by Ted Dekker
He rounded the restaurant, walked up to his Chrysler 300M, and noted that a BMW M6 had parked next to his ride. At well over a hundred thousand dollars, the M6 was BMW’s most expensive vehicle, an overstatement of any owner’s testosterone. The small M6 symbol was all that told a passerby this car was far more expensive than its lesser, otherwise identical sibling.
Nevertheless, the styling was subtle. A reasonable choice in extravagance. He briefly courted the notion of slashing the tires on the M6, then dismissed the idea as a lesser man’s fantasy.
Quinton found pleasure in the knowledge that he directed no resentment or jealousy toward those who pretended to be more important than he was. Though he felt no compulsion to do so, he could this very moment walk into any bank or down Wall Street and be greeted with the same warmth and respect saved for any successful business executive. Yet he derived no undue pleasure or derision from that fact.
Or he could dress in one of his many identical pairs of gray slacks, don one of his blue short-sleeved shirts, put on a wedding band, take out his older green Chevy pickup, which he preferred to the 300M, and be accepted in any bar or any grocery store checkout line as the respectable guy next door.
Quinton slipped out of his jacket and settled into his car. Before going home, he would drive to Melissa Langdon’s house. She would be arriving in the next half hour. If he hurried, he could arrive before she did.
It took him a full twenty-five minutes to navigate his way south on I-25 to C470, then north on Santa Fe Drive to Miss Langdon’s neighborhood. He eased the car to a stop on the street adjacent to Peakview, far enough away to avoid suspicion from the blue house, but close enough for him to view her coming and going.
The night was still, and no streetlights compromised the darkness. Most of the homes in this track had two-car garages, which could only effectively house one car, forcing many residents to park their second cars either in their driveways or on the street. His black 300M rested among a dozen similar vehicles bedded down for the night.
He checked his mirrors, first the right, then the left, then the right again and the left again. Each time his vision acquired more information, scanning farther down the street, taking in the white Mustang, the fire hydrant, the intersection, the row of junipers two houses back, the cat that scampered across past the stop sign a block behind.
But no people. No threats.
After searching his mirrors seven times, Quinton turned off the ignition and let silence filter into the cockpit. He withdrew one of the toothpicks and stripped off the plastic wrapping, careful not to touch the sharp wood tip he would insert into his mouth, and began to methodically clean the spaces between his teeth.
Ahead, Melissa Langdon’s blue home waited quietly, lit only by a single porch light. A ranch house, roughly sixteen hundred square feet. Seven windows facing the street, including the bathroom off the master bedroom. The backyard was large, but she was too busy right now, serving drinks and crackers thirty thousand feet above sea level, to care about lot dimensions.
The last time Quinton had walked behind the house, the weeds had been calf-high. A cat had rushed from the brush and caused him to fall backward. He’d strangled the cat that very night, suffering several nasty cuts in the process. Funny how dispatching a witless animal had proven more perilous than bleeding several grown human beings. After the act, he had laid it under his front tire to make it look like the cat had been accidentally run over on the street. He didn’t need the pet’s owner finding and reporting their strangled cat in the back of Melissa Langdon’s house.
Some might wonder why God had chosen Melissa. She was beautiful, any man could see that, though not even Quinton had recognized the flight attendant the first time she’d walked down the aisle and asked him if he would like something to drink. But by the end of that flight, he knew. God had made his choice through Quinton.
Melissa was sweet and her smile was genuine, unlike most of the whores who flew the friendly skies. She had a round, kind face framed by straight blond hair that hung to her shoulders. Her blue skirt draped seamlessly over her narrow hips. She kept her ruby fingernails short but carefully manicured, and her fingers moved with grace, caressing every object she touched. She used disinfecting towelettes frequently during the flight.
But the ultimate truth shone in her green eyes. Unblemished innocence. Deep, like a jungle pool. Melissa was one of the favorites.
Unable to keep his own eyes off her, he’d finally had to slip on his sunglasses. By the time the plane landed, his shirt was soaked in sweat and his left hand was trembling. He’d received a nod and a friendly smile from her as he deplaned, and he’d offered his hand in a gesture of appreciation.
She’d taken it. Her cool dry skin had sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. He’d been so distracted by that single contact that he took a wrong turn and exited the security area before remembering that he had a connecting flight. Forced to go back through security, he missed the connection.
Quinton knew from the schedule he’d taken from her dresser last week that, barring any delays, her plane from New York had landed at DIA roughly one hour ago. Hopefully, she wouldn’t make any diversions before coming home.
He could smell the meat on his breath as it deflected off his hand. When he’d asked the last one, Caroline, if she liked the way his breath smelled, she had given him a tearful nod. He’d switched to Crest three days ago after using Colgate for as long as he could remember and…
Lights brightened the street. Melissa’s blue Civic rolled past his 300M.
Quinton felt himself weaken, something inside him quailing before the prospect of an impending thrill. “Bless me, Father. Bless me.” He swallowed deep and sat perfectly still, watching her pull into the driveway. The garage door opened, then closed behind her car.
His bride was home.
4
OCTOBER IN DENVER. It could be cold one day and hot the next. Like working a case, Brad thought. The trail could turn at any moment. Usually due to fairly basic investigative work, collecting mounds of evidence and carefully sifting through them.
Someone once told him that good doctoring was a process of eliminating potential diseases until a physician was left with the most likely ailment to explain the symptoms. Detective work was the same.
As long as you were eliminating suspects in the investigative process, you were moving forward. It was sometimes Brad’s only consolation in the face of relentless pressure.
In the case of a serial killer like the Bride Collector, knowing that the suspect would continue turned the work from a simple elimination process into a chess match. Success wasn’t just a matter of sifting through the evidence from the past, but of trying to anticipate the future.
Anticipating a killer’s next move meant climbing into his mind. Not out of desire, of course. No one with any skill or a sane mind would ever relish that journey. It was only ever launched out of necessity.
Brad had settled himself with a late-night drink at McKenzie’s Pub, a block from his downtown condo, then spent the balance of the night alone, tossing and turning, climbing inside the Bride Collector’s mind.
He’d woken early and headed to the bathroom to shower, eager to return to the crime scene, before seeing that it was only three in the morning. He slipped back under the covers, pulled his second pillow tight, and thought about madness.
Insanity. The mentally ill.
The Bride Collector.
It was seven now-he’d slept in after missing sleep in the wee hours. Showered, shaved, and dressed in blue slacks and white shirt, he poured his half-finished cup of coffee down the drain, chased it with a squirt of lemon fresh, and rinsed it away.
Buttoning his shirt, he wandered over to the window and gazed out at the city.
His condo was on the fifth floor of a ten-story building off Colfax, a two-bedroom affair with floor-to-ceiling one-way glass for walls. Even with the lights on at night, there was no way to see inside, but from where Brad stood at
the sink, he could look past the breakfast bar over an expansive view of downtown Denver.
Against the horizon, a row of Rocky Mountain summits wove in and out of view, knitted between the outlines of a crowded, gleaming skyline. To the south, he could imagine the summit of Pikes Peak in the distance. Turning right toward the north, he could also glimpse the massive slopes of Longs Peak, crown of Rocky Mountain National Park and rough northernmost boundary of the massive mountain chain.
He sighed. Somewhere between the two boundaries and within the urban sprawl before him, the killer was probably waking up as well.
Tragically, so was his next victim.
I see you but you can’t see me. Fitting for an investigator. Fitting for a killer. How many hours, days, had the killer hid behind the darkened glass of his car or van, watching others, potential victims, women who warranted his attention because they fit a certain profile? Beautiful, weak, trusting, innocent.
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 h
eat. 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.
“I choose beautiful women,” Brad said, staying in the killer’s role. “Tell me why without thinking too much.”
She stepped up beside him. “Because you’re jealous.”
“I kill out of jealousy, why?”
“Because you were made to feel ugly.”
“If killing beautiful women makes me feel better about myself, why don’t I abuse the bodies?”
Nikki hesitated. She had been the first to employ this form of rapid response, plumbing the mind for thoughts that sometimes only surfaced in a form of pressured speech.
“You let them have their beauty but take their soul.”
“Why do I take their soul?”
“You need it to make you beautiful on the inside.”
“Why do I drain their blood?”
“Because the blood is their life force. Their soul.”
“No, I take their blood to make them beautiful,” he said.
Another hesitation. Brad felt a trickle of sweat break from his hairline. It was all conjecture at this point. Nikki stepped into the role of interrogator.
“Why do you drill their heels?”
“Because it’s the lowest point in the body, largely unseen, so it doesn’t spoil their beauty.”
“Why do you need to kill seven beautiful women?”
