Anti-climax (DHS)

I take Henry to the hospital where they put him in a bed. I request that the especially pretty and the especially nice nurses on duty give him a sponge bath in tandem. I call in a few Hats with open schedules and fill their arms with Vanity Fairs and Twizzlers and ask them to watch over his room. Henry has come out of his abduction remarkably unscathed. A few contusions, and the expected lethargy, but overall he is intact. He even winked at me as I left the room.
My work for tonight is not done yet. I double back to the Jando residence, scale the fence and evade security. What I want to do is suffocate them all in their sleep. Place a firm hand over their nostrils and mouths and press down until no air comes in or out. I want to drop bits of poison onto toothbrushes and read the headlines in tomorrow's paper while chewing on an English muffin at Henry's bedside. The Hats don't like killing. In fact one of the bylaws expressly forbids it except in extreme circumstance. The hairs on the back of my neck and the hate in the pit of my gut tell me this is an extreme circumstance, but I know better than to listen to them. But I cannot let it go. I will not be batted about like some kitty toy; will not have those I love put in harm's way for a bit of fun.
And so this is what I do: I slip past the boy's bedrooms and slither into Mr. Jando's bedroom. He snores like a big man with a deviated septum does, in loud thunderous rattles. The television is on, and it's glow illuminates his heaving mass. On the set a man chops up a liver and tosses it into a blender-shaped gadget. I don't get to see the climax, as by the time the actor's finger is on the button, I am in Mr. Jando's massive closet and breaking into his safe.
I leave the jewels. I leave the unmarked bills. I even leave a half-burnt picture of a little girl I can only assume is his long dead sister. I take the files, decades of cooked books in paper and electronic form. I stuff them down the front of my shirt. My pettiness overwhelms me and I snip out the pockets of his Armani suits.
At the police station they have no idea what to do with the evidence I'm giving them. They gather around in their blue uniforms, scratching their heads until the lightbulbs above them begin to glow dimly with a vague recognition. I play the stupid girl, a role I'm fond of. I say I found them in a dumpster behind my apartment, that they seem sorta important. Finally someone's bulb bursts with a power surge of ideas, and they call the D.A.. From there my work is done.
During the trial, I hide in the back of the courthouse and watch pens and loose change fall out of his suit. Then I head to work where Henry and me play backgammon and eat macaroons in the Danger Hat Room.