The Bride Collector

14
TWO FULL DAYS had passed since Paradise attempted and then utterly failed to encounter the dead. Roudy had emerged from his black fog that first afternoon, and by sundown he was back to his pestering self. She’d spent the night alone in her room, with the door locked, ignoring the tap, tap, tap of her friends who kept stopping by and knocking. They weren’t rude enough to pound, but the taps might as well have been screams of ridicule.
“Come on, Paradise, what did we tell you?”
“I could have helped them, Paradise! I am the one they really want.”
“He only wants in your pants, Paradise! What did I tell you?”
“Go away!” she finally cried.
Twenty minutes later they were back. Tap, tap, tap.
But Paradise wasn’t insane. Nor was she mentally ill. She had some issues with phobias relating to her past, and she was bipolar, yes, there was that. But she wasn’t psychotic and she wasn’t crazy. Slowly, she managed to pull herself out of the deep hole into which she’d thrown herself after escaping the mortifying ordeal in the kitchen.
As the night quieted she grew annoyed with her pouting and forced herself out of bed. She took up her yellow notebook and pencil and continued her work on Lost Highways, the novel she’d begun to write two weeks earlier. It was mostly scratching at this stage, just ideas and sentences haphazardly written on the page, a guide for when she was ready to begin the actual story on the computer.
There was a significant difference between thinking and writing. Writing wasn’t just the translation of interesting ideas to paper. It was its own kind of thinking, which seemed to kick in only when the pen made contact with the page, or her fingers touched the keyboard.
But tonight, not even that faithful connection seemed to yield any useful thoughts or emotions. She gave up after an hour.
Hungry, she warmed a bowl of noodles in the microwave. She lived alone in a one-bedroom unit that was comfortably if sparsely furnished. A twin bed and a desk in the bedroom; a brown sofa in the living room; a small kitchen area without a stove, but it had both refrigerator and microwave, all she ever used.
She spent half an hour on the Internet using the small gray Compaq computer the center provided all residents who could conduct themselves appropriately in the virtual world. They didn’t want someone who was deeply depressed posting suicide videos on YouTube, now did they? The computer was her gateway to the world, but she found little in the world that really interested her, so she used it primarily to research topics of interest, like mental illness and religion and nature.
Cats and dogs cheered her up. If there was one thing she longed for, it was a dog, a golden retriever or maybe a Labrador. But pets were forbidden, so Paradise had to settle for pictures or videos that never failed to bring a smile to her face.
Warmed by Top Ramen and cheered by a Web video of a cat trying to catch a butterfly on the other side of a window, Paradise slipped under her covers at one in the morning and fell asleep. A black day was behind her, but she’d survived many black days.
She woke in a gray mood, haunted once again by her failure. But she was determined not to let it keep her down, so she ventured out. Her friends gave her about an hour of space during which they subjected her to overt glances, but the looks lengthened into unbroken stares of accusation until Roudy finally decided they’d waited long enough and approached.
Paradise didn’t want to talk about it. She made her position clear: If they wanted to be with her, they could not say a single word about the FBI, Mr. Raines, or the case involving the Bride Collector.
“Did he try any funny business?” Andrea immediately wanted to know.
“What did I just say? Nothing about Mr. Raines.”
“I didn’t say Mr. Raines. I said he.”
“But you meant Mr. Raines. Nothing about any of those things no matter what words you use to describe them.”
Casanova lifted a finger. “Did anybody try any funny business?”
“And nothing about my nonexistent love life. Period. No more questions, period.”
“What?” Roudy cried. “I haven’t even asked a single question. They both got one. I demand an opportunity to cross-examine the witness!”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Paradise stuck to her decision the rest of the day. When Roudy tap, tap, tapped on her door at ten that night, she buried her head under her pillow until he left.
But today was a new day, and she was finally feeling distant enough from her failure to open up. There was, after all, some benefit to being at the center of attention, and her refusal to give them even a snippet of information the prior day had worked all three into quite a tizzy. She was practically a celebrity. They acted as if they’d won the lottery when she announced that she would meet them in Roudy’s office at nine to break her silence.
Now here they sat: Casanova, who was having a bad morning and hardly able to concentrate on their discussion; Andrea, who was sinking fast into a full-blown depressive cycle; Roudy, who sat against the desk like the lion king who had finally found his place, leading the hunt; and Paradise, who had just told them what she could remember and was suddenly wishing she’d kept her mouth shut about her suspicion, however remote, that Brad Raines found her interesting.
“What did I tell you?” Andrea said.
“How many times are you going to remind us what you told her?” Roudy demanded, glaring at Andrea. “We’re faced with the crime of the century here, and all you can think about is whether some high-and-mighty FBI man likes Paradise more than he likes you.”
Andrea poked her head out of her depression and glared back at him. “That’s not true. I’m just more interested in her than I am in some dead girl that none of us knows. Not that I don’t care about the dead girl, but I care more about Paradise. Right, Paradise? That makes sense, right?”
Paradise sighed. “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you anything. The truth is, Roudy, this isn’t the crime of the century, at least not as far as we are concerned. The FBI came, they got what they could, which was nothing, and they left. We’re still here. Our lives still go on, here behind these walls. There is no FBI man, not anymore. It’s all past. Gone. Finished.”
In his delusion as a world-renowned investigator, this was impossible for Roudy to comprehend. In his mind, he was all that stood between the killer and the next poor victim.
His face turned red and his jowls shook as he spoke. “How dare you give up on innocent victims who’ve been thrown to the wolves?”
Paradise put her hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me, Sherlock, you’ve been reassigned to a new case. A more important case that involves dozens of victims.”
“Don’t try to tempt me.”
“I am temptation,” Cass mumbled, eyes tilted down, far off.
“I’m not. The choice is yours, but you’re needed elsewhere. If the FBI decides you’re not qualified to lead this other more important investigation, they will let you know. But I think you’re up to it.”
He blinked. “Not qualified? This is a blatant attempt at misdirection.”
“Is it? If the FBI wants you back on the Bride Collector case, they’ll come begging, I can promise you that. But they won’t, because he’s gone. You’re too important for Mr. Raines.” Then she added, as much for herself, “We all are.” She believed that as much as she believed she really was a monkey.
Roudy looked stunned. He settled back, forced to at least consider the possibility.
“Then at least answer my question,” Andrea insisted.
“I will. If we can all promise to move on.”
No one objected, which was a kind of confirmation in itself.
“What question?” Paradise asked.
Andrea glanced at Enrique. She seemed hesitant, which wasn’t like her. “I just want to know, would you have gone with him?”
Gone with him?
“I mean, you know, not like I was saying. But if he…” A tear spilled down her left cheek; she was fighting the downturn. “If he really showed interest in you, I mean real affection, that might be nice, right? Because that’s what she keeps saying.” She motioned at the wall. “That’s what Betty keeps saying.”
Paradise blinked. It was the first time Andrea had said anything positive about this whole thing. “That’s not the point, Andrea. It’s stupid to even think along those lines. That’s their world and this is ours.”
“But I know what it’s like, Paradise. When I was on the outside, before I came here a year ago, I was, you know, quite popular with guys. It’s not just my brains.” Her eyes darted to the wall. “And no, it’s not just my body, either. You’re acting like a baby!” This was obviously said to Betty.
Paradise felt perturbed by this new direction in their conversation. She picked up a Webster’s dictionary from the desk, snapped it open, and showed the spread to Andrea. “How many words are on these two pages?”
A glance told the girl. “Three hundred ninety-seven.”
Paradise closed the book. “You see, normally the kind of people that can tell you that are savants, maybe autistic. They don’t often look like Texas beauty queens who can flirt like cheerleaders. So the boys see you, and they trip.”
“What are you saying? That I’m just a monkey? You always say that they think we’re all monkeys, monkeys, monkeys!” Andrea paced, agitated. “Well maybe we are, Paradise, but I was trying to be nice. Maybe I was wrong, you know? Maybe the FBI man is really a nice guy and he really does like you. Maybe you deserve that. But now you’ve ruined it!”
Paradise was about to snap at the girl, tell her that it was all a horrible fantasy. Her emotions boiled and she was reminded just why she hated men so much. In the end, they dashed hope. They were a curse.
“He likes you,” Casanova said, staring up at Paradise from the couch. “All men want you.” They’d clearly given him more medication than usual, and his eyes looked only half lit.
“Maybe Mr. Raines likes you,” Andrea said.
“You can have him, Andrea. I can’t afford this. My mind can’t take it. Neither, for that matter, can my heart.”
“So you like him, too,” Cass said. “I know what that’s like. Having my heart broken. It happens quite a lot.” He stared at them for a moment, then went back to watching the floor.
“Nonsense. He’s all yours, Andrea. But it won’t matter, they’re gone.”
That seemed to settle the issue, at least for the moment. Roudy was still trying to comprehend the nature of her suggestion that he was needed for a much more important case.
“So, you really think this case is beneath me? Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. The FBI has moved on.”
A voice spoke softly from behind her. “No, Paradise.” She turned to face Allison, who stood in the doorway. No, Paradise?
“I’m afraid the FBI hasn’t moved on.” Allison walked in, watching Paradise with her ever-smiling eyes, and Paradise couldn’t help but think the director was up to something tricky.
“I just got off the phone with Special Agent Raines.”
Paradise found the air heavy to breathe.
“After your help the other day, Mr. Raines and his partner have decided that you offer the Federal Bureau of Investigation their best chance of saving those young women. All four of you.” She looked at the others. “And I think you should help them. It will be good for you, and it could be very good for those young women who will probably otherwise die.”
Roudy sprang forward, fist raised. “We can’t let them down! We must help them. Bring the body, bring the files, bring it all! We’ll put the vermin back into the cage where he belongs!”
Brad Raines was coming back. Paradise stood immobilized.
“Do you all agree, then?” Allison asked.
“Of course!” Roudy shouted.
“Andrea?”
Her eyes were bright, and Paradise didn’t want to guess what was going on in her brain. “Yes,” Andrea said. “Absolutely.”
“You said the beautiful brunette would join us?” Casanova asked, rising unsteadily, dumb grin already plastered on his expression.
“Her name is Nikki. I’m sorry, Casanova, but I don’t think so. Not today.”
His smile flattened. “No?”
“No. But if she comes, you’ll be the first to know.”
Casanova stared for a moment, then headed for the door in a drug-induced shuffle.
Allison looked at Paradise. “Well?”
Her chest was still frozen and a chill shot through her, but Paradise recognized both as excitement as much as fear. The kind of excitement that a person must feel looking over a cliff with a parachute strapped to her back. And the thought that she might be excited terrified her even more. She wanted to run from the room.
A glance at Andrea chased away that desire. The girl had lit up like the stars. She was already smoothing her hair. Paradise already regretted her earlier words; she couldn’t let Brad face this monster on his own.
She faced Allison and shrugged. “Sure.”
“Good. I assumed as much. They’re already on their way.”
“Now?” Paradise asked, terrified again.
“Now.”