"Would you like me to finish this Chopin Etude, Daddy?" she asked, knowing that he would show no interest.

As expected, he simply shook his head and held out his hand. She rose from the piano bench, carefully folded her music and stacked it in a neat pile, then she turned to face her father.

It was easy to understand how someone, male in particular, would find her an appealing sight. That this male happened also to be her father could perhaps be forgiven in light of the fact that until recently, the young woman standing before him had been the one and only woman to cross paths with Lucus Simpson for close to ten years now. In the early years when it had been necessary to rely on his considerable intellectual powers merely to avoid detection, it had often been necessary to exist right in the midst of the very people who would have screeched for his capture in the shrill tones of hysteria so typical of the general uncomprehending populace.

Hide where they'd least expect it!

And he'd done it with his usual success.

Except he knew that there would be less and less safety for them. Eventually, whether or not by design, something would slip. He was, after all, no fool. He knew the law of averages, he could calculate odds. A chance meeting (remember, according to chain-letter enthusiasts we're never further than five people through a chain of acquaintance from anyone else in the country), some connection of links totally beyond the powers of prediction, and it would be over.

At its peak, his case had been a national story, and when one spoke of the peak, one spoke actually of three separate events, spaced apart by six weeks or so, that assured Lucus Simpson of initiation into that select circle of the near-famous, the nefarious and the infamous whose names trigger a spark of recognition in most of the populace. And if the trigger's sharp enough, it can even conjure up details of the case itself.