Ted Dekker

by The Bride Collector (v5)

  “Excuse me.”

  She gasped and jerked her head up. A man in uniform stood ten feet away, looking down at her. A policeman. She scrambled to her feet, tipped dizzily to her right, and stumbled to her knees before pushing herself back up.

  “Whoa, easy there. Are you Samantha?”

  She gasped. The killer? He was the killer here in disguise. “What do you want?”

  “Take it easy, I’m not going to hurt you. We received a call.” The policeman, if that’s what he was, eyed her with skepticism, hand on his stick. “Can you tell me your full name and where you live?”

  “I…” At any moment the phone in her pocket was going to vibrate, she had to be here! “Samantha,” she said.

  He nodded, understanding, though he understood nothing. “And where do you live, Samantha?”

  “I… Nowhere.”

  He stepped closer. “Do you mind if I look at your arms?”

  So then he probably wasn’t the killer. “Why?”

  “It’s okay, I just want to see the inside of your arms. Do you use?”

  Drugs? “No. Please, you have to leave me.” She glanced around, half expecting the killer to walk into sight at any moment.

  The cop spoke into his radio. “Yeah, I think we need to take her down to the station. Pupils’re dilated slightly, she’s obviously on something. She’s refusing to show me her arms. I’m going to bring her in, copy?”

  “No!” Paradise showed him the insides of both arms. “I don’t use drugs!”

  “Copy that,” his radio squawked. “Bring her in.”

  “No, that’s not it!” She frantically scanned the park for any sign of the killer, that demon. “He’s after me!” she blurted. “I have to meet him here, you can’t take me.”

  The man followed her eyes. “I don’t see anyone. Who’s after you?”

  “He is. The killer.” Panic crowded her thinking and she tried to stop it, but the voices were stampeding now.

  “You can either come the easy way or we can make this difficult. But you have to come with me, young lady.” The cop stepped forward, hand extended. “Look, this is as much for your safety as anyone else’s. You almost got yourself killed crossing the road, they said. Please, don’t make this diff—”

  “I can’t!” she cried, now fully fearful that she was abandoning Brad. “No, you don’t understand! I can’t, I can’t!”

  His hand closed around her arm and she spun and was running before having time to think through her decision. Straight into the brush behind her. It tugged at her shirt and scratched her legs.

  A hand grabbed her collar from behind and hauled her down. She cried out. She was flipped onto her back, then roughly over onto her belly.

  “Stop!”

  He pulled her arms behind her and slapped handcuffs over her wrists. She was yelling hysterically now and all she could think of was Brad. They’re going to kill Brad, the aliens, the killer, the demons are going to kill Brad. And the more she tried to explain, the louder and more incoherent her explanation became.

  The cop was telling her to calm down, it would all be all right. He pushed her around the trees to a side street, where his partner waited in the police car. Together they muscled her into the back, slammed the door shut, and rode off.

  It was the end, she thought, staring back at the park. They were all going to die. This was it. Once again her father was going to kill them all because she didn’t do what he said she had to do.

  Aliens, demons, the killer, her father. It was all happening again.

  The memory suffocated her. She slumped over on her side and began to moan. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

  “You can’t what, Samantha,” a voice asked. “You can’t take your medication?”

  “You can’t make me take medication. I can’t let him kill him!” A small inner voice suggested she tell them everything, but then the voice on the phone was in her ear demanding she tell no one, or he would kill Brad.

  Paradise lay on her side and let her moan grow into a wail. She was a whore angel in a demon’s world and the aliens had finally captured her and were taking her to the hospital where her father waited with his gun to finish the job.

  “Not the hospital!” she moaned. “Please, not the hospital.” They’d tied her to a bed and tried to kill her after her father had failed.

  “We got a nut, not a druggie. She’s psychotic. Let’s take her to the mental health ward and let them make the determination.”

  A fear deeper and more terrifying than the fear of facing the killer swept over her mind. You’re only as sick as your secrets.

  In her tangled mind, going to the mental ward was like going to hell. And Paradise wasn’t ready to go to hell yet.

  30

  ALLISON RUMMAGED THROUGH the drawer with Andrea. Paradise had shed the flannel pajamas, which now lay in a heap on the floor, and put on something else before vanishing. If they could figure out what she was now wearing, the police stood a much better chance of finding her. Several major media sources had already agreed to broadcast her picture in the next news break; Temple was going live with the case.

  They’d found the bottle of Xanax, a drug Paradise hated and rarely used—the only reason Allison allowed her to keep a few on hand. So what had frightened her into taking two of the five pills?

  Of greater concern to Allison was the other medication Paradise would miss, a small dose of a psychotropic drug they had been calling a vitamin and slipping to Paradise for years now. Without it, Paradise would undoubtedly betray her own psychosis. Slowly, over the course of twenty-four months, they’d begun a process of trying to wean her off the medication, but without much success. Allison and the staff had operated under the agreement that no one would ever make mention of the medication—there could be no opportunity for Paradise to learn that she was on chemicals to control the symptoms of her schizophrenia.

  If anyone could beat the illness, Allison thought, Paradise could, and she wanted the girl to be given every opportunity, including assumption, to do so. She was convinced that Paradise’s symptoms didn’t include hallucinations, and that her so-called ghosts were precisely that.

  But trauma would likely force other psychotic symptoms to the surface, particularly given the extent to which she was unmedicated. If she was out there now, there was no telling what symptoms she might be experiencing.

  “What’s missing?” she demanded.

  Andrea was as nervous as a manic mouse. “I don’t know, I don’t know! Sorry. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault, Allison. She’s my friend and I let her go with that man. I tried to warn her, I tried to tell her that the only thing he wanted was to get—”

  “Focus, Andrea!”

  Normally she would never snap at the girl. But she’d lost her child, Paradise. Nothing about today was normal. Allison was taken aback by her own reaction to what had happened, a sense of utter loss, as if her whole world was about to crumble in on itself.

  “Her yellow shirt isn’t here,” Andrea said, searching again.

  Yellow shirt. Yes, of course, the pale yellow T-shirt, one of only four or five that Paradise favored!

  Allison hurried over to the phone and called the laundry. “A yellow shirt, José. If there’s one down there call me back. Hurry.”

  She hung up and ran to the wicker laundry basket in the corner. Opened it. Nothing. Good. Good, they might have narrowed this down.

  “Ma’am.”

  She spun to the door now filled with Roudy’s bow-tied frame. “What is it?”

  “I would like to make an announcement.”

  “What is it?” She didn’t have time for this.

  “I have broken the case.”

  “What do you mean? You’ve found her?”

  “No. I know who the killer is.”

  She let her hope fade. They really didn’t have time for this! “Please, Roudy, this isn’t the time to be…” She stopped herself. How many times had she encouraged them not to reject their gift
s outright? “Never mind. Who is the killer?”

  Roudy held up the drawing that Paradise had made late yesterday. Allison had given the drawing to him an hour ago when he demanded they turn the critical elements of the case over to him immediately, more to keep him occupied than with any hope he’d actually do something with it.

  “It took me a while, seeing past the drawing itself to her intention. I’m quite familiar with the way police sketches are made, and once I was able to compare the—”

  “Please, Roudy, get to the point.”

  He looked at the drawing in his hand. “It’s none other than Quinton Gauld.”

  Allison blinked. “Quinton? You mean our Quinton Gauld?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Quinton who?” Andrea asked. “Who’s Quinton?”

  Roudy strutted into the room and pinned the drawing to the wall with the dramatic flair of one who’d solved world hunger. He pivoted on his heels. “One of our very own therapists, seven years ago. He left for greener pastures, as I recall.”

  Allison stared at the picture. Could this be Quinton Gauld? “But Paradise was here then. She would have recognized him the moment she remembered.”

  “Unless Paradise saw Quinton Gauld in her vision, but no longer remembers who he is.”

  “You’re…” The thought was horrifying. “You’re suggesting she shut him out of her mind because of a bad memory connected to him.”

  “It is the most natural conclusion for those with strong deductive skills.” He pointed at the picture as if this were a lecture and he the professor. “Quinton did something that terrified Paradise. Then he fled under false pretenses. Paradise has wiped the event from her mind, but now our villain is back to take his revenge and kill her once and for all.”

  Andrea whimpered and scratched her head. She fled the room, crying.

  Allison stood in stunned disbelief. Could this have happened right under her nose? They’d hired Quinton Gauld because he understood schizophrenia like so few therapists, having suffered and recovered from a bout with the illness in his twenties himself. He’d gone on to acquire a master’s degree in psychology. But after only six months at CWI, he’d confessed that being in proximity to so many mentally ill people didn’t sit as comfortably as he’d hoped. They’d mutually agreed that he should move on.

  But he’d shown no signs of a psychotic break on his part.

  She saw it now, staring at the drawing: the slope of his cheeks, the nose, the hair. It was him, wasn’t it?

  “Are you sure, Roudy? Are you absolutely certain that this drawing is Quinton Gauld?”

  “Of course I am. Show the FBI a photograph from his employment file and I think they will agree. Our killer is, without doubt, Quinton Gauld.”

  So then, she was right about Paradise. She did see ghosts!

  Allison started to run.

  “Where are you going?”

  “We need to get his picture on the air. We have to get both of their pictures on the air as soon as possible!”

  “I will not take a press conference yet!” he cried down the hall. “Not until we have this villain behind lock and key where he belongs!”

  BY THE TIME the officers arrived at the hospital, Paradise had managed to accomplish three things in her favor, and therefore in Brad’s favor.

  First, she’d managed to stop her moaning and wailing, which she knew only reinforced their perception of her as a nutcase.

  Second, she’d climbed into a place of relative security in her mind. A closet, like the one in which she’d hidden from her father. Or, as she knew it better, a fog of comfort that hid all the demons trying to grab her ankles. In this place she could find some peace.

  And third, she’d managed to develop a plan of sorts. The only way she had any hope of saving Brad was to survive herself. The hospital wasn’t hell—she knew that—and the doctors weren’t demons, although she was quite certain that demons, however or wherever they manifested, were after her. She had to stay in the closet—the fog—so that she wouldn’t start thinking the hospital was hell. And she had to get at least one person on her side, believing in her. Someone besides Brad.

  This meant she could not act like a loon. Even though she was going through something that probably appeared to be a psychotic break, she would not, could not, must not give any indication that she was anything but completely sound. The only way to do that was to focus.

  As a result, she ignored her surroundings until she was in the emergency ward itself. She stood perfectly still, arms still handcuffed behind her back, for her own safety they said, and focused on appearing completely casual as the officer spoke to a pleasant-looking man in a pale blue smock. The man nodded and called over another man, bald and tall, strong enough to deal with three of her.

  The next thing she knew, her hands were free, and the attendant was leading her past the stations to one of a dozen spaces separated only by gray drapes.

  “Have a seat on the bed, the nurse will be along soon. And please don’t try anything stupid. The police are still outside for now.”

  Don’t try anything stupid? Like jump on your back, you big gorilla, and beat the demon out of you? But he looked kind and his nose was like a huge green pear on his face. A green Ronald McDonald without the ’fro.

  Focus, Paradise. Focus.

  “I won’t,” she said in a small voice that made her sound like a mouse. She sat on the edge of the hospital bed and put her hands in her lap. She felt nearly naked in these jean shorts. The three hours she’d spent being made to look beautiful seemed like a lifetime away.

  But maybe looking like a whore would be a good thing just now. Who was she kidding? She looked nothing like a whore! That was just her, pathetic little Paradise, talking. She looked more normal now than she ever had in her entire life.

  Her mind swirled. She was an angel dancing on the tip of a needle, and if she didn’t dance just right, they were going to impale her and the demon would get Brad. She had to save him!

  “Do you want to dance?” she asked, looking up at the attendant.

  He smiled. “I’m afraid I have to pass. Don’t worry, we’ll get you back on your medication as soon as the doctor gets a look at you.”

  His mention of medication brought back her urgency. She could not, under any circumstances, let them force any antipsychotic drugs down her throat. Under their influence she would become a drowned rat and lose all her capacity to imagine her way out of this.

  “Do you think I’m beautiful?” she asked, standing. “Like a ballerina on the head of a needle?”

  Sit down, Paradise.

  “Please sit down.”

  She stared at him.

  “Look, you’re very pretty. You are, trust me. But this is a hospital, not the beach, and you’re ill. I’m going to have to ask you to sit down. Now. As soon as you take your medicine, you’ll feel better.”

  “No, you can’t let them do that.”

  “Sit… down!”

  “Okay.” She lifted both hands in resignation and sat back down. She realized that she had to make him understand.

  “I’ll sit down, but that won’t stop him.”

  “It won’t stop who?”

  “The man who’s trying to kill me.”

  The curtain parted and a gray-haired female nurse with a round face and beady eyes walked in with a clipboard. A demon? “Okay, what do we have here?”

  The bald demon smiled. “She thinks someone’s trying to kill her.”

  “Don’t they all? Okay, honey, what’s your full name? Samantha who?”

  “I’m not like everyone else!” Paradise snapped, standing once again. “He’s trying to kill me and my boyfriend, and that’s why he made me do this! You have to listen to me!”

  “No, honey, you’re safe here.”

  Paradise felt her pulse pound. Her thoughts fought through the thick fog now suffocating her. It took all of her self-control to stand still.

  “Do you know what kind of medication you’
re on now?” the gray-haired demon asked.

  “I told you, I’m not schizophrenic. I’m not any kind of psychotic. I have to get back to the park, and if I don’t get there he’s going to kill him. Aren’t you listening?”

  The nurse sighed and plopped the clipboard on the counter. She filled a small paper cup with water from a cooler and dug into her pocket. “Okay, Samantha, have it your way.” She pulled out a bottle of pills.

  This was what had happened last time. The memories came at her like guided missiles, pounding home. Something terrible had happened at home when she was locked in the closet, and now the demons were trying to finish the job.

  The phone in her pocket vibrated and she gasped. She’d forgotten his instructions to wait for his phone call. It buzzed again, and Paradise didn’t know what to do. The demons were buzzing through, trying to make contact.

  It had all gone wrong! She couldn’t help Brad in here. She had to escape these demons.

  “Take these,” the nurse instructed, shaking out two pills. “It will help you calm down.”

  “No.” Her head felt like it was going to explode. She backed up. “I can’t.”

  The nurse glanced at the bald attendant, who moved closer, boxing her in. “Don’t make this difficult. Either you take it or we give it to you. Do you want to go back with the police? They’ll throw you in jail, is that what you want?”

  “I can’t,” Paradise whimpered. “I can’t.”

  The attendant reached for her and Paradise bolted for the gap between them. The bald demon’s thick arm shot out, caught her around the waist, lifted her up, and slammed her back onto the hospital bed. She grunted and kicked her legs, gasping for breath.

  “Get the restraints!”

  The word triggered a scream that ripped through the air over her head. Her scream. And she knew then that it was all over. They had her, and now the only thing she could do was protest for Brad’s sake. Paradise flailed and beat at the air and kicked like a cat caught on her back. And all the while her mind was seeing Brad.