I lowered myself to the ground, clutching the contents of the safe in a bank bag. I had to admit some regret for breaking the boys' piggy bank. I have always tried not to hurt the people I meet, whether physically or emotionally, especially when they are children; I know from my own experience just how difficult childhood can be. In this case, however, I thought it inevitable. My trail was becoming too clear to the people who wished to follow me, and though I have always enjoyed a theatrical escape from just under — or above, depending on the circumstances — the police's noses, spending so much time with the little devils had sapped me of my energy.
Come to that, I didn't feel as bad as I might have. It was difficult to have much compassion for the two boys, who seemed to delight in terrifying everyone they knew. I had played along with them, but at least a small part of me had always had to keep my annoyance in check. At any rate, they didn't seem to have a terribly strong attachment to the pig, and their parents could certainly afford to buy them a new one.
I started my car, which I had parked in a bush-filled area some distance from the house, to muffle its noise as much as to prevent it from being seen. I laughed to myself. How long would it be, I wondered, until those foolish rich people realized that my grand theft that night had been but a cover for the subtler crimes I had been committing for the past several weeks? I smiled as I glanced at the parcels in my backseat, containing the final paintings I had lifted that morning.
At least I and my henchpeople would appreciate them, in their places of honor in the new VILE headquarters, I thought. The paintings would certainly have more attention paid to them than they had, gathering dust in the otherwise nearly spotless house.
It was funny, really. It was almost as if by stealing them for myself, I had saved them from wasting away.