THE COLLECTOR
by Scott Wittenburg
Copyright 2011 Scott Wittenburg
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events of this book are entirely the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, or to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1
The Collector peered through the viewfinder and scrutinized the scene. The angle of the floral patterned fringed chair still looked a little off so he backed away from the tripod and went over to adjust it. He returned to his Canon EOS Mark II and examined the set again. Perfect, almost. The pale green hue of the wall molding still bothered him but he could easily correct that in Photoshop later. The arrangement of clothes hanging in the closet just beyond the chair wasn’t quite right either, but this too could be fixed on the computer.
Ah, the power of technology!
He turned around and raised the light stand another couple of inches. He knew that lighting was crucial to the scene and it had to be just right. Although there was the capability of modifying both light quality and direction in Photoshop, he refused to compromise what he felt was absolutely essential to his art. Lighting is what made it all happen—just ask any of the masters. And if it didn’t happen naturally in real time, a scene was not worth rendering in the first place. Simple as that.
Tilting the soft box downward a bit, The Collector observed the shadows falling onto the bare hardwood floor. He closely noted how the shadows fell within the folds of the white cotton towel draped over the chair that she would be sitting on. Everything was just right.
His anticipation was palpable as he visualized the scenario that was about to happen. He would enter the dormitory and a hush would suddenly fall over the room. As he strode slowly and methodically between the rows of beds, he would see a mixture of excitement and fear in every one of their sweet innocent faces, absolute confirmation that he was in charge and their master. Witnessing that simultaneous fear and eagerness to please made it all worthwhile—the very fuel on which he thrived. That, and of course his art.
He had already made his decision several days ago. The lithe brunette with the long torso and radiant skin was hands-down the obvious choice. He would walk over to her, smile and offer his hand. There would be the slightest bit of hesitation before she smiled back sheepishly and accepted it, all young lady-like, and arose from the bed. The pair would then proceed to walk hand-in-hand to the door and stop. Then the Collector would turn around and announce to the room that she was the only one he needed this time. The girls would all breathe sighs of disappointment, but he knew that this would be just for show. Deep down inside, they would no doubt be heaving sighs of relief.
Amused and insanely inspired by all of this, the Collector turned and left the room.
CHAPTER 2
Alan Swansea positioned the cursor over the space and pasted in the html code. Nothing would make him happier now than to be done with this whole project. Yes, the money was decent, but there was something about designing a website pitching commercial cleaning products that sort of took the edge out of any real sense of accomplishment or enthusiasm.
Like, how awesome could a grid of toilet bowl cleaners look anyway?
He saved the file and previewed the page in Safari. Wonderful. Just three more pages to go and this project would be history. Chris Hammond would be overjoyed that his website was finally ready to go live.
Taking a sip of black coffee, Alan stretched out his legs and focused his weary eyes on something other than the screen of his iMac. The dusk had given way to night as he spotted a full moon rising over the horizon through the window. He stood up to crack it open a couple of inches and heard a symphony of cricket chatter pour in from the chilly night air. Autumn was at last making its debut and he was glad that the god-awful heat and humidity of summer in Columbus was finally over. Maybe his disposition would improve along with the cooler weather.
After warming up his coffee, he sat back down at the desk and resumed work on Hammond’s website. He had just positioned a thumbnail of carpet deodorizer into a column when he heard the ping of an incoming e-mail. He clicked on the Mail window and scrolled down to the new message. It was from Beth Lindsay, whom he hadn’t heard from in several months. The subject of the forwarded message read, Puzzled in Denver. Leave it to Beth to make even an e-mail heading sound dramatic.
The message read:
Hey old friend, hope this finds you well. Sorry it’s been so long but I’ve been swamped with speaking engagements lately. I know I shouldn’t complain but sometimes I wish that writing was all you had to do to be a writer. No one ever told me I’d be spending more of my time promoting books than writing them. But then, it is all for a worthy cause.
At any rate, I’m wondering what you make of this strange e-mail I got from one of my online visitors. At first I thought it was a hoax but something tells me there may be something to it just by the sheer brevity of it.
I clicked on the link and that’s when this got really strange. It took me to a website where there’s nothing there but a small collection of paintings that look sort of familiar—like they’re by some famous painter. I figured since you are the big art major in my life, not to mention a former PI, that you could take a look and tell me what you think. I wouldn’t bother you like this if I didn’t have a weird feeling that this Elen woman is legit. Maybe she was going to say more but ran out of time. Anyway, I’d appreciate your professional advice. I can’t rest easy if I know there’s a desperate woman out there in need!
Get back to me when you get a chance. I know I owe you a drink. Coming out west anytime soon?
Love ya dear!
Beth
begin forwarded message
Please save my sister before it too late. She is here
https://kadanskl.com/gallery
Please do not reply to this
Elen
end forwarded message
The Collector Page 1