PROLOGUE
Sunday, November 29th
An object in possession seldom retains the same charm that it had in pursuit.
Pliny the Younger was, in William Schulz’s opinion, the wisest of Rome’s impressive bevy of philosophers.That quote was, again, in Bill’s opinion, the shrewdest statement the esteemed magistrate ever produced.Despite his well-known disdain—violentdisdain—for Christians, Pliny well understood the allure of that most tantalizing of sins.Or maybe it was because of his disdain that he understood theft so well.
Bill had said almost the exact same thing once when he was seventeen years old and was caught by the parents of a freshman schoolmate with said schoolmate’s lunchbox, an old, rusted military artifact from the Vietnam war that was worth maybe a buck-ninety-nine but carried a great deal of sentimental value, having belonged to the boy’s grandfather.
“It’s not about having it.It’s abouttakingit.”
Those parents didn't understand.No one ever did, not until Father Glover.
Bill finished pouring his wine—one glass of red per day, for his heart—and replaced the bottle in the countertop rack his second ex-wife gave him three years prior for his fiftieth birthday.Samantha was the only one of his three former wives who was still on (reasonably) good terms with him, mostly because she didn’t have anything of sentimental value for him to steal and so had lost nothing that she eventually caught tucked away in his sock drawer or buried in his glovebox.
He lifted the wine to his face and inhaled.Deep plum and cherry, hints of pepper with just a touch of cocoa.He closed his eyes and sighed.If only life could be as varied and interesting as wine.
He opened his eyes and found them resting on a small ceramic figurine of a bird, a cardinal.The hand-painted statuette sitting on the mantel over the fireplace was probably the most valuable thing Bill had ever stolen.He’d seen one just like it selling for sixty dollars at a Renaissance fair in Columbus.
“Huh.Never did get around to returning that.”
No sooner had he spoken those words than he felt the familiar resistance.But it’smine.I don’thaveto give it back.Iworkedfor it.
Apparently, possession counted for something after all.
He looked away from the bird, picked up his Syrah, and sipped.He inhaled as he sipped—carefully, to keep from aspirating the liquid—and flicked his tongue back and forth, misting the wine and carrying it to his entire palate.As he considered the transition from cocoa to fruit to smoke and finally the peppery finish, he carried the glass to his living room.
That was Father’s Glover’s advice.When you feel an urge, consume your senses with other things.It will drown out the desire for evil.
Another wise man, Father Glover.Bill really didn’t know what he’d do without him.
He lowered himself into his armchair and set the wineglass on the coaster.He felt a flush of pride that the coaster wasn’t stolen but instead purchased from Amazon.He chuckled at that.A fifty-three-year-old accountant proud that he could buy something.What a knee slapper that was.
He turned the television on.It opened to a news special, “The Commandment Killings and Religious Extremism among the Mentally Ill.”
He changed the channel.It was probably going to devolve into some political tirade that was going to make people who already felt good feel better and do nothing to help anyone who didn’t feel good.
Besides, religion applied correctly could cure mental illness.Bill knew that.He was almost better.He just had to get rid of that damned bird.
The television now played a rerun.Star Trek… Well, he didn't know.One of the latter ones.He left it on.The one woman—the blonde—was easy on the eyes, and considering Bill's track record with women, that was probably the closest he could come to having a relationship with one that didn't implode.
“Dear Mr.Fantasy, send me an alien bombshell with low self-esteem and a shaky moral code.”
He chuckled at his bad joke and sipped more of his wine.
Nine months ago, Bill had chosen to turn over a new leaf.It was shortly after stealing a stuffed animal keychain hanging from the seat of a pink bike with white wheels and purple tassels sprouting from the edges of the handles.Knowing that cars were passing by while he committed the theft added to the thrill.At any moment, one of those drivers could have pulled over and asked what the hell he was doing.At any moment, he could be caught.
But he wasn’t, andthat, dear philosophers, was thetruethrill.Not just taking it.Taking it andnot getting caught.
The feeling he had when he slipped the keychain into his pocket and walked on, his new toy safely in his possession, was better than any feeling he’d had since his third wedding night.It gave most of the other nights—with Darlene, Samantha,orFelice—a run for their money.OhGod, it was good.
Then it hit him with an almost audible click.He’d just stolen a keychain from a kid.Asmallkid.Judging by the size of that bike and the choice to clip a cartoon character keychain to the seat post, one under the age of ten.
He was a fifty-three-year-old man stealing stuffed keychains from kids.
So, Bill did something he’d never done before in his life.He gave something back.
Not the stuffed keychain.That ended up in a donation bin eight months later since Father Glover told him the kid who owned it had probably forgotten about it, and her parents had probably bought a new one for her anyway.
