The Bride Collector

7
QUINTON GAULD HAD come to accept the fundamental rules of life only recently, in the last year to be exact. And being only forty-one years of age, he still had time to perfect his enforcement of those rules.
This soothing realization had brought him more happiness and relief than he’d felt for seven years, since he’d been so soundly rejected by the first woman he’d chosen and loved. He still couldn’t comprehend her failure of reasoning.
Did a bird reject its own fluffy feathers?
Did a car throw away its growling engine?
Did a woman cut off her own beautiful head?
And yet, despite those unshakable truths, she had rejected Quinton. Thrown him off. Cut off her own head when he’d actually offered to be her head. His only consolation had come from his conclusion that she must be mentally ill. Worse, her soul was sick, for she’d rejected God’s choice.
Which brought his mind to the first rule. He turned to face the mirrored wall in his bedroom and said it aloud, so the three wigless mannequins to his right could hear it clearly.
“Beauty is not defined by man, but by God, who determines the most beautiful.”
He glanced at the seven ceramic dolls on his dresser, each watching him with rapt interest, dressed in the pink dress, the blue dress, the green, the black (which was his favorite), the lavender, the yellow, and the white. Seeing their vacant stares, he expounded on the rule lest they not comprehend its full meaning.
“Not dirty politicians. Not slimy preachers. Not stupid with a capital S neighbors. Not Holly-weird. Not me. Not you. Not mother. Not sister. Not brother. Not teacher, student, pimp, or rock star. God and God alone, who forgives all who have sinned if they follow his rules, defines beauty.”
A pause for effect.
“Even the most beautiful, that one called Lucifer. He forgives him as well.”
Quinton walked into his closet, slipped out of the black bathrobe, and hung it on the hook behind his door. His preparations for the work ahead of him had proven both refreshing and encouraging. As always, he’d fasted that day and given himself a colonic. It was important that his body be clean, inside and out.
Though he could taste the steak he would consume in a few days, he would hold off until then, feeding only on the milk and beans he found so adequate and nutritious for his needs. Afterward, he might go back to John Elway’s place again—on balance, the experience had been satisfying.
He stepped into a pair of black Armani Exchange underwear, the only kind he owned. The brand cradled him firmly, but didn’t cut off his circulation like the Tabitha brand, which he’d burned in disgust after a single hour. It was no wonder he hadn’t been sexually satisfied for so long. Society was conspiring to strip him of his huMANity.
He slipped into white socks, his customary gray slacks, and a light blue button-down shirt. At times like this, it was important to look respectable without attracting attention. Brown Skechers shoes. Though the clothes made him feel at ease with himself, he felt at ease with himself wherever he went. It was undoubtedly one of the chief reasons why God favored him. He could adapt and feel at home anywhere.
Unless, of course, there were bratty kids about. Or when his nails were dirty. Or when it was too hot or too cold, or when the carpet wasn’t clean, or for that matter when a hundred other imperfections disturbed his satisfaction. In fact, to be perfectly honest (something he insisted on being at all times), he was only at ease with himself when all rested in the perfect order God had originally intended.
Which was okay, because Quinton Gauld’s purpose was to put things back in order. Even his own inconsistencies, some of which betrayed themselves just now, were on the mend with this work. He was a work in progress of perfection.
Bless me, Father, bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
He walked from his bedroom, scanning his apartment with a studied eye. Rules and order brought a symmetry to life that allowed for balance and joy. This was why he’d given himself a manicure an hour earlier. This was why each red throw pillow on his peach-velvet-covered sofa wasn’t thrown at all, but carefully placed with attention to balance and beauty.
Not a spot on the walls—he painted each every three months with the non-odorous paint now available at Home Depot. Each wall featured a large mirror, which allowed him to see himself from all highly trafficked regions.
He bent and picked up a piece of lint, a fluffy white feather that must have squeezed through one of the pillows’ tiniest, fraying seams. Was it time to replace the pillows? The stuff that was made these days was cheap junk, mostly from China. Or Washington, DC.
Quinton dropped the piece of lint into a large urn that he’d used as a depository for all such random offerings. The lunatics in the mental ward had suggested he suffered from an obsessive-compulsive disorder and schizophrenia. They were liars, and he’d taken their drugs only to outwit them. Truth was, he could outwit them with his mind tied behind his back.
He crossed into the kitchen, seven steps. He wondered how little Joshie from the restaurant was feeling, having learned such a valuable life lesson from Uncle Quinton. Fortunate little punk. Better now than on the streets, where it might be a sledgehammer to the head rather than the soft side of a hand doing the teaching.
But the real winner now would be Melissa, the flight attendant who would discover her true purpose in… he glanced at the clock on the wall… two hours and twenty-one minutes, when the clock struck 2:00 AM.
His nerves sent a shiver of anticipation through his tailbone, then up his spine. For a moment he felt like he was standing on the edge of a bridge with a bungee cord strapped to his ankles, ready to launch himself fearlessly into the void. But he had found a better way to fly.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
The rules. Always the rules. Beauty is defined by God, who determines the most beautiful. True, so true.
But there was more. There was another rule, rule two. Because what Quinton had learned only recently was that God had favorites. God loved some more than others. He was passionate about his creation and would bend over backward to impress those that he favored.
Even more than that, there was a favorite. A single human who was so favored, in fact, that by comparison the rest didn’t even rate on God’s list of things worthy of his attention.
The Creator was fixated on one.
Quinton opened the door to a pantry lined with precise rows of canned baked beans made by Hornish, his favorite because of all the sugary syrup. Brain food.
He withdrew the Hitachi electric drill case, then closed the door. He’d boiled the half-inch bit in water to sanitize it for Melissa. Not a germ to be found around its twisting edges.
Yes, God was obsessed with one, like he’d once been fixated on Lucifer. All of heaven and hell had peered down from their lofty, unobstructed view and watched the one courted by God. The rest of creation had existed only as a stage for his courtship. All other humans were extras.
Heaven and hell wanted to know: Would the chosen one love God in return?
He placed the drill in a black suitcase next to the sedative. The rest of what he would need was already neatly packed. He clasped it shut and looked around the room. How long before he returned depended on how cooperative Melissa was. A day, maybe three days.
Satisfied that all was in order, Quinton turned off the lights and headed down to the garage where the green Chevy pickup waited.
He slid onto the seat and grinned at the inaudible debate raging inside him, between himself and an unseen adversary.
Imagine that, you insane freak. Imagine for a second (and I know this is difficult because your intelligence is less than mine) but imagine for even a few moments that it’s all about you.
You’re at the center of it all. Your choices are the only ones that count. Like Neo from The Matrix, Quinton’s favorite movie, you wake up one day and learn that you are the chosen one.
Insane, but so true. You are his bride. God’s favorite.
But here’s what’ll really tweak your gourd, Neo. You blithering idiot. This is rule two: In God’s infinite character he can have more than one favorite without any of the others losing their status.
That’s right, Neo. You are the favorite one, the chosen one. But so am I.
And so is every living soul to walk this cursed earth.
And the rules are the same for all of them. Unfortunately, most are too insane to realize just how critical they are in the game called life.
Until recently, Quinton had hated all humans because of their utter worthlessness. Then he’d learned that the exact opposite was true. That to a man, woman, and child they were all infinitely valuable. This had caused him to immediately hate them for being as important as him.
But now he no longer had to dwell on such mysteries. He had a role to play. He was God’s angel. A messiah sent to help those whom God loved the most join him in eternal bliss.
Because every human was the most beautiful in God’s infinite capacity for affection, Quinton was allowed to select seven, God’s holy number. He would deliver seven to God, a symbolic gesture of service for which he would be richly rewarded. At the end of it all, he would be given the capacity to procreate again. His body, now at rest like a bear in hibernation, would rise from a deep slumber and join with his own bride.
He’d lost one bride when she rejected him. He would right that wrong, and never allow it to happen again.
Quinton whistled as he drove the green Chevy out of the parking lot. His sense of sheer purpose and self-worth at the moment was almost overwhelming. He was soaring. He waved at Mary, a single mother who lived two apartment buildings from his. He’d helped her with her groceries once, wondering if she might be a suitable bride.
In the end, it all came down to the seventh one, the most beautiful of them all, and he knew her like he knew how to breathe. But the first six, being the number of man, were his to choose at random. His to drain of all humanity so that God could accept them as his brides.
Melissa, the beautiful young woman, was about to become a bride, the fifth choice. If she knew what Quinton knew, she might also be giddy with joy and anticipation.
A part of Quinton knew that most flawed humans would find his reasoning slightly off. They might even think he was insane, and he was okay with that. Humans had an extraordinary capacity for stupidity. They had once sworn that the earth was flat, that the polar ice caps would soon be gone, that Quinton was ill in the head.
All were equally fallacious. Ignorant, childish, gullible, manipulated, foolish, STUPID, all caps.
Sometimes Quinton wondered at God’s capacity to love them all. His heart was indeed as big as the ocean. Were it left up to Quinton, he would have taken a handgun with six billion rounds, neatly laid in the world’s largest clip, and laid them all to rest, one by one.
The thought made his hands tremble on the steering wheel. He struggled to focus past a momentary blurring of his sight and bring himself into submission.
It took him an hour to reach the blue house. He parked the pickup in a vacant lot at the end of a greenbelt behind the structure and turned off the engine. Seven checks of his mirror assured him that he was alone, and at 1:00 AM he expected no less. He’d spent a total of six hours behind the house, stepping behind each tree, around each bush, lying and scooting on his belly, feeling the terrain, relishing the anticipation of this night.
No streetlights back here. No moon tonight.
Tempted to whistle but refraining from the indulgence, he placed the shower cap firmly over his head, pulled on the same boots he’d worn during each taking, and slipped on fresh rubber gloves.
He stepped out of the truck and pressed the door closed with hardly more than a click. Locked it with his key. An overgrown walking path wound between scattered trees, thin paltry apparitions that looked like they’d been planted by the developer when the subdivision first opened. Houses hid behind the trees on either side; he could see their fences and darkened rear porches.
He felt as one with all of nature at moments like this, as invisible as a midnight breeze and just as perfectly matched to his mission. No mere mortal could see him there, floating through the darkness, and no insane human could possibly stop him.
Quinton stepped up the path quietly, keeping his senses finely tuned to his environment. Did any of the residents suspect that a man had been walking behind their house for several weeks now, watching from the dark?
Likely not. They were favorites, yet they were stupid and entirely too trusting of their own flesh. Melissa’s house came into view ahead, on his right, and a vast surge of satisfaction rose within him. He peered, exulting. Dark windows. She was sleeping already.
An image of her heel with his bit pressed lightly into her callused skin spread goose bumps over his neck and shoulders. The base of his spine tingled and his breathing quickened.
Bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, bless me, Father.
He approached the edge of Melissa’s blue house, hardly more than a shadow on a moonless night. From the Google satellite, the house was indiscernible. From God’s vantage point, it was nothing more than a speck, than a flake among a million flakes, hardly distinguishable from a tree. Then—zooming in—a computer chip, then a postage stamp, and only finally a house. A black car was driving past when the satellite had taken its last image.
No one peering down, no one except God, could possibly know what slept in the bed inside the tiny house. Just one in six billion, but tonight the only one.
Selected by none other than himself, Quinton Gauld.
He stood still, like a small tree in the dark, and watched for a moment so long that any other person would have found the stillness impossible to maintain. Finally, he unzipped his pants and urinated into a small plastic jar, which he then returned to his pocket.
For a long time he stood and stared, rehearsing details, resuming his inward deliberations.
Brad Raines. Nikki. Nikki, Nikki, Nikki.
His mind shifted to the seventh. You know, don’t you Brad? That I’m going to take her because she belongs to me, not to you? That she will come to me because she is the seventh?
What the FBI agent couldn’t possibly know was that he was nothing more than a puppet on a string. He’d reacted to the note precisely as intended. Smart, Quinton would give him that. Even brilliant. But Quinton depended on exactly that level of intelligence.
Brad would likely have to die to make eight, but this was a small sacrifice. One even the agent would willingly make, once he understood just how beautiful she was.
Quinton set the thoughts aside and let his mind walk around the bed inside the house. He mentally placed himself mere inches from his choice, so close now that his presence would be deemed by the world as an illegal intrusion, a trespass. A violation brash enough to earn a scream from her, should she awaken early. Yet he belonged there, waiting in the dark, savoring the bittersweet pause before her taking.
No longer willing to wait, Quinton decided that he would fetch the bride half an hour early. He retraced his steps to the truck, set his plastic bottle of urine under the seat for disposal later, and withdrew the chloroform. Before she understood what was at stake, she might be frightened by his appearance. He had to transport her safely to the place he’d chosen near Elizabeth, where he could begin his work.
Ten minutes later, he stood at the edge of her back lawn. Not a sound of objection. No new pet, no sleepwalker or insomniac, no barking neighbor dog. Perfect. He walked up to her bedroom window and peered in past the slats. Did Melissa realize there was a thin gap between her mini-blinds and the window frame that allowed anyone to see a sliver of the room, including part of her bed? Perhaps she had known and dismissed the concern, confident that she was special, immune to the outside world.
He made out long lumps in the half-light. It took a full minute for him to understand that he was seeing her legs under the floral bedspread. She was home, as he knew she would be, but seeing her helped him relax.
Though Melissa used deadbolts and had an alarm system with adequate contacts on all windows and doors, cutting the glass on the closet window, though time consuming, raised no alarm. He climbed in, careful not to dislodge the frame and activate one of the contacts.
Using a small penlight to give him enough light to work by, he applied a few tacks of superglue to the edges of the cut glass and replaced the pane. From the outside, no passersby would ever see it had been cut.
Now safely inside the favorite’s house, Quinton took a few minutes to calm himself. He breathed in the warmer air, redolent with the unique smells of the fifth one’s daily existence. He smelled a savory fragrance wafting from the kitchen: some sort of late-night take-out dinner. He smelled dust stirred up by a hidden ceiling fan, whirring in the dark. He even caught a whiff of her perfume, its profile unforgotten since that first encounter weeks before.
At last, he stood, careful not to let his knees crack. He’d studied the house from every window and knew the layout well. He was in the spare bedroom’s walk-in closet on the north side. A hall ran past the living room to the master bedroom, where Melissa now dreamed of anything except the wondrous fate poised to engulf her.
He pulled the small bottle of chloroform and rag from his pocket, cracked the door, and then eased into the spare bedroom. He’d measured the spaces and walked them on the bare ground a dozen times, so even now encased in pitch darkness he knew how many steps to the door, how many down the hall, how many to her bed.
Quinton took them all on slow, padded feet. He waited a moment outside her bedroom door, then turned the knob.
No lock. Of course not. Melissa might be favored and stunning, but she was still quite stupid. Still, he loved her the way God loved her.
Easing the door wide enough to accept his body, he slipped inside. A slight gray glow from the city outside worked past the mini-blinds and offered a hint of light. Enough for Quinton to see her form, slowly rising and falling in peaceful slumber.
He was there now, in the place he’d obsessively fantasized about for the past several days. He let the vast smile within him swallow up the infinite details of his success: the delicious proximity, the sense of power, the barely tolerated anticipation.
It always amazed him how unsuspecting they were. Asleep in their own dull comforts, unaware that there was a higher calling to life. Like sheep wedged together in the pen. Six billion of them.
But he would go after the one.
Quinton doused the rag, returned the bottle to his pocket, and took two steps when the room erupted with light.
He pulled up sharply, stinky rag in his right hand. Melissa stared at him with round green eyes, hair tangled and flung over her left cheek. Her hand was still on the lamp switch.
She wore a white mask of horror that seemed to have muted any scream. But Quinton knew her silence wouldn’t last. Now what? He’d never found himself in this situation. She must have been awake all along.
“Sorry,” he said. “I think I’m in the wrong house.”
That gave her just enough pause to keep from crying out.
“Sorry. I must have stumbled into the wrong… Is this Twenty-four-thirteen?”
She swallowed and closed her mouth. But she was still too terrified to respond. Her eyes dropped to the rag in his hand.
“Okay, I’ll leave now,” he said, his voice suddenly weak and lame sounding. “I’m terribly sorry for barging in like this. Talk about embarrassing. Though you are really quite a pretty woman.”
He chided himself for sneaking in the last comment.
“Wow, now I’m really embarrassed. If you can show me how to get out.” He looked over his shoulder at the door. Meanwhile, the scent of chloroform wafted through the air. “Do you mind showing me how to get out of here?”
“Get out!” she cried.
He held up his hand. “No, no don’t do that. I’m sorry, I just…” Quinton pointed at her window. “Look!”
She looked. Childish, but it worked.
He dived then, while her eyes were momentarily averted. Coiled and then unleashed every muscle in his body, unswervingly aimed at her. Latched on to her knee and threw his whole 210 pounds on her frail form, hand with rag extended.
But Melissa wasn’t a favorite for her looks alone. She rolled quick, squealing.
He rolled with her but she beat him to the far side of the bed and sprang to her feet. Her flannel pajamas were yellow with small white butterflies. How cute was that?
Quinton threw up both hands. “No, don’t run. You’re the bride. He wants you, you have to…” But she was already running around the bed, headed toward the open bedroom door.
He launched himself for her just as she bolted past the end of the bed. His hand caught a handful of her soft flannel pajama bottoms and pulled her to a ripping stop as the seam split.
She pulled away, grunting, panicked. But now Quinton was on his feet, looming over her. He brought the rag down again and stuffed it upon her mouth, to help her calm down and sleep so this wouldn’t be such a difficult adventure.
Melissa twisted away to her right and let a scream rip from her throat. But as soon as the cry began, it was abruptly cut short by a loud thunk. Her attempt at escape had caused her to slam her head into the corner of her dresser.
The woman dropped like a dead deer. Immediately, blood sprang from a wound at her temple.
“No…” The sight of the blemish made his stomach swim. “What… What did you do?” He felt fury well up and flush his face with heat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Nausea swept over him as he stared down at the blemish on her otherwise spotless face. She’d ruined it! She’d slammed herself into the dresser and marked her flawless visage. What was he to do now? For a moment, he thought he might actually throw up on her. He pushed back the nausea only to struggle with a very strong urge to punch her in the face.
Slowly, he brought himself back into control. It was a setback, but nothing was lost. With any luck, no one had heard her short scream. Even if they had, more than likely they were already rolling over and going back to sleep, once again confident that nothing threatened their sanctity. Certainly, Melissa was back asleep. To be sure, he pressed the rag over her mouth and counted to ten.
Then he shoved the rag in his pocket, threw the girl over his shoulder, and left through the back door, being sure to lock it behind him.