1965 The Collector -The key turned in the lock—not with a sharp click, but a soft, fat thud, like a stone sinking into still water. Frederick Clegg, formerly of the counting house, collector of rare butterflies, felt his ribs tighten with pleasure. He had her now. “You can’t keep a person, Fred. Not without them rotting.” 1965 the collector “You said you wanted freedom,” he whispered, adjusting the focus of the Rolleiflex he’d set up on a tripod. “But freedom’s messy. Out there, you’d just fly into a window, get eaten by a bird. Down here… down here, I can keep you perfect.” The key turned in the lock—not with a “I thought you’d like the Darjeeling,” he said. His voice was a pale, apologetic thing. “Not the everyday kind.” “You can’t keep a person, Fred He set the tray on the crate beside the cot, then stepped back to admire her against the grey limestone. In the single bulb’s jaundiced light, she was still beautiful. Still his rarest specimen . He had pinned her without touching a wing. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said. And turned the key again. She finally spoke. Low. Hoarse. |