Read Online Collecting Cooper by Paul Cleave - Free Book Online Page B

He’d even rehearsed some big words with which he could impress. He started out with “welcome to my collection, ” which has been the plan all along, and now he’s wishing he’d written things down. It’s such a rudimentary mistake, he thinks, then enlarges his smile knowing that Cooper would be proud with the use of the large word, but disappointed with the mistake. “Umm . . .” he repeats, his tongue a little looser now, and the faster he tries to think the foggier his thoughts become.
    “Who the hell are you?” Cooper asks.
    “The . . . the first rule of a serial killer,” he says, thankful for the words—God, he’s so nervous he wants to be sick again—“is, is to . . . to depersonalize his victims,” he says, looking down at the floor.
    “Is that what I am? One of your victims?” Cooper asks.
    “Huh?”
    “It’s why I’m in this cage, right?”
    Adrian is confused. “Cage? No, this is a basement,” he says, looking around. Can’t Cooper see that? “You can tell because there are concrete blocks and no bars.”
    “It was a metaphor.”
    Adrian frowns. “A what?”
    “Let me out.”
    “No.”
    “What do you want? Did you send me the thumb?”
    “What?”
    “The thumb. Are you the one who sold it to me?”
    “I . . . I don’t understand. What thumb? The one in the jar that you cut off one of your victims?”
    “One of my victims? What the hell are you talking about?” Cooper asks.
    “What are you talking about?” Adrian asks.
    “Why am I here? Are you going to kill me?”
    “I . . .”
    “Let me out,” Cooper repeats. “Whatever is going on here, this needs to stop. You have to let me go. Whatever you have planned, it can’t happen. I don’t know what you want. I’m not a rich person. I can’t give you money. Please, please, you have to let me go.”
    “I . . .” he starts, then something catches in his throat and he can’t continue.
    “What do you intend to do with me?”
    “Umm . . .”
    “You said welcome to your collection. Is that what all of this is? Is that what I am? A collector’s piece?” Cooper asks, his voice sounding more angry than scared.
    “You’re asking too many questions all at once,” Adrian says, getting confused. He lifts his hands up to his face and pushes his palms against his cheeks.
    “Am I a collector’s item?”
    “No, no, certainly not,” Adrian answers, upset Cooper would think that way. “You’re more than just a piece. You’re . . . you’re everything.”
    “Everything?”
    “You are the collection.”
    “So all of this,” Cooper says, and Adrian thinks he’s spreading his arms but he can’t know for sure because all he can see is Cooper’s face, “is some kind of zoo?”
    “What? No, this isn’t a zoo,” he says, pulling his hands from his face and pointing them toward the opposite walls. “There would be animals here if it were, like monkeys and penguins and it would smell, and zoos have cages and . . . and you still think this is a cage? This is a collection and you’re the main . . . the main attraction.”
    “As what? A criminology professor?”
    “Partly that, and partly because of the stories you can tell me. And the fact you’re a serial killer makes you even more valuable.”
    Cooper’s face pales. A frown appears, the lines deep enough to look like long scars. “What? What did you just say?”
    “A storyteller. You’re here to tell me stories about killers you know. I find them interesting.”
    “You said I was a serial killer. Explain yourself.”
    He never had to explain himself in the past to his cassette collection, or the collection of comics he had as a kid. This is tough work. “A serial killer is a person who . . .”
    “Yes, yes, I know what a serial killer is, you twit, but I’m not a killer.”
    Adrian doesn’t know what a twit is, but he does know he doesn’t like being called one. “Don’t you get it?” he asks, thrilled he knows something Cooper does not, because Cooper is