The Bride Collector

39
BRAD CUT DOWN the ditch, past the point they’d exited the field, pulled up twenty yards farther, and listened. Crickets chirped in the grove of trees south. A light breeze rustled through the fields like blowing sand on this endless shore of corn gilded by a round white moon.
He looked back up the ditch. If he used his imagination, he could make out the form of a woman huddled up against the ditch slope in the far distance. A precious woman named Paradise who deserved and now had his complete devotion.
But without his imagination, he couldn’t see her, and the thought of never again seeing her terrified him.
Leaving her there to suffer yet another abandonment had wrenched his heart. But he knew that he might never have another opportunity to save, really save, Paradise. As long as Quinton Gauld was at large, Paradise’s life was in mortal danger.
He faced south, into the cornfield. There was only one way to maintain the upper hand. He had to go in silently, quickly, and with a ruthlessness that once belonged only to those he’d hunted. For all he knew, Quinton Gauld had already fled. But assuming the man was either mounting an effort to sweep the fields or still cleaning up, Brad had to move and move now.
He stepped into the field and snaked between the stalks as carefully as he could. At this pace, the sound of his brushing against the closely planted stalks could be noticed, but not easily distinguished from the slight swaying caused by the breeze. Either way, he had little choice. The cornfield had to be crossed.
His plan was a simple one. Without a weapon, he didn’t stand a chance in any kind of confrontation. But there was another way. A way that would require him to gain entry to the barn without being seen. If he could just get in, he could finish this tonight.
Heart pounding like a large rabbit’s thumpers, he snaked forward. Quickly, low, breathing as quietly as possible. He stopped ten feet from the end of the field and listened for any unusual sound.
None. What he would give for his gun now. Even the hammer. He could have grabbed something on his way out of the barn, a rake, a stick, a metal rod, a rope, a brick, anything, but he’d neither seen nor considered taking anything. And why should he have? Only a person who’d lost his mind would come back.
Brad slipped up to the edge of the field and peered out from the stalks. Orange light still flickered in twin upper windows and from a dozen vertical cracks along the wall. Quinton was still here.
The fissures between the old shriveled boards were large enough to give an attentive person on the inside a view of someone on the outside. He would have to keep that in mind. Now that he thought about it, there was the possibility that Quinton had seen them as they made their escape, illuminated by the strong truck lights shining through the cracks. But he hadn’t pursued them. Either way, it no longer mattered.
There were fewer cracks on the right side of the barn. Brad crouched low, stepped from the cornfield, and ran across the clearing toward the barn’s far corner.
THE BARN WAS nicely lit by the moon, and from Quinton’s exterior perspective fifty yards from the southwest corner, he had a perfect view of three-quarters of the building rising like a tomb against the starry sky. He sat with his legs crossed in a yoga position, palms up, thumb and forefinger circular to help him concentrate.
He blended into the wheat field that rose behind him just above his head. Rain Man’s flight into the field had taken them to the northwest; assuming he returned, he would probably come from the same direction. Even if he changed his angle of approach considerably, Quinton would see him coming.
Fully expecting Quinton to be inside the barn cleaning up like a madman, the fox would peer through one of the cracks and be unnerved by the fact that his prey was not in sight. The fox would then circle the barn stealthily, trying to pinpoint Quinton’s whereabouts before he rushed in for the kill—assuming Rain Man was as smart as Quinton thought he was.
If Rain Man did not return, Quinton would clean up and leave in the next hour, long before the sun rose. And he would return later to finish what he’d started. He was a patient man. He’d waited seven years already; another few months would not be a problem.
All was in order. Quinton would not disappoint those peering eyes from the night again. Particularly not now that he finally understood his true purpose.
The only thing slightly off was the sound. The buzzing in his brain had become a grinding. It was so loud now that he could hardly distinguish it from the crickets. Not that his hearing mattered at this point. He would rely on his eyesight and superior intelligence, having set hearing and emotion aside for the moment.
His mind was bright enough to illuminate the world.
His hatred, on the other hand, was so dark that he had begun to relish the thought of killing Paradise for the smell and taste of the blood alone.
His advantage wasn’t limited to these strengths. His buzzing intelligence had also shown him precisely how, armed with nothing but sticks and stones, the fox intended to kill him.
Rain Man would try to burn the barn down with him and his truck in it. And for that he would need only a well-thrown stick or rock. Like David slaying Goliath.
This was why Quinton waited where he did, safely on the outside, ready to move when the time came. Leaving the truck parked in the barn presented a risk, but he couldn’t remove it without tipping his hand. Either way, sitting in the yoga position against the wheat field put Quinton in the perfect position.
The cornfield on the opposite side of the clearing suddenly parted and Rain Man darted out, crouched low, offering a low profile to any bullet.
Quinton was on his feet already. The fox was there, scurrying.
But the Hound of Hell was ready and his fangs were already barred.
BRAD CAME TO a gliding halt against the corner of the barn and pressed his back against the boards, breathing through his nose. He’d stuffed five rocks into his pockets from the ditch, two in his right, three in his left, but he would use them only if he couldn’t find something large with which to smash the lamps.
Once broken, the kerosene would spray over the hay-strewn ground and the bales nearby, and in a matter of two or three seconds a blaze too large to contain would be raging.
Next would be the truck. He’d considered a dozen possible scenarios that might allow him to disable the vehicle, but they all required him to gain an advantage once the chaos ensued. It would take surprisingly few hay bales to stop the truck long enough to smash a second lamp over its hood or bludgeon its radiator with Quinton’s small sledgehammer.
Brad didn’t necessarily need to kill the man here. A burning barn would make a signal fire visible for miles, and the road out of this place took a considerable amount of time to navigate.
They were all long odds, but allowing a sociopathic monster of Quinton Gauld’s intelligence to escape offered even longer odds for Paradise’s survival.
The night was quiet. He eased to his right and peered through a half-inch crack. The truck’s green paint looked dark by the flame’s light. Both lamps sat on wooden barrels on either side of the makeshift wall, untouched. Hay bales rested everywhere. But Brad’s view of the table was blocked by the bales.
No sign of the man. He had to determine the killer’s location, track him, wait for the right opportunity, create his distraction at the back, then run around to the front and enter the barn with the truck between him and Quinton, who would have been drawn to the rear by the distraction.
Then and only then would he go after the nearest lamp, and then the truck.
But there was no sign of Quinton. From this angle he could only see part of the barn, the bed of the truck, the blankets, but little else. The man could be anywhere.
Thinking about it now, Brad feared something would go terribly wrong. Quinton Gauld wasn’t the kind of man who made many mistakes, and having made one or two that allowed Brad and Paradise to escape, he would be prepared.
Breathing deep to calm himself, Brad slipped along the wall, keeping low. He had to get to the far side to get a clear view of the table. As soon as he could track the man, a simple bang on the wall would draw his attention while Brad hurried around to the main entrance.
The details drummed through his mind, rehearsing the unknown, ears tingling with tension.
The rear door was cracked open. He stopped and considered this. But it made sense—Quinton would have searched at least the perimeter before retreating, perhaps through this door. That was fifteen or twenty minutes ago. So what had he been doing since? Why all so quiet?
Brad moved forward on the balls of his feet. He had to make visual contact. He had to locate the man first.
A three-inch gap separated the door from the old rotting frame, filled now with orange light, like a monster’s eye just barely open while it slept. Brad reached it, thought about looking inside, but decided that the door’s slightest movement might betray him.
Just beyond the door, there was a gap between two boards, he would…
The blow on the back of his head came out of nowhere, like a giant cobra strike on his skull. Pain raged down his spine. He knew then, as he collapsed to the ground, why he hadn’t seen Quinton on the inside of the barn.
The killer was out here with him.