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.
IT WAS FASCINATING
and immensely satisfying, and now Quinton knew why his subconscious had allowed him to make the small mistakes that had allowed
Rain Man his short-lived freedom. Having faced defeat and overcome it by recapturing the fox, he was now able to relish the
man’s demise with unsurpassed satisfaction.
This is what Quinton Gauld told himself as he gazed at the scene he’d reconstructed. There sat Brad Raines, the man who would
steal his bride, tied to the same post he’d escaped from, albeit only the stub.
Quinton had snuck up behind the man with supreme confidence, gun aimed at the back of his head just in case he turned, in
which case Quinton would have shot him before hauling him inside. As it turned out, the man’s pounding heart had likely prevented
him from hearing the footfall of Quinton’s feather-light feet on the soft ground.
One blow to the back of his head had incapacitated the man, and Quinton had dragged him through the door and secured him to
the post. Blood trailed down the man’s neck from the fresh cut on his scalp. He was finally waking to play his role. The scene
was intoxicating. Beautiful.
This is what Quinton told himself, but the buzzing in his brain kept him from truly relishing his victory in the way he was
meant to.
He paced around Rain Man, absorbing his suffering, curious as to why this man would risk so much for a woman whom society
had sequestered away in an institution.
He looked down at the slumped form lying on his side. “Please sit up.” He nudged the man with his foot. “Up, up, we don’t
have all night. It takes more time than you realize to drill and drain a human body.”
Rain Man groaned. Because his hands were tied behind his back, he struggled to get his legs under his body and sit. The man
mumbled a curse.
“Please, we’re beyond that, aren’t we? Hmm? Cursing, shouting, spitting, pulling against the ropes—all behaviors that only
undermine people like you and me.”
Rain Man stared up at him with dark eyes as if he was trying to explode Quinton’s head with this bitter stare.
“And stop looking at me as if I’m some kind of monster. True, I am a monster, but then neither cursing, shouting, spitting,
struggling against the ropes, nor harsh stares will help you any more than they helped Nikki. So let’s be civilized for a
moment, shall we?”
The man’s glare did not soften. “What kind of men are we, Quinton?”
“Real men. Stripped of the facade social conditioning paints on the masses. We see the truth, you and me. I am the hound from
hell and you are the crafty fox out to steal my prize. We both recognize beauty and we are both in love with Paradise.”
“But that’s wrong, isn’t it? I love Paradise. You hate her. Remember?”
“Well then, I love to hate her. Either way, we both know how to love.” He frowned at his begging carcass of an adversary.
“This is the part where you begin to utter bitter protests, attempting to set me straight. One or two would be okay, get them
out of your system.”
The man didn’t, but then Quinton didn’t expect that he would. Rain Man’s resolve began to melt from his face, replaced by
a sagging look of defeat. It was a bit pathetic, really. Watching such a worthy mind reduced to this defeated slab of flesh…
Quinton had to hold back a sudden urge to kick him in the jaw.
Wake up, wake up, you holy ghost! Don’t let me walk all over you like this!
“You look pathetic,” he said.
A tear broke from Rain Man’s right eye. His weakness was intolerable! Quinton considered changing his plan on the spot. He
should put this shallow shell of a ghost out of his misery with a single blow to his head. Seeing a weak man beg for his life
was expected and therefore acceptable. Seeing a frail woman cry for mercy was satisfying because she was only playing a role
that reflected the greater weakness of the world.
But watching this fox of a ghost crumble was beyond the pale. Like the boy whom he’d slapped in Elway’s eating establishment,
Brad Raines needed a good blow to his head.
“Disgusting,” Quinton said.
“You’ll never catch her,” Rain Man said. His tone was strong and laced with conviction.
It occurred to Quinton then that the fox wasn’t crying for himself. His tears were for Paradise. This wasn’t a picture of
a shriveling mouse accepting his defeat. It was, in fact, the very opposite.
Rain Man was uncaring of his own life, crushed by the prospect of harm to the one he loved. His tears were for Paradise, not
for himself. This was not cowardice but nobility.
Quinton was so upset by the realization that for a few moments he couldn’t speak. But even in such a frayed state he had to
ask himself why. And even as he asked himself why, his buzzing intelligence gave him the answer.
He was jealous of Rain Man.
Insanely jealous. He was, in fact, as jealous of Rain Man’s love and nobility as he was of the beauty in Paradise, God’s favorite.
It occurred to him that his hands were shaking badly. He looked down at them, mesmerized. This, then, was his greatest test.
Not abducting seven brides, not draining their blood to present them unblemished, not realizing his true purpose, not manipulating
Rain Man for his purpose, not even luring Paradise in with Rain Man’s screams of pain.
His greatest challenge was to be who he was. To be what society wanted but didn’t have the guts to be. To resist the respect
and honor that tempted him at this very moment and to embrace the evil that haunted him.
“I find you disgusting,” he said, and he walked to the table, picked up the yellow battery-operated drill, and squeezed the
trigger.
The strong DeWalt electric motor whirred smoothly, filling him with calm. He’d adjust the tension on the clutch so that it
would cut cleanly through bone without binding.
There was something about bones. Something most people found deeply disturbing about the prospect of reaching through the
skin of the human body and tinkering with the inner, hidden self. No one wanted their veneer penetrated. By drilling Quinton
accomplished two important tasks at once.
First, he made a small opening through the heel that allowed gravity to efficiently drain the body’s blood supply. But second,
drilling penetrated the facade and exposed the true bone of the bride. Or, in this case, the man.
Satisfied that the drill was fully operational, he lowered it to his side and walked over to Rain Man, who watched him with
a surprisingly neutral stare. Was there no end to the man’s valor? He could see that it might take more than one or two holes
to make the man scream.
“Now, listen to me,” Quinton said. “This isn’t necessarily personal…”
“Yes it is.”
A beat. “Okay, so it is somewhat personal. The point is, I need you to scream. Your life doesn’t mean much to me. But I need
the little bride to come, you understand? I think she might be stupid enough to have fallen for you now that you’ve rescued
her. So I need you to scream and scream like a little boy who’s having his teeth drilled without a drop of Novocain.”
Rain Man seemed unruffled. “You can’t catch her. She’s gone. I can scream until you beg me to stop. But you won’t draw Paradise
in.”
“Really?” Quinton pressed the trigger briefly and the drill whined. “You seem to think you know her quite well.”
Rain Man was still unimpressed. “Even if she were close enough to hear my screams, she knows there’s no way she can stop you.
She can’t burn the barn down, she can’t shoot you, she can’t jump in the truck and drive off, she’s powerless. She knew that
before agreeing to run. You can kill me, but you will never touch Paradise.”
“Is that so? And what’s to stop me from tracking her down next week?”
“I’m not that stupid. You’ll never find her where she’s going. As far as you’re concerned, Paradise no longer exists. She’ll
be in a vault so far from you that no attempt on your part will turn up a single lead.”
The sincerity in his tone unnerved Quinton.
“You know, for a while there, I was bothered by your character. But now you’ve turned into a bad liar, and it’s making me
feel better about my decision to kill you. I hate pretenders.”
“Shut up and drill me, Quinton. I’ll scream my head off and it won’t help you.”
Could the holy fox have outfoxed him yet again? Why was he inviting pain? Perhaps he really had lost his mind. Quinton’s nerves
were uncharacteristically taut. He was deeply bothered.
So he leaned over, squeezed the drill’s trigger, and pressed the quarter-inch diamond-tipped bit against the flat of the man’s
shin. The motor screamed high, then ground slower as it caught.
He straightened and examined his work. The man was looking up at him, face white, lips trembling, leg bleeding. But he did
not scream or even moan.
“No scream?”
He had to be careful or Rain Man would pass out.
“Scream, Rain Man. Scream until you make me want to plug my ears.”
Nothing.
“No? Because you lied to me, Rain Man. You won’t scream because she can hear, and you’re afraid that if she hears you scream
she’ll come. Because that’s what beautiful people do, Rain Man, we both know that. They come running to save the poor saps
in trouble.”
Nothing from him. With each passing moment Quinton respected, hated, loved, loathed the man more.
“I’m going to drill you full of holes, and if you don’t scream, then I’m going to scream, and she’ll come running, and when
she does I’m going to drill her, too.”
The man’s eyes darted over his shoulder, then widened.
“Hello, Quinton.”
Except for over the phone, it was the first time he’d heard her voice in seven years, and the sound of those sweet, tender
vocal cords pierced him in a way no sound this side of heaven or hell ever could.
He turned slowly toward the main door. There, dressed in her red blouse and cutoff jean shorts, stood Paradise. Her arms hung
by her sides and her unblinking gaze held him.
This was also the first time Quinton had looked into her eyes since that night so long ago. Those devastatingly beautiful
eyes.
“Hello, Paradise,” he said.
BRAD SAT IN
defeat, begging God for one last mercy.
Please, please don’t let her come. Send her far away. Don’t let her hear.
He watched the Bride Collector hovering over him with his drill, heard his threats, but his mind was on his prayer of desperation
to God in heaven, if he was indeed listening—and Brad had to believe now that he was.
Protect her, I beg you. She’s innocent, she’s naive, she will run here for love, but don’t let my love draw her. Not now,
please, not now.
Then Quinton bent over and pressed the drill into his shin and the pain was so vicious that Brad’s whole leg began to shake
violently. His stomach rolled and his vision blurred, but he could not allow the scream tearing at his throat a moment’s breath.