The Bride Collector (9 page)

“They call me Brains,” Andrea said, in her own world, eyes still on Brad, still playing the part of a shy girl. “I think I
need a shower.”

The exchange had all come in a flurry of words. Then it seemed they ran out of steam.

“Has anyone seen Paradise?” Allison asked.

They just looked and shook their heads.

“Looks like you three will do just fine.” She nodded at Brad. “This is Special Agent Brad Raines and his partner, Miss Holden.
I’ll leave you alone for a while. Please be helpful, Roudy. Mr. Raines and Miss Holden are indeed from the FBI, and they would
like to confer with you about a case.”

“A case! Delightful.” Roudy began to pace quickly. “You’ve come to the right party, I can assure you.”

Tears sprang to Andrea’s eyes, and it appeared that she might lose her composure. She wore some carefully applied makeup,
and her blond hair was brushed neatly. The first encounter had happened so quickly that Brad hadn’t absorbed her simple beauty.
On second look, there was no avoiding it.

“It’s okay, Andrea,” Allison said.

Andrea’s eyes darted to an empty corner. “That’s not what Betty’s saying.”

“No. But Betty’s wrong. Listen to Brad.” She rubbed Brad’s arm. “He has a good heart.”

Andrea gave Brad a fleeting look, brushing her nose with a shaking finger.

“Auditory hallucination,” Allison whispered so faintly that Brad barely heard her. She was saying that Andrea heard voices.
One of them had just told her something that made her want to cry.

“I’ll be in the reception room when you’re finished. Take all the time you need.”

The administrator left them with a smile.

Brad took a deep breath, finding the whole scenario unnerving yet fascinating. To say the least. It took him a moment to recall
exactly why they’d come to the Center for Wellness and Intelligence.

Roudy, aka Sherlock, stepped forward and extended his hand. “I am now at your full disposal.”

Brad took the hand and shook it. “Thank you, Roudy. I wouldn’t mind the help of all three of you.”

Roudy, put off or hurt, Brad couldn’t tell which, glanced at the others.

“You would take the lead, of course,” Brad said. “But first I would like to know more about who we are employing. Do you mind
if we ask you some questions?”

“You’re going to pay us?” Andrea asked.

Roudy stuck a finger in the air. “Of course they are. They know value when they see it. My rate is one thousand and two hundred
dollars per hour.”

“That’s only eleven cents,” Andrea said.

Except for Enrique, who was still studying Nikki with a whimsical grin, they all turned to her.

“Per second,” Andrea explained defensively. “Thirty-three cents per second divided three ways. When I get out of here I’m
going to buy a new car and house with some beautiful clothes.” Her face wrinkled and a tear spring from her right eye. A single
sob broke from her mouth, and she wiped the wetness from her cheek.

“Sorry. Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay—”

“Nonsense!” Andrea cried. Then again in a soft voice. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry. I’ll shower first.”

“Have some respect, Brains. He’s put me in charge and I won’t have this.” Roudy sighed. “Fine, I’ll split the fee. One thousand
two hundred dollars split three ways.”

They moved so quickly, taking new directions at the snap of a finger, emotions racing across their faces, that Brad felt flat-footed.
However childlike, they each possessed faculties that rendered him somehow incompetent.

They’re likely geniuses.
It was all a bit stupefying.

“I’m not sure we can offer anything more than our gratitude,” Brad said.

Both Roudy and Andrea looked taken aback. Even Enrique turned.

“But I’ll check into it. At the least you may be able to help us save the lives of the Bride Collector’s next victims.”

“The Bride Collector?” Roudy stepped forward, fully engaged. “Tell me everything you know. He’s a serial killer?”

“First our questions,” Brad said, holding up his hand. “Fair enough?”

Andrea’s eyes darted over his shoulder. Brad glanced back, provoked as much by the sense of an incoming presence as the other
woman’s look.

A young, slight woman who looked to be in her midtwenties stood in the doorway. Her stringy brown hair parted down the middle
framed petite features—a small nose and delicate, pouting lips—and light brown eyes that sparkled with life.

Brad glanced down her body. She was short, hardly taller than five feet, dressed in a well-worn blue T-shirt with a Nike logo
on her chest. The hem on her jeans hung an inch too short above old, white canvas tennis shoes.

She stood with both arms by her sides, unflappable but light, as if a strong gust would blow her away. The skin on her arms
was pale and he couldn’t see her fingernails, but her bare thumbnails were chewed short. Unlike Andrea, she wore no makeup
at all, not even a dab to cover the few red spots of acne on her forehead.

The newcomer’s probing eyes seemed to peer through Brad. Her expression was flat, as if she was undecided about whether she
approved of their presence.

“That’s Paradise,” Roudy said.

“Does this mean we have to split the fee four ways?” Andrea asked with a perturbed expression. “That’s only eight point three
cents per second.”

“We’re going to help the FBI crack a case,” Roudy said. “And Paradise is good with dead people.”

Brad wasn’t sure if it was Allison’s earlier comments about Paradise or the way the young woman looked at him now that piqued
his pulse, but he found he couldn’t remove his eyes from hers. Paradise.

She broke off her stare, walked around to Andrea’s side, and faced Brad again, eyes still undecided.

Once more, Brad couldn’t help but think he’d fallen down the rabbit hole and landed in Alice’s Wonderland. The director’s
assurance that these were all highly intelligent individuals had twisted his thinking. Hearing this bizarre exchange, anyone
on the street might think these four had misplaced their minds.

And so they had, he reminded himself with a now-fraying sense of certainty. The classic symptoms of schizophrenia were all
here: the paranoia, the hearing and seeing things that did not exist, the voices and threats. The compulsion to shower expressed
by Andrea, the delusions of grandeur demonstrated by both Roudy and Casanova.

“I don’t think Allison would mind one more joining us,” Nikki said. “Thanks for coming, Paradise. That’s a beautiful name.
Please call me Nikki.”

She didn’t respond.

It was immediately apparent to Brad that this homely counterpart to Andrea might be comfortable in her own skin but uneasy
with anyone else’s assessment of her. Despite her calm, vulnerability seemed to glimmer off the young woman in waves, like
heat rising from a desert road.

He nodded at her. “Hello, Paradise.” Then to them all: “Let’s start over, okay? Tell us who you are. What your… gifts are.”

“Oh that, oh that!” Roudy blurted. “You want to know what makes us all bonkers, is that it?”

“No,” Nikki corrected, stepping forward. She looked completely at ease in their environment. “We know that you’re each highly
intelligent. And that each of you has rare gifts. Or was the director wrong about that?”

They all stared, as if judging if she was serious. Evidently deciding that she was, all but Paradise spoke at once.

Nikki smiled and crossed her arms. “Let’s start with you, Roudy.”

“Of course.” He glanced at the new girl. “The director put me in charge, Paradise.” She said nothing, so he plowed ahead.

“I stand five foot eleven inches, am forty years old, and have been stationed here, at this secret installation, for seven
years. Some would call me choleric in personality, and it’s true that I am a natural leader, but my primary skills are those
of perception and deduction. Most common cases, the kind the FBI regularly seeks my advice on, are easily decoded using an
algorithm that assists me in isolating key evidence. I’m involved in several longer-term operations, which I’m not at liberty
to discuss.”

He paused, adjusting his bow tie. His trousers hung an inch too high, revealing black leather shoes with one shoelace missing.
As part of his delusion of grandeur, he’d evidently chosen Sherlock Holmes as his fashion influence. Still, he didn’t strike
Brad as the kind who would wander around with a magnifying glass and a pipe.

“Thank you, Roudy.” Nikki glanced at Casanova, who spoke with no further encouragement.

“My name is Enrique Bartholomew, thirty-two—”

“Eight,” Roudy interrupted.

Without a break, he continued: “Or thirty-eight, I forget. They say I’m schizophrenic, but I tell the ladies that all fighters
and lovers are schizophrenic. Allison tells me that not all women can appreciate”—he used large hands to draw out his full
meaning—“an experienced, fearless lover. But I think she’s wrong. Don’t you, Nikki?” A coy smile.

Brad wondered how many women had slapped Casanova over the years.

“I don’t know, Enrique. But the man I’m interested in is both strong and gentle.”

“Cass tried to date the president’s wife when she was visiting Denver,” Andrea said with a sly grin. “They put him in jail.”

Enrique only smiled back at her. “She wasn’t too bright,” he said. “Hardly a woman at all. I can’t recall what I saw in her.
Are you busy this evening?”

“I am. But thank you for asking. What about you, Andrea?”

“Nineteen. I’ve been here a year. Manic depressive. Bipolar. OCD. Prodigious savant, but that part’s wrong.”

“Nonsense,” Roudy said. “She’s the brightest of the batch. Just because you pay attention to your body doesn’t make you their
idiot.”

Andrea grinned apologetically. She wiggled her manicured nails, polished in green. “I like to… take care of myself.”

“You like taking showers.”

“Sometimes.”

“How many times?”

“Today?”

“Sure,” Nikki said.

“Two.”

It was ten o’clock in the morning.

“You do your nails and hair each time?”

“Yes.”

“She’s clean and she’s smart as a whip,” Roudy said. “Smartest informant I’ve ever come across.”

Brad looked at Paradise, who seemed content to let them speak without offering an opinion. “How about you, Paradise?”

She glanced at the others, then eyed Brad. He couldn’t tell if she felt awkward or put off. “Um… What’s happening?”

“I’m sorry, I’m Brad Raines with the FBI. This is Nikki Holden, a forensic psychologist. We’re here to see if you can help
us uncover information about a killer called the Bride Collector.”

“I’ve never heard of a killer named the Bride Collector,” she said. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“That’s the name we’ve given him.”

“More details,” Roudy said, pacing again. “I need to know all that you know if I’m to help you. Shoe size?”

Brad decided to run with him. “Eleven.”

“Uh-huh. Estimated weight based on impressions?”

“One ninety, two hundred.”

“Secretor?”

“No. No bodily fluids found on any of the scenes. No hair, no skin cells, no prints, nothing.”

“You have the file on you?” He held out his hand.

“No.”

“Paradise didn’t tell you about herself,” Andrea inserted.

“No file? How do you expect me to be of any use?” Roudy demanded.

“What does he do to the women?” Enrique asked.

Brad glanced between them. “He kills them. He makes them up to look beautiful, and then he kills them and leaves their bodies
glued to the wall.”

Silence engulfed them.

Andrea’s face twisted up and she started to cry into her hand. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s disturbing, I know. Have any of you known any resident, present or past, who might fit this profile? Roudy, the director
told us you remember everyone who’s come through here.”

“I think I should take a shower,” Andrea said. “My skin is itching, you know. Size eleven, he’s six foot one. Big hands, could
break their necks pretty easy. We don’t allow anyone like that here. He uses makeup on them?”

Brad hesitated. “Yes.”

Andrea started to cry again, this time accompanied by a gentle pawing at the makeup on her face.

“It’s okay, Dre,” Paradise said. Her voice was light and sweet, but sure and authoritative. “We’re safe here. This is home.
We have guards and Miss Allison. And Roudy and Enrique would never let anything happen to us, would you?”

“Never,” Roudy said. Enrique frowned.

Andrea stepped over to Paradise and offered the girl her hand. Paradise took it and rubbed her shoulder. “Don’t let them scare
you. Pretend it’s just a story.”

“Paradise writes novels,” Roudy said. “But I have to say, I honestly can’t recall any resident whom I would judge as matching
your description—assuming you mean a person who demonstrated a tendency toward this kind of violence. However, if you could
get me the file, I could almost certainly shed some light on the case for you.”

“You’re sure you’re busy tonight?” Enrique asked. He was looking at Nikki.

“I am. But thanks again.” She smiled.

Brad took a deep breath, suddenly afflicted with an overpowering sensation of time’s passage. A serial killer was inexorably
cycling through to his next murder, yet here Brad sat, whiling away the hours in the company of several mental health patients.
It became abundantly clear that, however fascinating and gifted they might be, Roudy and friends weren’t going to help stop
the killer.

“Paradise didn’t say what she did,” Andrea said.

Brad nodded, thinking they should leave soon. But Andrea seemed determined. “She’s right. Why don’t you tell us about yourself,
Paradise.”

She blushed. “I don’t think I can help you.”

“She sees dead people,” Roudy said.

Psychotic hallucinations, Brad thought. Paradise didn’t attempt any denial.

“And spirits,” Andrea added.

“You mean ghosts?”

She shrugged. “Something like that.”

“If she touched the woman’s body, she would see who killed her,” Andrea said. “Isn’t that right, Paradise?”