The Bride Collector

24
CARS CAME AND went from the underground parking garage next to Rain Man’s condo, and Quinton watched them all from the protected darkness of his 300M, which he parked in a corner space that was reserved. He’d picked the spot two days earlier after noting that it remained empty into the early-morning hours. From his vantage through his window, he could see the yawning ramp that headed up to the street.
He’d placed a sun-blocker on the inside of his front windshield to keep prying eyes from seeing his form behind the wheel. A single security camera recorded all vehicles that came and went from the garage, but he’d parked his car on the street at 4:00 PM, manually snipped the camera cable, then taken up his position in the garage, knowing that it was too late in the day for a repairman to be dispatched. By the time they fixed it in the morning, his work here would be finished.
Watching Rain Man’s domicile over this last week, Quinton had confirmed his assumption that Brad Raines was the kind of man who would work late into the night in his misguided effort to find the Bride Collector.
He’d seen the agent’s BMW parked at CWI earlier in the afternoon, then watched for a few minutes as Rain Man walked to the pond with Angel’s sister. His heart had crashed about his chest like a hard rubber ball.
The seventh favorite had to come of her own free will, without compromise, and though he’d fretted and fussed over the detail for weeks, God had surely provided the way.
The lengths that people would go to for the sake of a loved one were disturbing to him and uplifting at once. Being created in God’s image, humans shared a seed of his unconditional, infinite love, though most had done their best to stomp that seed underfoot with greed and self-preservation.
Yet when the final test came, most would go all-out to save their child or husband or wife or brother or sister. Now Quinton’s errand depended on that seed blossoming to life. He’d been sent to collect her, and she would come.
He tapped the steering wheel with his gloved hand. His gun rested in the passenger seat, ready for when the time came. He prayed that no one else would be in the garage when it did—he had no desire to kill or even see anyone else tonight. His focus was pure and fixed. He was about God’s work and God’s work only.
It was now past eleven and the underground garage was quiet, like the inside of a casket. What if Rain Man didn’t come home tonight? He stopped tapping the leather-wrapped wheel. What if the infidel had uncovered…
Lights brightened the ramp and the beautiful, snarling grill of a BMW nosed down into the darkness.
Rain Man was home.
A jolt of nervous energy ripped through Quinton’s bones, then was gone, replaced by relief. God was good. All the time. And his love was inexhaustible.
The BMW drove by, turning right toward its customary spot just around the corner. As soon as its red taillights vanished from his view, Quinton started the 300M, pulled out, turned the car around, then nosed the car back into the same spot so that the trunk faced the driveway. Lights off.
Without killing the engine, he grabbed the tranquilizer pistol, popped the trunk, and stepped out of the vehicle.
A car door thumped shut around the corner. Rain Man was out—Quinton prayed he hadn’t made a mistake in taking the time to turn the car around, but he had wanted to face out for easy viewing while he waited, and he now needed the trunk to face out for easy access.
The garage was still quiet. He ran on his rubber soles, silent, around the corner just as Raines was crossing the driveway toward the elevators. Twenty yards. He had to be closer—the man was trained to use his weapon and wouldn’t hesitate if he had the chance. Quinton’s first shot had to put him down.
Throwing caution to the wind, he sprinted forward and closed the gap to ten yards before Raines heard him and spun.
But the mouse was in the trap and the spring was sprung. Quinton lifted the tranquilizer gun and shot the man in his chest. The two-inch, red-feathered dart made a soft slapping sound when it struck. Rain Man cried out and jumped back, stunned.
His eyes widened as he, being trained in these sorts of things, recognized the instrument hanging from his chest. He grabbed the dart and tugged it out, then clawed for the weapon holstered beneath his jacket. “You sick son of…” His voice slurred and he staggered. But the powerful sedative would take up to fifteen seconds. Less if the man’s heart was pumping very hard.
Quinton ducked behind a car and crouched, counting the seconds… six, seven, eight…
Thump.
He stood up and saw that Rain Man had fallen in a heap, still clutching his pistol. Tucking his own behind his belt, Quinton rushed forward.
Rain Man was heavy. Deadweight was always heavy—he’d mounted each of the women on the wall without their help, but this… The man felt like he weighed five hundred pounds.
Quinton heaved him up over his shoulder and ran back around the corner. Now his decision to turn the car around rewarded him. He shouldered the man into the trunk and, working quickly before another car drove into the garage, fastened handcuffs to Rain Man’s wrists. The drug would keep him down for half an hour, but he could take no chances.
Having secured his man in the trunk, Quinton slid into the front seat, pulled the car out, and roared up the ramp into the dark night.
Five minutes later he was on I-25 north. No flashing lights in his rearview mirror. No helicopters overhead. No sign of pursuit at all. With any luck, no one would even know their star was missing until the morning, when he failed to show up for work.
One of the distinct disadvantages that came with a career in God’s service, like his own career, was all the bad press. No one cut the clergy enough slack; they got far too much negative attention.
But there were some distinct advantages as well. Having God on your side, for instance, the smoothness of Rain Man’s abduction being a case in point. It was enough to reaffirm Quinton’s calling, not that he had any doubts.
Still, having Rain Man in the trunk gave him a very good feeling.
He turned right onto Interstate 70. From here the Kansas border waited, 171 miles distant. The small town called St. Francis slept through the night, ten miles past the border. The barn Quinton had prepared was nine miles south of St. Francis.
Ordinarily, the trip would take at least three hours. In the dead of night, he could make it in just over two, thanks to a powerful Chrysler engine and a state-of-the-art radar detector slash laser diffuser.
The search for him had primarily been confined to Colorado. But, to avoid all the attention, Quinton would unite the seventh and most beautiful favorite with God in Kansas.
The thought made Quinton shiver.