The Bride Collector

3
QUINTON GAULD WAS his name, and at the moment he was preparing to enjoy a thick, juicy, prime-cut rib eye at Elway’s steak house at the corner of 19th and Curtis, just one block from the FBI building on Stout Street, downtown Denver, Colorado, USA, North America, World, Universe, Infinity.
The thought of being so close to the only humans capable of ruining things put him in a calculating mood. It was a time for reflection and self-examination, soaking in the fluids of truth.
And upon such introspection, Quinton was feeling abundantly satisfied.
The waiter, a tall blond man with a slightly protruding belly and sharp elbows, set a ceramic plate down using a cream-colored hot pad folded over the dish’s rim to protect his palm and fingers from being seared like the steak. His name was Anthony.
“Be careful, it’s hot.”
“Thank you, Anthony.”
“Is everything to your satisfaction?”
“I’ll let you know in a moment.”
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else? Vegetables? Bread?”
“I am all set, Anthony.”
“No drink?”
“I have water, Anthony. Water washes steak down quite nicely after so much bloodletting.”
The waiter offered a coy smile, signifying his appreciation for Quinton’s choice of words to describe a cow’s being slaughtered. But Quinton was speaking of Caroline, not the cow. Caroline wasn’t a cow, and she hadn’t been slaughtered.
She was one of God’s favorites, and she’d been drilled. And then bled.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Quinton picked up his fork and held it in his large, bony hand. He paused for a moment, staring at the gold cuff link that buttoned the sleeve of his shirt. An inch of white, and then the blue Armani suit, reserved for special occasions.
He never worked in a suit and tie because he found them too constraining, preferring instead nakedness encumbered only by black briefs.
He was momentarily fascinated by the chrome fork in his fingers. Larger than many forks. A real man’s fork. His own fingers were larger than most by as much as an inch in length. By his hands alone, one might guess him to be nearly seven feet tall. In reality, he stood only six foot four.
He twisted his wrist, caught up in the sight of flesh against metal, such a harsh surface in the embrace of soft flesh. He’d once considered his hands too large and gangly, alien appendages on the end of long bones. So he’d decided to take special care of his hands and in the process had come to truly appreciate them. They had a unique beauty, a subject about which he knew far more than most. He’d allowed various women from Asia to give him manicures and pedicures twice a week for nearly a year now, and the results were impressive.
Quinton moved his forefinger. Then he did it again, trying to trace the messages that spread across neurons in his brain at a rate of six hundred per second before being shot down his nerves to the muscles in his hand. Little bundles of energy were racing from his brain to his hand with clear, precise directions at this very moment, yet he was completely unaware of how or when his brain began or ended the cycle. How decision became instruction. How instruction became movement.
The brain was a mystery for most humans, and as of yet for Quinton Gauld.
It occurred to him that his moment of exploration into the finer things of life had stretched on a full minute or more. Not a bad thing, for after all, he was here to enjoy himself. No enjoyment could exceed the power of the mind to amuse itself.
And the whole time he had been contemplating his hand and the utensil in that hand, he was in perfect tune with all else in Elway’s place of feeding.
The bartender with silver earrings who had apologized after spilling beer on a customer’s hands. He offered the woman a free drink. She declined, but she despised him for his carelessness. She was a real cow who’d been convinced by inner delusional voices that her black polyester slacks were not too tight despite the fact that she had gained ten pounds in the last three months, thanks to her meds. He would say depression was her demon.
The two new customers, one with bratty kids, who’d entered the premises since he’d picked up his fork.
The husband and wife two booths over, arguing over the price of a new minivan and whether the van should be blue or gray. Black got too dirty. No, white got too dirty. Quinton briefly entertained the thought of helping them gain a more expansive understanding of the word dirty.
The pretty waitress wearing a white halter top who smiled as she passed his table. She found him interesting. Handsome. A real gentleman, judging by his appearance and his posture. He knew this not only by her look, but because women always commented on these admirable traits. This particular woman, whose name tag identified her as Karen with a C, or Caren, was also likely attracted to his tall frame. They said size didn’t matter, but most women had preferences when it came to size. Caren liked large men.
There was a single fly caught in the window to his right.
A hundred other stimuli had been trapped by his brain as he contemplated the fork. Not the least of which was the aromatic steam rising off his charbroiled steak.
Quinton held his fork in his left hand with one finger on the bridge to steady it. He sliced through the tender meat with a serrated blade, one provided by Jonathan Elway, the famed Denver Bronco quarterback who, based on Quinton’s research three days earlier when he’d carefully selected the restaurant for this occasion, had indeed been a favorite among all of God’s children.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
A man with enviable strength and intelligence, able to hurl an inflated leather sack through the air with such accuracy and power that few defenders could see it coming, much less stop it from reaching its intended receiver.
On his God-given field, Jonathan Elway, known to the rest of the world as John Elway, had been a god. He didn’t mistakenly think of himself as a god, like most humans desperate to live out their pathetic fantasies did. He actually was a god, something he himself likely didn’t know.
Quinton placed the first bite of meat into his mouth, pulled the tender morsel off using his teeth, and closed his eyes. The taste was heavenly. The seared crust gave way with a faint crack to the moist fibers beneath. Juice flooded his mouth and pooled under his tongue as he sank his molars deep into the flesh.
So delectable and satisfying, he allowed himself a soft moan. Two more chews with his eyes still closed to shut out all other visual stimuli. The pleasure demanded more vocalized appreciation. Whispering this time.
“Mmmm… Mmmm… Delicious.”
It was important not to be plastic. Pretending to himself only minimized who he was. Most humans wore a public facade, an attempt to compensate for their own flaws and weaknesses. The whole world was plastic, populated by people playing roles, fooling only the foolish. Sadly, they’d worn the facades for so long that they had lost even their awareness of the habit.
I am an important executive who has made money—the Rolex label on my wrist should make that clear.
I am a powerful lover and provider, signified by the way I’ve engineered my body to appear strong and symmetrically lumpy.
I am comfortable with myself, signified by the way I walk so nonchalantly wearing only sweats and a T-shirt.
I am nobody. But please, please don’t tell anyone.
The voice of the bratty boy, who was now seated across the room in a booth, scraped at Quinton’s mind. He fought back a grimace of frustration. It was important not to be plastic, but it was also important not to step on the sanctity of others’ space. The boy was upsetting the balance of peace and tranquility in the room. No doubt, every last patron would readily shove a sock or boot down the boy’s throat if they were not so afraid of being found out for who they really were.
He shut the boy out and focused on the cavalcade of flavors dancing around in his mouth. He began to chew with powerful strokes of his jaw, drawing the juices into his mouth and throat. Swallowing deep.
The details of his earlier activity, which he was now celebrating by breaking an otherwise strict vegetarian diet, slipped through his mind. His special time with Caroline had been satisfying in the same way all great accomplishments were rewarding. But he’d drawn no physical pleasure from the bloodletting.
Eating the steak, however… This was indeed like sex. And because Quinton had not known any sexual gratification since that terrible night seven years earlier, he relished every other physical pleasure that reminded him that physical pleasure was indeed an immeasurable gift.
News of Caroline’s death would soon fill the world with a single question: Who is it? Who is it? Is it my neighbor, is it the grocery clerk, is it the high school principal?
Humans were predictable. Like animated carbon units. Cardboard cutouts with fancy trim, far too much of it. There was only one human who really mattered, and at the moment that was him. Everything around him was stage dressing. He was the only real player on this stage.
The audience was watching him only; the rest were only extras. It was the same for all of them, but few were courageous enough to understand or confess this single beautiful, bitter truth: Deep down inside, each of them believed they were at the center of the universe.
But at the moment, it was Quinton, and he was wise enough to embrace it.
God had chosen Quinton Gauld. Simple. Indisputable. Final.
Which brought Quinton to the task set before him. Three more, as he saw fit. Ending with the most beautiful.
The boy in the booth was whining his dislike for peas. A perfectly good vegetable, but this dark-headed boy who looked to be about ten or eleven was refusing to consider reason, in part because the father wasn’t delivering reason, but distraction. “How about ice cream, Joshie? How about lobster, Joshie?”
Quinton cut off more meat and savored the bite. So delicious. Rarely had he drawn such pleasure from meat. But the boy was undermining the experience, and Quinton felt regression pressing in on his psyche. Joshie was mad as hell and there seemed no good reason for it. The boy was simply misfiring. Going kaput. Rotting before his time in the grave.
Few things distracted Quinton any longer. He’d long ago conquered his mind. A doctor had once diagnosed him with schizoaffective disorder, a condition that supposedly involved the complications of thought disorder and a bipolar mood disorder. Five years of his life had vanished in a fog of heavy medication, until he silently protested the oppression.
The condition was his greatest gift, not a disease. He still took a very low dosage of medication to control the tics—a natural by-product of a supercharged mind—but otherwise he relied on his own substantial focus and enlightenment.
At the moment, it took every fiber of his formidable intellect to remain calm. The square of seared cow flesh in his mouth was tasting more like cardboard than meat. After his significant accomplishment earlier today, the heavens were cheering, but the rats on earth were totally oblivious. There was no respect left in the world.
The father suggested that Joshie take a time-out to think about it, and the boy raced screaming to the restroom. None of the others seemed too put out by the scene.
The whole mini-drama was more than Quinton was willing to bear. He calmly set down his knife and dabbed his lips with his serviette seven times, alternating corners, a habit that helped to bring order to his mind. He took one more deep draft of the purified water, slipped a hundred-dollar bill onto the table, and stood.
With a nod and smile at the waitress who wanted him, he walked toward the restroom.
It was important not to stand out in a crowd while simultaneously living a nonplastic life. An authentic life. Authentic, but not proud and obnoxious, either. That was the boy’s problem: He was standing out in the crowd, acting as if he were a coddled king who ate ice cream while the rest of the kingdom was subjected to peas.
Quinton’s problem, on the other hand, was how to enlighten the boy without making the same mistake and drawing attention. He neither wanted nor needed the spotlight, particularly not now.
He walked into the bathroom with a backward glance, noting that no one else was hurrying to relieve themselves of dinner or drink. The door closed with a soft clunk. The boy faced the urinal, uttering a long, mournful wail that might be expected at a funeral procession, but not here after being offered ice cream.
Eager to deliver his message quickly, Quinton walked to the stalls, checked both to be sure they were alone, then approached the boy.
He tapped Joshie on the shoulder. The boy was zipping up, and he spun with a short gasp, swallowing his annoying cry.
“Why are you crying, lad?” Quinton asked.
Joshie got over his initial shock and flattened his mouth. “Mind your own business,” he said. Then he made to walk past Quinton.
Quinton knew it now: The boy was deeply disturbed. Perhaps mentally ill, though more likely just rotten to the core. An intervention was both reasonable and necessary if the boy was to have any hope of entering adulthood well adjusted.
Quinton stuck his hand out and prevented his escape. “Not so fast, young lad. I asked you a question and I do expect an answer.”
He shoved the boy back, gripping his shoulder.
“Ow! Let go!”
“Don’t be a baby,” Quinton said calmly. Then he added, “lad,” because the English word gave the whole sentence a proper ring. And this was a very proper occasion. “Tell me why you thought you had the right to cry. If you give me the right answer, I might let you off with a warning.”
The boy struggled against Quinton’s grip. “Let me go, you freak!” The boy’s mouth twisted. Did he have no sense at all? Did he possess even the faintest awareness of whom he was dealing with?
Quinton squeezed hard and leaned forward so that he wouldn’t have to yell. He spoke in a stern whisper. “Someone’s going to put a bullet in your head one of these days. I would, under different circumstances. You’re not the only snot in the world, and the truth is, most people would rather kill you than listen to your whining little hole.”
The boy stared up at him in shock. A dark circle spread over his groin. Apparently, he hadn’t drained his bladder quite so completely after all.
“Be very careful what you tell them. They won’t believe I hit you anyway, your face is already beet red from acting like a baby. But if you do go out there and tell them I hit you, I might sneak into your room when you’re asleep and pull your tongue out.”
But the boy did what most humans do in times of crisis. He became himself. He started to scream bloody murder.
Quinton’s hand moved with calculated strength, slamming open-palmed against the noisy brat’s jaw. Had he not been gripping the boy’s shoulder, it would have been enough force to send Joshie across the room, but not enough to break his jaw or neck.
Crack!
“Bless you, boy, for you are a sinner.”
It was enough to shut the boy up. And shut him down. He shoved the boy’s limp body into the corner, wedged between the wall and the urinal.
Satisfied that he’d gotten through, Quinton crossed to the mirror, adjusted his collar, tugged each cuff so that his shirt showed just the right measure of white at the cuffs, smoothed his left eyebrow, which had somehow ruffled during the commotion, and left the bathroom.
No one in the noisy restaurant gave him a second glance. The whole room might have stood and cheered to learn that Joshie had fallen asleep at the urinal. If they all kept their fingers crossed long enough, the boy would one day fall asleep at the wheel, crash through a bridge railing, and plummet into a river to meet an icy death.
Quinton felt doubly good with his accomplishment. Although he hadn’t been able to eat every bite of his steak, he had been able to help both Joshie and the rest of the brats in this establishment without so much as raising an eyebrow from one of them. Except Josh, of course. And he’d raised more than an eyebrow on the lad.
Quinton walked between the tables, gathering only the casual looks of appreciation offered to the best looking. So few realized just how many psychotic members of society walked past them at the grocery store or through a restaurant each and every day. What would frighten them even more was how many ordinary people were mentally sick and didn’t know it.
Quinton winked at the waitress on his way out, then thanked Anthony for the wonderful meal. The hostess greeted him kindly at the front door.
“Was everything to your satisfaction?”
“Yes. Yes, Cynthia, it was. Do you happen to have any sanitized toothpicks?”
She glanced at the clear dispenser full of toothpicks, then reached under the counter and pulled out a box in which each toothpick was individually wrapped. She smiled knowingly.
“Thank you.” He counted out seven, then nodded. “For my friends.”
“No problem. Take the whole box if you want.”
“No, I couldn’t do that. I doubt John would appreciate being robbed.”
She laughed. “Oh I doubt that, Mr. Elway is very generous.”
“Well, judging by his choice of steaks, he doesn’t skimp, I can agree to that. Have a great evening, Cynthia.”
“Thank you. Drive safe.”
He stopped at the outer door and looked back. “Oh, I almost forgot, I think a boy fell asleep in the restroom.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know, but he looked asleep to me.” He flipped his hand in a casual salute. “Anyway, thanks again.”
Then he was alone outside, surrounded by the night. He took a deep breath, appreciative of the rich scent of searing steak from the establishment’s kitchen vents.
A man’s choice of car was telling. He once heard that an extremely wealthy man, whose name he’d purposefully forgotten, chose to drive an old pickup truck rather than a Mercedes. Quinton had known at once that the man was either hopelessly insecure, or completely mad. No one comfortable in their own skin would try to hide their wealth unless they supposed that others didn’t approve of wealthy people or of people who wanted to be wealthy, thereby necessitating a disguise.
Quinton did appreciate the need for subtlety, something Josh hadn’t understood until just a few minutes ago. But driving a pickup truck when you’re worth a hundred billion was the farthest thing from subtlety. If the man wasn’t insecure, he was deeply deluded into thinking that pretending to be a common man would make him so. If anything, such eccentric behavior drew more attention than had the man been honest with himself. Perhaps he longed for the extra attention, not willing to be just another rich man in a rich car, and it was insecurity, not madness, that compelled the man.
The circular logic of it all came slamming home with a nauseating thunk. Quinton had spent considerable time mulling over the question and never landed on a definitive answer.
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.