The Bride Collector (38 page)

“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.

They strapped her down. From there things got foggy. Voices yelling, her own cries of outrage, hands squeezing her arms and
legs, the bite of a needle on her arm. She couldn’t think straight, but she understood that they were killing Brad, and for
that she hated them more than she hated her own father, who had tried to kill her.

She was screaming for Brad’s sake. “He’s going to kill him, he’s going to kill him!” She was his lone savior and now these
demons were trying to kill her.

“Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me!”

The world started to fade and her voice got lost in it. She heard and felt and saw snippets, like bits of an old memory, and
maybe this was just that, a memory from the past. From hell.

“… to General until we can get her to West Pines…”

She was rolling under long lights.

“… stronger than she looks.”

Chuckling.

“Who woulda thought? Just Samantha?”

“For now, just Samantha…”

Darkness.

Silence.

Brad? Brad are you in here?

Silence.

I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I just… I lost it.

“It’s okay, Paradise. I love you, Paradise. You’re beautiful, Paradise.”

You don’t think I look like a whore?

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” A breath. “Be careful, Paradise. He’s coming for you. His name is
Quinton Gauld and he’s coming for you tonight.”

THAT BRAD HAD
survived this long was a clear indication that the bullet hadn’t punctured his lung. It had struck his right side and been
deflected around and out his back. He was pinning his hopes on it.

But this hope was quickly being diminished by the fact that the wound was still bleeding. Ironic, that he would bleed to death
at this killer’s hand. He had to stop the bleeding and get to the black medical bag Quinton had left on the table, intended
for use on his victims. Plugging their heels, fixing their wounds… At the moment, Quinton’s sickness was Brad’s greatest hope.

Then again, all of these hopes were dashed if he couldn’t break the support post he’d been tied to.

He pushed himself back to his feet, alarmed by the dizziness spinning his world. He couldn’t pass out. The whole case had
changed shape in these last twenty-four hours, and the stakes were now both personal and terrifying.

Paradise. Everything had always been about Paradise.

The thought made him sick with rage.

He leaned forward, stretching his restraints and arms as far as he could, took a deep breath, then threw himself backward
into the post.

The beam shook with a dull
thud.
Debilitating pain ran down his side and he shuddered. Dust and debris from the ceiling rained down on him.

Thirty-two
.

With any luck at all, age had rotted the wood. Brad clenched his jaw against the pain, straightened, leaned forward again,
and threw himself back. Another deep slice of pain. Another rain of debris. Another groan.

Thirty-three
.

He repeated the procedure twice more before sagging back to his rump to rest.

The killer’s name was Quinton Gauld and he had become the demon. Brad was responsible for the transformation.

His success was now his greatest problem. With no more need for the bleeding ritual designed to deliver the most beautiful
to God without blemish, Quinton was now playing the part of killer. Rather than bring Paradise here, he might kill Paradise
where he found her.

In any other situation, Brad might have reacted with a renewed urgency to find the killer before he could strike again. Instead
he reacted with raw outrage. He couldn’t seem to stop the desperation. Not for his own life.

For her life. For Paradise.

He didn’t know what to call the feelings he had for her, but staring his own death in the face had made the emotions razor-sharp.
He knew they were the most powerful he’d felt since he first learned that Ruby had taken her life.

Brad grunted, fought off nausea, and struggled back to his feet. The pole didn’t seem to be weakening, but he had to keep
trying. Even if he did manage to break it, the whole roof might cave in and end his life.

For some reason, that possibility meant nothing to him.

He held his breath and threw himself back into the pole.

Thirty-four.

QUINTON PULLED THE
300M off I-70 and headed into the Texaco station. The trip back to Denver had taken him just over two and a half hours at
top speeds and consumed 90 percent of his fuel. He had too much to do now and would need plenty of gas.