still holding Nikki’s hand, Enrique faced Andrea. “Please, Brains, don’t pretend I haven’t made you the woman you are.” He
turned back to Nikki with an even more lascivious glance. “You are very lovely.”

A beat of silence.

Brad smiled and inwardly gave Nikki her due; she knew how to stare down an impertinent speaker, or an awkward pause, when
the occasion warranted.

“They came to speak to me, Enrique,” Roudy snapped.

“And I’m the one who told you that if you dressed the part they would believe you. Now, look who’s come to dinner.”

He touched his lips to Nikki’s hand again, then stepped back and winked at her. Brad was surprised that she didn’t object.
Her fear of germs couldn’t compete with her interest in a new subject.

“Look who’s come to dinner?” Roudy said, disgusted. “They come every week, you idiot.”