The Bride Collector

36
THE DIRT ROAD ran straight south, that much Brad Raines could tell by the position of the stars in the night sky. What he couldn’t know was how far south the road went before meeting up with any sign of civilization.
He walked beside wheat fields as flat as a golden sea in eastern Colorado or possibly as far east as Kansas. Twin ribbons of worn earth ran parallel under the moonlight, overgrown in patches. Tufts of grass grew calf-high down the center. No sign of telephone or electric poles. The road offered private access to the fields and was likely used only by farm equipment and trucks. If he could find a driveway he might follow it to a house, but in the hour he’d been walking, he’d seen only fields, access paths, and the occasional wide sloping ditch.
His previous penance of slamming against the support beam became a desperate walk for hope, because he’d allowed himself that. It was a thin hope built on a weak trail of new leads that could now be followed; he’d rehearsed each over and over as he walked and sometimes jogged south.
What did he now know? The killer’s name was Quinton Gauld. He had lured Paradise out of CWI because she was his seventh victim. He drove a Chrysler 300M as well as the truck that matched the tire treads they’d found at other crime scenes. He was roughly six feet and wore gray slacks with a blue shirt. More importantly, he had once been a psychologist who’d worked with CWI and as such would have left a rich history in the public records.
The killer had left a treasure trove of leads in the barn and was sure to retrieve them, either with Paradise or after he killed her.
Brad’s task was plain. He had to make contact and bring the cavalry back to the barn without tipping off Quinton Gauld. And he had to hope that he could do so while Paradise was still alive.
His right side ached; the pain flared when the inside of his elbow brushed up against the angry wound on his rib cage. He’d tossed the heavy hammer long ago, now thinking it useless. The moon lit the road, the ditches fell away on either side toward the wheat fields, but nothing else. No mountains, no cars, no houses. Only the road, the fields, and his feet slogging into the night as he marched south.
Regardless of her fate, he would live. With or without Paradise he would live, and this single thought dominated his mind.
In the end it was all going to be pointless, wasn’t it? All his slamming and this desperate march would amount to nothing. Quinton Gauld was too far ahead of them. They would eventually catch up to him, but by then she would be gone. Paradise would be dead.
Her suffering would be made complete. She would pay a price no human should have to pay. Brad would leave the FBI. This time…
He pulled up and squinted. The road ended in a T roughly fifty yards ahead. He caught his breath. He ran up to the intersection, searching for a sign of a house, electric lines, irrigation ditches, anything.
He stopped at the intersection and faced west, then east. As far as he could see by moonlight, the road continued in both directions exactly as it had behind him. He had to pick one, and there was no indication which would take him closer to civilization and which would take him farther.
For a second he had to fight to push back a swelling fear. Rather than offer him any new hope, the intersection only threatened to smash the weak framework he’d been clinging to.
He faced west. At some point the plains would yield to the mountains west of here. Closer to home, closer to Quinton Gauld’s familiar stomping grounds. But how far? Ten miles, a hundred miles? It was pointless!
He began to walk west, broke into a jog, and had covered no more than twenty feet when he saw light approaching from the horizon like a silent UFO breaking the natural plane.
He couldn’t be sure the light was actually coming from a car or truck. It was a star on the horizon, a trick played by the eyes. But then the light parted and become two perfect spheres and Brad knew he was staring directly at the headlights of a fast-approaching vehicle. A truck.
His first instinct was to run. Forward, screaming for them to stop. But what if this was Quinton Gauld, returning?
With Paradise.
The thought hit him broadside like a boot to his head, and he dropped to a crouch. His throat was parched, his side flared with pain, his head throbbed, but now all he could think was, What do I do? What do I do?
The sound of the vehicle’s purring engine reached him; within seconds the truck’s lights would reach out and reveal him in the middle of the road.
But if this was Quinton and he did have Paradise…
Brad was out of time. Mindless of his wound, he lunged toward the ditch on his right, tripped over a tuft of grass, and managed to throw his arm out to break his headlong fall. He hit the slope and rolled onto his shoulder to protect his side, but the resulting stab of pain took his breath away.
Facing the stars at the bottom of the ditch, he struggled to get his lungs moving again. The truck’s purr was accompanied by the soft roar of tires rushing over the ground. The vehicle was almost on top of him. It could be a farmer, it could be the FBI, it could be a teenager and his girlfriend out for late-night fun, or it could be Quinton Gauld with or without Paradise. Whatever the case, Brad decided upon the only course of action that made any sense to him at all.
He found his breath just as the truck slowed for the intersection. Its headlights reached into the night above him. Then it was beside him, gearing down, breaking. Which meant it was turning left.
North, back in the direction of the barn.
Wait, wait…
The lights grew bright above. He had to see who was in that truck, but if he rose too soon they might see him.
Wait… Not yet, not yet…
Brad rolled to his left and pressed his belly onto the slope with his arms cocked beside his chest so that he could push himself up quickly.
Wait…
He waited until the roar was nearly on top of him, pried his head up, saw that the truck was now ten feet away, and was prepared to leap to his feet when he caught a snapshot of the driver through the front window. No one in the passenger seat. Just that, one driver.
But that driver was unmistakably Quinton Gauld.
Brad dropped his head. Breathed hard into the dirt. Quinton was his only link to Paradise. Quinton was in the truck. Quinton was on the way to the barn. Paradise could be on the floorboards or in the truck bed.
He pushed himself to his feet the second the truck passed, scrambled up the slope into the road, and ran toward the vehicle’s red taillights as it braked for the sharp turn.
He had to get into that truck bed. And he had to do it without being heard or seen.
Brad sprinted up to the rear bumper, crouching low so that his head would not show over the gate.
QUINTON GAULD HAD spent the last two hours contemplating his success. His achievement was so lofty, so advanced, so perfectly executed, so angelic that he wondered if Rain Man had been mistaken. Perhaps he really was an angel sent by the Most High to bring home the most beautiful bride humanity had produced after millions of years of evolution.
Paradise was unmatched in beauty and perfection, so wonderfully made that he had never planned to leave her body for the authorities to discover, glued to the wall. He intended to take her dead body to Robert Earls, a taxidermist who lived like a hermit outside Manitou Springs. Robert would be plied into preparing and stuffing her body before Quinton killed him. Quinton had wanted to mount her body on the wall above his mantel with one of two inscriptions. Either HERE RESTS GOD’S FAVORITE BRIDE PARADISE, or CREATION GROANED FOR A MILLION YEARS AND GAVE US HER, GOD’S PERFECT BRIDE.
Quinton slowed for the corner, turned the wheel to his left, and pulled out of the turn. The truck bumped over lumps of grass growing in the middle of the uneven road. Something thumped behind him and he glanced in the rearview mirror, saw nothing. He would have to ditch the truck and the 300M later tonight. He would then have to pack and move before sunrise.
Mounting Paradise above his mantel was no longer an option.
But it didn’t matter. As much as he was tempted to think he was in the Most High’s angelic service, he knew that Rain Man had been right. His head was buzzing and the buzzards were dropping demons and he was one of them. And now he resolved to accept himself without giving any further space to Rain Man and his demented thinking.